Sucker bet - James Swain [0]
James Swain
Ballantine Books • New York
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
The Turn of a Card
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
About the Author
Other Books by Jim Swain
Copyright
For Thomas Swain
It’s morally wrong to allow suckers to keep their money.
CANADA BILL JONES
Special thanks to Deborah Redmond,
Shawn Redmond, and my wife, Laura
THE TURN OF A CARD
The mark’s name was Nigel Moon.
Jack Lightfoot recognized Moon the moment he stepped into the Micanopy Indian reservation casino. Back in the eighties, Moon had played drums for an English rock band called One-Eyed Pig, his ransacking of hotel rooms as well-publicized as his manic solos. Unlike the other band members, who’d fried their brains on drugs and booze, Moon had opened a chain of popular hamburger joints that now stretched across two continents.
As Moon crossed the casino, Jack eyed the delicious redhead on his arm. She was a plant, or what his partner Rico called a raggle. “The raggle will convince Moon to come to your casino,” Rico had explained the day before, “and try his luck at blackjack. She’ll bring him to your table. The rest is up to you.”
She looked familiar. Jack frequented Fort Lauderdale’s many adult clubs and often picked up free magazines filled with ads of local prostitutes. The raggle was a hooker named Candy Hart. Her ad said she was on call twenty-four hours a day, Visa and MasterCard accepted.
“Good evening,” Jack said as they sat down at his empty table.
Moon reeked of beer. He was pushing fifty, unshaven, his gray hair pulled back in a pigtail like a matador’s coleta. He removed a monster wad from his pocket and dropped it on the table. All hundreds.
“Table limit is ten dollars,” Jack informed him.
Moon made a face. Candy touched Moon’s arm.
“You can’t bet more than ten dollars a hand,” she said sweetly. “All of the table games have limits.”
Moon drew back in his chair. “Ten bloody dollars? What kind of toilet have you brought me to, my dear? I can get a game of dominos with a bunch of old Jews on Miami Beach with higher stakes than that.”
Candy dug her fingernails into Moon’s arm. “You promised me, remember?”
“I did?”
“In the car.”
Moon smiled wickedly. “Oh, yes. A moment of weakness, I suppose.”
“Shhhh,” she said, glancing Jack’s way.
Moon patted her hand reassuringly. “A promise is a promise.”
Moon slid five hundred dollars Jack’s way. Jack cut up his chips. During a stretch in prison, Jack heard One-Eyed Pig’s music blasting through the cell block at all hours, and he knew many of the lyrics by heart.
Jack slid the chips across the table. Moon put ten dollars into each of the seven betting circles on the felt. Jack played a two-deck game, handheld. He shuffled the cards and offered them to be cut.
“Count them,” Moon said.
“Excuse me?” Jack said.
“I want you to count the cards,” Moon demanded.
Jack brought the pit boss over, and Moon repeated himself again.
“Okay,” the pit boss said.
Jack started to count the cards onto the table.
“Faceup,” Moon barked.
“Excuse me?” Jack said.
“You heard me.”
Jack looked to the pit boss for help.
“Okay,” the pit boss said.
Jack turned the two decks faceup. Then he counted them on the table.
“What are you doing?” Candy asked.
“Making sure they’re all there,” Moon said, watching intently. “I ran up against a dealer in Puerto Rico playing with a short deck and lost my bloody shirt.”
Jack finished counting. One hundred and four cards. Satisfied, Moon leaned back into his