Grift Sense by James Swain

the case would be thrown out, as there was no jury in Nevada that would convict a player solely on the basis of sworn testimony. The casinos were not liked, and the locals paid them back whenever they could.
    “Looks good to me,” Wily said, scribbling his name on the last page next to Sammy's. A button on the phone on Sammy's desk lit up. Punching the button, Sammy took the call over the squawk box.
    “Mann here.”
    “Sammy, so nice to hear you still have a job. This is Victor over at the Mirage.”
    “Hello, Victor over at the Mirage,” Sammy said, gritting his teeth. “What brings you out of your cave?”
    “I heard you got whacked for fifty big ones by one of our guests. I called to give my condolences.”
    There was not an ounce of sincerity in Victor's voice. Victor's boss had once tried to buy the Acropolis and turn it into a parking lot. The establishments had been at war ever since.
    Sammy said, “You should screen your guests a little more thoroughly. This guy was a pro.”
    “He was screened,” Victor replied. “Clean as a whistle. You shouldn't have let him keep coming back. Three times? What the hell were you thinking?”
    “We were trying to catch the son of a bitch . . .”
    “I heard you let him walk.”
    “Up yours, Victor.”
    The line went dead. Sammy had just been anointed chump of the month; he could see Victor on the other end, laughing himself sick.
    “We need to find Fontaine,” he said. “I'm open to suggestions.”
    Wily parked his rear end on Sammy's desk, which nearly tipped it. Righting a paperweight, he said, “I've got an idea. Once Nola posts bail, we pay her a visit and have a little chat.”
    “You mean slap her around?”
    “If it comes to that.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Nothing rough—just enough to scare her.”
    “That's illegal,” Sammy said.
    “So?”
    Sammy noticed that Wily had become preoccupied with something stuck to his necktie. It looked like a small chunk of steak smothered in yellow béarnaise sauce. The Acropolis served the best $4.99 buffet in town, and Wily never missed it. With a deft touch, the pit boss plucked the offending morsel off the garment.
    “Don't,” Sammy said forcefully.
    Wily hesitated, the piece of meat inches from his open mouth. With a shrug, he let it fall into the wastebasket.
    “Any other ideas?” Sammy asked.
    “You still think Fontaine's someone you know?” Wily said.
    “I sure do.”
    “Well, this consultant I hired keeps a database of every known hustler around. Maybe he can finger him.”
    Sometimes Wily surprised Sammy with a smart idea. This was one of those special times. “Who is this guy, anyway?”
    “Tony Valentine.”
    Sammy had to smile. Before he'd gotten religion, he had run with a cooler mob; he had been switching decks on unsuspecting blackjack dealers in Atlantic City when Valentine had busted him one Christmas eve at the old Resorts International. As cops went, Valentine had been a real gentleman about the whole thing, no rough stuff or threats. A pro.
    “Let's hope so,” he said. “I've got a bad feeling in my gut about Fontaine.”
    “How so?” Wily asked.
    “Think about it,” the head of surveillance said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Fontaine whacked us three nights in a row. A smart hustler wouldn't have been so blatant.”
    The dull look on Wily's face indicated he wasn't connecting the dots. Sammy finished his thought. “He was trying to get caught.”
    “But that's stupid,” Wily said, clearly perplexed. “He had to know we'd nab him or Nola.”
    “Him, no; Nola, yes.”
    “You think he used her as bait?”
    Sammy scratched his chin reflectively. On the surface, it didn't add up, but who knew what Fontaine was really up to? “He was trying to create a diversion and it didn't work. He bolted, and Nola got left holding the bag.”
    “What a lousy prick.”
    Sammy nodded, hearing Frank Fontaine's taunting laugh ringing in his ears. Of the fifty-odd casinos in town,