sorry about your wife,” Higgins said after a pause. “At least you haven't lost your sense of humor.”
“I'm told it's the last thing to go.”
The driver circled the Strip. It had grown into a real city, the old stalwarts like Caesars Palace and the Trop dwarfed by silly-looking pyramids and medieval castles, each new property standing belly to butt with an established hotel, the new kids pushing out the old. Sin City was morphing into Disney World.
“How'd you get into the consulting racket?” Higgins asked.
“After Lois died, I had nothing to do. One day the phone rings. Head of security for Trump Casinos in Atlantic City asks if I'd be interested in viewing some surveillance tapes. I explain to said gentleman that I'm retired and no longer among the living. Said gentleman offers me a hundred bucks an hour, minimum thirty hours a month, and my business was born.”
Higgins whistled through his teeth. “They're paying you three grand a month to watch surveillance videos?”
“They sure are.”
“You working for other casinos?”
Valentine nodded. His uncanny ability to sniff out hustlers had saved Atlantic City's casinos millions over the years, and his opinion was eagerly sought. Along with Social Security and his pension, he now made the kind of living he'd always dreamed about. If only Lois were here to show him how to spend it.
“How's things by you?” Valentine asked.
“Crazy,” Higgins replied. “I always envied you guys in Atlantic City. Protecting twelve casinos is nothing compared to the sixty-two I've got out here.”
“Running a skeleton crew sure doesn't help,” Valentine said.
The driver let out a laugh. Higgins didn't see the humor; a scowl twisted his face. When it came to gambling, Las Vegas bested Atlantic City in every department but one—gaming control. Higgins's bureau employed a measly three hundred agents to do everything from collect taxes to prosecute cheats, while Atlantic City employed twelve hundred strong. Compared to the Garden State bureau, Higgins's operation was Third World at best.
“What's gotten into you?” Higgins wanted to know.
“I want to know who told you I was coming to town.”
“A snitch on my payroll told me,” he said icily.
“Someone I know?”
“I don't think so.”
The Acropolis's legendary fountains came into view. Nick Nicocropolis's voluptuous harem of ex-wives looked as unappetizing as Valentine last remembered. Making one mistake in your lifetime was acceptable, but six was a crime.
“I want to warn you,” Higgins said. “Nick Nicocropolis is running a shaky operation. He's not filing CTRs with the IRS on high rollers, which can only mean he's skimming money to stay afloat. If we decide to nail him, I'll give you a heads-up so you can get out of town.”
“I really appreciate that, Bill.”
“No problem. Now, let me ask you a question. I'm sure you've seen the tapes of this guy who beat them. Any idea what he's doing?”
“Either he's reading the dealer's body language,” Valentine said, “or she's signaling him.”
“You don't think he might be doing something else?”
“Like what?”
“I don't know. Maybe he's come up with a new way of beating the house. Like card counting.”
It had not occurred to Valentine that Slick might be doing something new. No wonder Bill was biting his nails. A third of the people who gambled in Las Vegas did so at the blackjack tables. If Slick had developed a method to beat the house, the game of blackjack would have to be drastically changed, or worse, discontinued altogether.
“I don't think so,” Valentine said. “If this guy had a new system, he wouldn't have come back three times. My instincts tell me the girl's involved.”
“You think they're a team?” Higgins asked.
“It crossed my mind.”
His friend breathed a sigh of relief and looked straight ahead. He was part Navajo and rarely made eye contact while speaking. “Well, that certainly puts a whole new light
“I'm told it's the last thing to go.”
The driver circled the Strip. It had grown into a real city, the old stalwarts like Caesars Palace and the Trop dwarfed by silly-looking pyramids and medieval castles, each new property standing belly to butt with an established hotel, the new kids pushing out the old. Sin City was morphing into Disney World.
“How'd you get into the consulting racket?” Higgins asked.
“After Lois died, I had nothing to do. One day the phone rings. Head of security for Trump Casinos in Atlantic City asks if I'd be interested in viewing some surveillance tapes. I explain to said gentleman that I'm retired and no longer among the living. Said gentleman offers me a hundred bucks an hour, minimum thirty hours a month, and my business was born.”
Higgins whistled through his teeth. “They're paying you three grand a month to watch surveillance videos?”
“They sure are.”
“You working for other casinos?”
Valentine nodded. His uncanny ability to sniff out hustlers had saved Atlantic City's casinos millions over the years, and his opinion was eagerly sought. Along with Social Security and his pension, he now made the kind of living he'd always dreamed about. If only Lois were here to show him how to spend it.
“How's things by you?” Valentine asked.
“Crazy,” Higgins replied. “I always envied you guys in Atlantic City. Protecting twelve casinos is nothing compared to the sixty-two I've got out here.”
“Running a skeleton crew sure doesn't help,” Valentine said.
The driver let out a laugh. Higgins didn't see the humor; a scowl twisted his face. When it came to gambling, Las Vegas bested Atlantic City in every department but one—gaming control. Higgins's bureau employed a measly three hundred agents to do everything from collect taxes to prosecute cheats, while Atlantic City employed twelve hundred strong. Compared to the Garden State bureau, Higgins's operation was Third World at best.
“What's gotten into you?” Higgins wanted to know.
“I want to know who told you I was coming to town.”
“A snitch on my payroll told me,” he said icily.
“Someone I know?”
“I don't think so.”
The Acropolis's legendary fountains came into view. Nick Nicocropolis's voluptuous harem of ex-wives looked as unappetizing as Valentine last remembered. Making one mistake in your lifetime was acceptable, but six was a crime.
“I want to warn you,” Higgins said. “Nick Nicocropolis is running a shaky operation. He's not filing CTRs with the IRS on high rollers, which can only mean he's skimming money to stay afloat. If we decide to nail him, I'll give you a heads-up so you can get out of town.”
“I really appreciate that, Bill.”
“No problem. Now, let me ask you a question. I'm sure you've seen the tapes of this guy who beat them. Any idea what he's doing?”
“Either he's reading the dealer's body language,” Valentine said, “or she's signaling him.”
“You don't think he might be doing something else?”
“Like what?”
“I don't know. Maybe he's come up with a new way of beating the house. Like card counting.”
It had not occurred to Valentine that Slick might be doing something new. No wonder Bill was biting his nails. A third of the people who gambled in Las Vegas did so at the blackjack tables. If Slick had developed a method to beat the house, the game of blackjack would have to be drastically changed, or worse, discontinued altogether.
“I don't think so,” Valentine said. “If this guy had a new system, he wouldn't have come back three times. My instincts tell me the girl's involved.”
“You think they're a team?” Higgins asked.
“It crossed my mind.”
His friend breathed a sigh of relief and looked straight ahead. He was part Navajo and rarely made eye contact while speaking. “Well, that certainly puts a whole new light
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