Hicks sure did. It was the punk from New York who’d paid him to rig the games so a drunk Englishman and his hooker could have an hour of fun. He’d kept the punk’s business card, which now resided in his wallet.
And what would Popjoy do with such a piece of information? They couldn’t arrest the punk—not enough evidence. But they could pay him a call and shake him down. Which was why Popjoy had come calling.
“Sorry,” Hicks said.
Popjoy looked disappointed. He shut his notebook and put it away. Then put his hand on Ray Hicks’s shoulder and left it there longer than Hicks would have liked.
“I’m here to help. I want you to remember that.”
“Go to hell,” Hicks said when he was gone.
30
Bill Higgins had stayed in his car Saturday night casing Saul Hyman’s condo. Once or twice he’d dozed, but for the most part, he’d stayed awake. And now he was paying for it. Sunday, seven A.M., and he felt like he’d been run over by a Mack truck. An old guy doing a young guy’s work.
It had been a dull night. At three A.M. he’d called Saul’s private line, having gotten the number from a Miami-Dade cop he knew. As Saul picked up, Higgins hung up. He was willing to bet Saul hadn’t slept since.
Which was why Higgins hadn’t gone anywhere. Let Saul look out his window and see the guy who’d run him out of Las Vegas sitting there, pining for him. That would be enough to make his defibrillator go off.
He played with the radio, trying to find a news station that wasn’t Hispanic. He considered calling Tony, just to see if he’d gotten anywhere, but decided against it. If Tony wanted to tell him something, he’d call. Otherwise, it was best to stay out of his way.
They’d met in Atlantic City in 1978. Higgins was there to give testimony against a blackjack dealer who’d ripped off a casino in Reno a few years earlier. Atlantic City had been overrun by cheaters at the time—what hustlers called a candy store—and Higgins had offered to help the local police learn how to spot problem players. The police had agreed. Tony, then a detective, had been one of his students.
Over time, a friendship had developed, and Higgins had immediately realized that Tony was no ordinary cop. He had great instincts and was damn smart, characteristics that were rare in law enforcement. He also had a huge chip on his shoulder and was not someone you wanted to cross. In that way, he was like most cops, including himself. Higgins’s chip had come from spending his formative years at the Haskell Institute. Where Tony’s had come from, he had no idea.
A Hispanic kid on a flashy bike had braked next to Higgins’s rental. Higgins rolled down his window.
“You Bill Higgins?” the kid asked.
“Who’s asking?”
The kid took a brown envelope from his basket. Higgins’s name was written on it in Magic Marker. He watched the kid pedal away, then tore the envelope open.
Inside was a page taken from the Wall Street Journal, dated last Friday, with a yellow Post-it. Thought you’d like to see this, it read. Higgins scanned the page.
Hackers Scam Internet Casino for $2 Million (Reuters)
100 gamblers got very lucky last Sunday afternoon.
Or did they?
Yesterday, CyberGamble, a Nevada software company that hosts online casino games, revealed that a hacker cracked one of the firm’s servers last Sunday and corrupted the site’s craps, video slots, and poker games so that players couldn’t lose. For a period of approximately two hours, 100 gamblers across the country racked up winnings in excess of $2 million.
Higgins realized he was gritting his teeth. He’d been opposed to Internet gambling for years. Players routinely got screwed by unscrupulous Web sites, while legitimate Web sites routinely got screwed by hackers. But the bad thing was that anyone could play, including kids, and Gamblers Anonymous was reporting hundreds of cases of eight- and nine-year-old addicts. His eyes returned to the page.
CyberGamble, a publicly traded company, is liable for $500,000 of the stolen money, while a $1.5 million insurance claim with Lloyd’s of London will cover the rest. The 100 winners are being allowed to keep their winnings, as there is no proof they were involved in the scam.
He had a good laugh. How stupid were these folks? Of course the hundred winners were involved. Maybe not all of them, but certainly the majority. They were the takeoff men. Hustlers used takeoff men all the time. They were usually upright John Q.
Citizens who appeared beyond reproach. Their cut was generally 25 percent.
A car horn’s beep shattered his concentration. Looking up, he saw a rattling Toyota Corolla sitting next to his car, headed in the opposite direction. Behind the wheel sat a grinning Saul Hyman.
Saul’s eyes were dancing. Then Higgins understood. Saul had hired the kid on the bike and written the note. He’d seen the article and realized it would hold Higgins’s interest long enough for him to pull his car onto the street.
Higgins shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He’d already admitted to himself that he was too old for this kind of work, and this proved it.
“That’s it?” Saul said indignantly.
“What do you want, a medal?”
“I outwitted you, flatfoot.”
“You look cute in a dress,” Higgins told him.
Saul gave him a Bronx cheer, then sped away.
“Put some clothes on,” Nigel said. “We’re going out.”
Candy was lying naked in bed, sipping coffee and reading the Miami Herald. She’d woken up expecting Nigel to be angry at her. She’d questioned him the night before. For a lot of guys, that was enough to get rid of a woman.
Only her prince hadn’t said a word about it. They’d made love, and then breakfast had arrived at their door along with a dozen red roses, just like the day before, and the day before that. Nothing had changed.
“Fancy or casual?” she’d asked.
He gave it some thought. “How about Madonna in heat?”
Candy went through her clothes. She had a leather miniskirt with a slit up its side that was supposed to be worn with leggings. She slipped it on, then tried on several blouses, finally settling on a red job that looked like a three-alarm fire. Nigel hung in the doorway.
“Lovely,” he said.
At eleven-thirty, an executive from Polyester Records appeared at the bungalow’s door. Polyester had signed Nigel’s band, One-Eyed Pig, to do a greatest-hits collection, and Candy had seen the contracts and reams of legal bullshit lying around. The executive’s name was Rod Silver. He was about thirty and talked like a pitchman on the Home Shopping Network. He shoved a promotional poster in Nigel’s hand.
“So what do you think? Beautiful, you ask me. The colors are outstanding.”
Candy peeked over Nigel’s shoulder. The poster was a group shot of One-Eyed Pig taken twenty years ago. Wild-eyed, Nigel sat chained to his drum kit. The other members hovered around him, holding their instruments protectively in front of their bodies, like they were afraid of what Nigel might do if he got loose.
“Great,” Nigel said.
Silver kept talking all the way to the stretch limousine parked in front of the hotel. The limo was pink, as was the driver’s uniform, a Miami Beach fashion statement if there ever was one. The driver was a mean-looking black man with a shaved head.
Candy got in, her bare legs sticking to the leather seat. She felt cheap, but Nigel seemed to be having a good time, and that was all she cared about. Silver sat opposite them and glanced discreetly out the window as Candy got comfortable.
“Where are we going?” Candy asked.
“The Virgin record store,” Silver said. “Nigel’s going to sign autographs.”