Sucker bet - James Swain [2]
“Yes, sir, you’re the champ.”
Moon snapped his fingers, and a cocktail waitress came scurrying over.
“Drinks for everyone,” he said benevolently.
The crowd gave him a round of applause. Candy brought her mouth up to Moon’s ear and whispered something dirty. Moon’s eyes danced with possibilities.
Jack gathered up the cards. He’d dealt winning hands to players before, and the transformation was always fun to watch. Weak men turned brave, the shy outspoken. It changed them, and it changed how others saw them. And all because of the turn of a single card.
“A question,” Moon said.
Jack waited expectantly.
“Is there a limit on tipping?”
“Sir?”
“I know there’s a limit on betting,” Moon said. “Is there a limit on tipping?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Jack said.
Moon shoved half his winnings Jack’s way. Standing, he leaned over the table and breathed his martini onto Jack’s face. “Do something wicked tonight. On me.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack replied.
Jack’s shift ended at midnight.
He changed out of his dealer’s clothes into jeans and a sports shirt and drifted outside through the back door. Standing in the parking lot were his other dealer buddies. They were planning an excursion to the Cheetah in Fort Lauderdale to gape at naked college girls. Jack told them he had plans and begged off. His buddies got into their cars and left.
Jack lit a cigarette. A full moon had cast a creamy patina across the macadam. The casino backed onto a lake, and across its surface floated a dozen pairs of greenish eyes. The Micanopy reservation was in the Everglades, and alligators were always hanging around, eyeing you like a meal.
He smoked his cigarette down to a stub while thinking about the raggle. She had melted when Moon had started winning, and Jack had watched her leave the casino draped to his side. Was she falling for him? He sure hoped not.
A black limo pulled into the lot. Behind the wheel sat Rico’s driver, a spooky Cuban guy named Splinters. The limo pulled up and the back door popped open. Rico Blanco sat in back, jabbering on his cell phone.
Jack got in.
“South Beach,” Rico told his driver.
The limo glided out of the lot. Rico was a New Yorker and liked to boast that he was the only member of John Gotti’s crime family currently not in jail. Tonight he wore a designer tux with a red bow tie and looked like a million bucks. Rico put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “I hear you were a star tonight.”
“Who told you that?”
“Candy,” Rico said. “She called me a little while ago.”
“It went great.”
“Let me ask you something. You think she’s in love with him?”
Jack nodded.
“Damn hookers,” Rico said. “They smell money, their brains melt. Every time I use one, know what I tell them?”
Jack had no idea what Rico told them. But Rico had a line for everybody, and if you hung around him long enough, you got to hear it. Jack opened the minibar and helped himself to a beer. “No, what do you tell them?”
“I tell them, honey, you know it’s time to quit the business when you start coming with the customers. Think any of them listen?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Fucking-a they don’t,” Rico said. Taking his hand away from the mouthpiece, he said, “Yeah, Victor, I’m still here. No, Victor, I’m not driving while I’m talking on the phone; I’ve got someone to drive for me.” Rico looked at Jack and rolled his eyes. Victor was the senior partner in the operation and often treated Rico like a kid. “Yeah, Victor. I’ll see you tomorrow. Nine sharp. Brunch at the Breakers. Bye.” He killed the power. “So where were we?”
“Hookers,” Jack said.
“Speaking of which, I’ve got some girls lined up you’re going to love.”
“They like Indians?”
“They like who I tell them to like,” Rico said. He took a Heineken out of a holder and clinked it against Jack’s bottle. “To the best blackjack cheat in the world.”
Only one road led back to civilization, and it was long and very dark. The limo jumped into the air as it hit a bump in the road, then bounced hard on the macadam.
“What the hell you doing?” Rico yelled.
“Sorry,” Splinters said, not sounding