and some from the deck’s center. Most card mechanics saw sleight of hand as a means to an end. For Sporty, it was a lifetime passion.
“He gambles a lot,” Rico said. “He’ll know he’s being set up.”
“You said he plays BJ,” Sporty said, using the pro’s term for 21.
“That’s right.”
“BJ isn’t poker. BJ is about playing basic strategy, knowing how to count. Poker is about money. The more a guy wins, the more predatory he gets. And when the cards start to fall his way, he starts believing he’s Superman. Get it?”
Rico hadn’t believed him until he saw Moon raise Barney two grand. Barney called him, then watched Moon turn over his hand and reveal his straight flush.
“Jesus,” Barney whispered, turning over his four kings.
Moon counted the pot. “You owe me five thousand.”
Barney dug into his pocket. “Will you take a check?”
Moon hesitated. He wasn’t as drunk as he acted, Rico realized.
“Everyone in the room will vouch for me,” Barney said defensively.
“All right,” Nigel said.
Barney wrote him a check and started to hand it over. Reaching over Barney’s shoulder, Rico snatched the check from his hand.
“Barney, this is a
friendly
game, for Christ’s sake,” Rico said. Folding the check in half, he tore it up and tossed the pieces into an ashtray. “You being on a fixed income and all, I’m sure Nigel will understand.”
Moon’s mouth dropped open. He looked royally pissed. Rico dropped his hand to his side and opened his fingers, letting Moon see Barney’s finger-palmed check. Sporty lit up a cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray. The fake pieces caught fire.
Moon blinked, slowly understanding.
“Don’t you, Nigel?” Rico said.
Rico smiled. Victor called moments like these turning points. It was the thing about being a con man that Rico liked. You got to peel suckers one layer at a time and see how much they could be taken for.
“And a friendly game it will remain,” the Englishman said.
Bingo,
Rico thought.
Splinters drove Rico and Sporty to Miami International Airport in Rico’s limo. The moon was out, a big silver coin waiting for someone to pluck it from the sky, and Rico started to retract the roof. Sporty, who wore his hair in an architecturally complex comb-over, objected. Rico pushed the button in the opposite direction.
“You were great back there. That switch was awesome.”
Sporty took the switched deck out of his pocket. “Thanks.”
“How long you been handling cards?”
Sporty hesitated. “What’s today, Friday?”
“Very funny. Twenty, thirty years?”
“My father gave me a deck when I was five,” Sporty said.
The airport was a tomb. Splinters pulled in front of the Delta terminal and threw the limo into park. He had his Walkman on and was clicking his fingers and swaying his head like Stevie Wonder. He was a definite embarrassment, Rico decided.
Rico reached into his jacket to pay the mechanic. A gun appeared in Sporty’s left hand. Rico felt his nuts tighten. It was one of those plastic jobs the Israeli secret police had invented to sneak through airport security systems. He looked toward the front at Splinters. His driver was in la-la land.
“Take your hand out of your jacket,” Sporty said.
“With or without your money?”
“Slo-owly.”
Rico brought his hand out. Then, carefully, he grabbed his lapel and pulled it back, letting Sporty see the white envelope sticking out of his inside pocket.
Sporty wiggled the gun’s barrel. Rico reached in with his left hand and carefully removed the envelope. Sporty took it from his grasp, and said, “Sorry, but your reputation precedes you.”
Rico was shocked. What reputation? He’d killed two people in his entire life, which hardly qualified him as some major menace. One to get into John Gotti’s gang, one as a favor. Two people and the double-crossing Indian the other night. Make that three people. Among the guys he used to associate with, three
“He gambles a lot,” Rico said. “He’ll know he’s being set up.”
“You said he plays BJ,” Sporty said, using the pro’s term for 21.
“That’s right.”
“BJ isn’t poker. BJ is about playing basic strategy, knowing how to count. Poker is about money. The more a guy wins, the more predatory he gets. And when the cards start to fall his way, he starts believing he’s Superman. Get it?”
Rico hadn’t believed him until he saw Moon raise Barney two grand. Barney called him, then watched Moon turn over his hand and reveal his straight flush.
“Jesus,” Barney whispered, turning over his four kings.
Moon counted the pot. “You owe me five thousand.”
Barney dug into his pocket. “Will you take a check?”
Moon hesitated. He wasn’t as drunk as he acted, Rico realized.
“Everyone in the room will vouch for me,” Barney said defensively.
“All right,” Nigel said.
Barney wrote him a check and started to hand it over. Reaching over Barney’s shoulder, Rico snatched the check from his hand.
“Barney, this is a
friendly
game, for Christ’s sake,” Rico said. Folding the check in half, he tore it up and tossed the pieces into an ashtray. “You being on a fixed income and all, I’m sure Nigel will understand.”
Moon’s mouth dropped open. He looked royally pissed. Rico dropped his hand to his side and opened his fingers, letting Moon see Barney’s finger-palmed check. Sporty lit up a cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray. The fake pieces caught fire.
Moon blinked, slowly understanding.
“Don’t you, Nigel?” Rico said.
Rico smiled. Victor called moments like these turning points. It was the thing about being a con man that Rico liked. You got to peel suckers one layer at a time and see how much they could be taken for.
“And a friendly game it will remain,” the Englishman said.
Bingo,
Rico thought.
Splinters drove Rico and Sporty to Miami International Airport in Rico’s limo. The moon was out, a big silver coin waiting for someone to pluck it from the sky, and Rico started to retract the roof. Sporty, who wore his hair in an architecturally complex comb-over, objected. Rico pushed the button in the opposite direction.
“You were great back there. That switch was awesome.”
Sporty took the switched deck out of his pocket. “Thanks.”
“How long you been handling cards?”
Sporty hesitated. “What’s today, Friday?”
“Very funny. Twenty, thirty years?”
“My father gave me a deck when I was five,” Sporty said.
The airport was a tomb. Splinters pulled in front of the Delta terminal and threw the limo into park. He had his Walkman on and was clicking his fingers and swaying his head like Stevie Wonder. He was a definite embarrassment, Rico decided.
Rico reached into his jacket to pay the mechanic. A gun appeared in Sporty’s left hand. Rico felt his nuts tighten. It was one of those plastic jobs the Israeli secret police had invented to sneak through airport security systems. He looked toward the front at Splinters. His driver was in la-la land.
“Take your hand out of your jacket,” Sporty said.
“With or without your money?”
“Slo-owly.”
Rico brought his hand out. Then, carefully, he grabbed his lapel and pulled it back, letting Sporty see the white envelope sticking out of his inside pocket.
Sporty wiggled the gun’s barrel. Rico reached in with his left hand and carefully removed the envelope. Sporty took it from his grasp, and said, “Sorry, but your reputation precedes you.”
Rico was shocked. What reputation? He’d killed two people in his entire life, which hardly qualified him as some major menace. One to get into John Gotti’s gang, one as a favor. Two people and the double-crossing Indian the other night. Make that three people. Among the guys he used to associate with, three
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