Gladys looked relieved. “Running Bear said you would know. Now I need to ask you a favor.”
“You want me to explain it to the police?”
She seemed taken aback. “Actually, to the elders of my tribe. How did you know?”
“It’s what I do for a living,” he said.
The elders of the Micanopy nation were five pewter-haired men whose median age Valentine guessed to be seventy-five. They sat behind a long table wearing equally long faces. Each wore a dungaree jacket and a denim shirt, their faces road maps of the lives they’d lived. Valentine remembered reading how Micanopy warriors had prevented the white man from settling in Florida until the early 1900s. These men’s fathers and grandfathers, he guessed.
To the elders’ right sat Running Bear and Gladys Soft Wings. To their left, Smooth Stone and his three accomplices and their attorney, a pointy-headed Indian kid in a cheap suit. Behind them stood six tribal policemen armed with Mossberg shotguns.
Both attorneys presented their clients’ version of the story. Unlike a court of law, no one was asked to swear on a Bible, and a blindfolded statue called Justice did not look down on them.
Then it was Valentine’s turn. He gave his credentials, then removed the piece of ledger paper that was Running Bear’s only evidence and laid it on the table. The elders collectively lowered their heads.
“This piece of paper was found in a ledger of Harry Smooth Stone’s.”
“Objection,” the pointy-headed lawyer said, jumping to his feet. “We don’t know if that came from a ledger of Harry’s or not.”
“It’s his handwriting,” the lead elder said. “Sit down.”
The lawyer swallowed hard. “You sure?”
“I taught him to write,” the elder barked. “Sit down.”
The lawyer returned to his seat. The lead elder shot him a look that said he wouldn’t tolerate another interruption. Valentine pointed at the equations on the paper and continued. “This is classic evidence of cheating—something I’ve seen in dozens of cases. The head of the gang keeps a ledger to assure the rest of the gang that no one’s getting shortchanged. It’s the only way everyone can get along.”
The lead elder made a face. “Are you saying all of these men were cheating?”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t our security people spot it?”
That was a good question. Clearing his throat, Valentine said, “Your security people probably did.”
The lead elder frowned. So did his colleagues.
“Please explain.”
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
The lead elder considered it. “All right.”
“How many people live on the reservation?”
“Twenty-five hundred.”
“How many are related?”
“Nearly everyone,” he said stiffly.
“How many people work in the casino’s security department?”
The elder looked to Running Bear, who said, “Forty-six.”
“All related?”
Running Bear had to think. “Yes.”
“Which means your security people are watching their cousins, aunts, and grandparents, which is the worst possible thing you could have in this business.”
The lead elder stuck his jaw out. “Why is that?”
“In most casinos, security people are ex-cops and detectives. They never fraternize with anyone on the casino floor, nor do any socializing. This disassociation allows them to be objective observers. If you compare that to what’s going on in your casino—”
“Excuse me,” the pointy-headed lawyer said. “But is anyone going to offer up a shred of evidence here? Or are we going to let this man run off at the mouth? My clients have rights.”
The elders collectively frowned. They impressed Valentine as smart men who knew the truth when they heard it. What the lawyer was asking them to do was go backwards. It was the only thing the legal profession was really good at.
“Do you have any more proof?” the lead elder asked.
“Give me the surveillance tapes of these men dealing blackjack, and I’ll give you loads of proof,” Valentine said.
“You can do this right away?”
“I’ll need a day or two,” Valentine said.
The elders went into a huddle, then took a vote.
“Done,” the lead elder said.
Before Valentine could say another word, the elders had filed out of the room, followed by Running Bear and the other accused men. He’d taken this job because he wanted to escape from his problems. It wasn’t working out that way, and he found himself wishing that he’d stayed home.
“Nice job,” Gladys said as they left the trailer.
18
He followed Gladys into the casino through a back door, then into a stairwell marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. On the second floor they stopped at a door with a surveillance camera hanging over it. Gladys knocked once, then looked into the camera.
“Come on,” she said under her breath.
A lantern-jawed Indian wearing a blue blazer opened the door. His name was Billy Tiger, and he was running surveillance while Harry Smooth Stone cooled his heels in jail. He ushered them in.
The heart and soul of every casino’s security was its surveillance control room. These rooms were generally darkened spaces filled with expensive monitoring equipment used to detect and videotape suspected cheaters. The air was kept a chilly sixty-five degrees so the equipment would not malfunction. It also kept the personnel from turning into zombies as they stared at black-and-white images on their monitors for eight hours a day. Tiger led them to a corner office and shut the door.
“I figured you’d want some privacy,” he said.
Valentine was missing something. How did Tiger know what they wanted? As if reading his thoughts, Tiger said, “I got a call from the elders. All five of them. They said you needed to see some tapes.”
“All five of them?” Gladys said.
Tiger wore the slightly bemused expression of someone who woke up every day with a smile on his face. “Yeah. It was pretty funny. They can’t make a decision without taking a vote. I’d hate to see them ordering takeout.”
From his shirt pocket, Valentine removed the piece of paper that Running Bear had taken from Smooth Stone’s ledger. “I need to see a recent surveillance tape of each of these dealers, except Jack Lightfoot.”
Tiger read the list. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“And their personnel files.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
Tiger started to leave the room. Valentine had an idea and stopped him.
“Which of these dealers has the least experience dealing blackjack?”
Tiger took the paper and looked at it. “Karl Blackhorn. He was pretty new.”
“How new is that?”
“Four, five months.”
“Let’s start with him,” Valentine said.
Soon, Valentine and Gladys were watching a tape of Blackhorn. He was easily the sloppiest blackjack dealer Valentine had ever seen.
“How did this guy ever get a job?” Valentine asked.
“Running Bear,” Gladys explained. “When the casino has openings it can’t fill, he hires Indians from other tribes. If they have families, they can live on the reservation and go to school without cost. Other tribes around the country have adopted similar policies.”
Valentine watched Blackhorn deal a round. Each player at the table was dealt two cards. As Blackhorn came to himself, he hesitated. Standard casino procedure called for him to use his second card to flip his first card faceup. Then he was supposed to slip his second card underneath his first.
Only Blackhorn didn’t do this.
Instead, he glanced at the players’ hands. Then he awkwardly turned his second card faceup onto his first. Valentine stared at the screen. Had Blackhorn forgotten the rules and flipped over the wrong card? It happened sometimes and, as far as he knew, made no difference to the game’s outcome.