So the guy he’d shot in the leg was also part of this. Rico wished he’d killed him.
“You’re a dead man,” he told Valentine.
Then he tossed the cell phone out the window and laughed some more.
Five minutes later, his own cell phone rang. Rico looked at the caller ID. It was Jorge. Rico gritted his teeth. Jorge was never supposed to call him, especially on his cell phone where it might be overheard. Soon the ringing stopped. He drove until I-95 ended and became Dixie Highway.
He took Dixie into Coral Gables and drove to an apartment complex. The complex straddled the line between dumpy Little Havana and ultrapricey Coral Gables. That was what you got in south Miami. The haves and the have-nots.
He went to the first building and took the elevator to the fourth floor. Jorge looked surprised when he opened the door and saw Rico. Jorge was dressed in his underwear, his six-foot-six body filling the doorway.
“I told you never to call me,” Rico said.
“Yeah, well, I got a problem,” Jorge said, ushering him in.
The apartment was trashed, the walls covered with Miami Dolphin cheerleader posters and a naked Pamela Lee stained by food. Jorge’s roommate, Lupe, slept on the couch, the TV bathing him in artificial light. He was two inches taller than Jorge, and his legs stuck comically over the edge. They went into the kitchen, and Jorge shut the door.
“It’s like this,” Jorge said. “I got this girlfriend, and she—”
Rico cut him short. “You need money?”
Jorge looked sheepishly at the floor. He was from Brazil, where men were supposed to act like men and not have to ask for things like money. “Yeah,” he whispered.
“You knock her up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How far along is she?”
“Three months. She wants two grand for you-know-what.”
Rico hid a smile. Jorge was twenty-four and talked like he was twelve. A boy in a man’s body. “You’ll have all your money tomorrow.”
“All of it?”
“That’s right. Once the game is over.”
“Who we playing?”
“Duke.”
Jorge’s eyes lit up. The kitchen door swung in. Lupe entered, his Frankenstein hair standing on end. God had made him menacing-looking, and he stretched his impossibly long arms as he yawned, then slapped Rico good-naturedly on the shoulder, sending him sideways into the stove.
“You gonna give Jorge heeez money?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” Rico said, clutching his arm. “You’ll get all your money tomorrow. Both of you.”
“What he talking about?” Lupe asked.
Jorge retrieved a basketball from behind the refrigerator and began dribbling it behind his back. Lupe had no education and relied on Jorge to fill in the blanks. They were both dumb as paint, and getting them accepted into Miami College had cost Rico a small fortune.
Jorge stopped dribbling the basketball and tossed it across the room. Missing Rico’s nose by inches, it landed with a loud fhap! in one of Lupe’s enormous palms.
“Tomorrow we play for real,” Jorge said.
36
Driving to the Micanopy casino with Gerry, Valentine called Bill Higgins’s cell phone and got a frantic busy signal. He didn’t like it when people threatened him, but his son said, “Pop, it was probably just a crossed connection. Happens all the time with cell phones.”
“The guy called me a dead man.”
“Welcome to south Florida.”
They found Gladys Soft Wings waiting for them inside the casino’s lobby. She wore her emotions on her sleeve and looked mad as hell. Tapping her wristwatch, she said, “Where have you been? The elders have been waiting a half hour. This is unacceptable.”
Valentine nearly told her to take a hike. He didn’t have to be doing this. He had his case against Rico. Running Bear’s problems no longer figured into the equation.
“You want us to leave?” he asked.
She glared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. I don’t need you, or your crummy attitude. And I don’t need your tribe’s money, which, by the way, I still haven’t accepted a nickel of.” Valentine thought he saw steam coming out of her ears. He ducked around the corner into the men’s room. When he returned, she looked better, and he said, “Do we understand each other now?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then let’s go.”
She escorted them through the back doors and across the parking lot to a trailer that was serving as a courthouse until a real one was built. Inside, they found the tribe’s elders sitting behind two long tables. To their left sat a shackled Running Bear. To their right, Harry Smooth Stone and the three accused dealers, also in shackles, and their lawyer. Behind them, the same six tribal policemen, still armed with Mossberg shotguns.
In the center of the room were the props Valentine had told Gladys to bring: a blackjack table, an easel with drawing paper, and Magic Markers.
“Entertain them for a few minutes,” Valentine said.
She shot him a furtive glance. “What do you mean?”
“Start talking.”
She did, and he picked up a Magic Marker and began writing on the easel. When he gave lectures for casino executives, he would write while someone timed him with a stopwatch. The exercise never took more than five minutes.
Four minutes later he capped the marker and glanced at Running Bear. The chief was going to be a free man soon and would go back to helping his people build a better life for themselves. It was payment enough, he decided. Gladys picked up the cue.
“Mr. Valentine is now going to explain how our blackjack dealers have been cheating our customers. Mr. Valentine has informed me that this method of cheating—which he calls Big Rock / Little Rock—is something new, which I guess means that Harry and his gang are not just your average run-of-the-mill cheats.”
“Objection!” the accused’s lawyer said, jumping to his feet.
“Sit down,” the lead elder said.
“But—”
“Save it. Mr. Valentine, the floor is yours.”
Valentine walked over to the easel and pointed at his handiwork. “Before I start, let me ask you a question. Are any of you familiar with this chart?”
The five elders put their glasses on and stared at the easel.
The elders mumbled among themselves. Finally their leader said, “No.”
Valentine blew out his lungs. There were three hundred Indian casinos in the United States, and the majority of them didn’t understand the basic rules of their own games.
“Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. Back in 1962, a mathematician named Edward Thorp wrote a book called Beat the Dealer: A Winning Strategy for the Game of Twenty-one. In the book, Thorp explained how to count cards at blackjack. I’m sure you’re familiar with card-counting?”
The elders nodded in unison.
“Good. Thorp also explained something called Basic Strategy. Basic Strategy is the best possible way to play blackjack. The rules of Basic Strategy differ, depending on the number of decks of cards in use. This chart is based upon the number of decks you’re using in your casino.” He paused as the elders stared at the chart. “This making sense?”
Again, the elders nodded.
“Now, Basic Strategy is known by most blackjack players. And by all dealers and pit bosses. Most casinos sell laminated cards with Basic Strategy printed on them in their gift shops. Players are invited to use them at the tables.”
One of the elders mumbled under his breath. Now they really felt stupid, Valentine thought.
“What this means is simply this: Basic Strategy is how the game is played. So much so, that if a player doesn’t use Basic Strategy, another player will spell it out to them. Or the dealer will.”