Sucker bet - James Swain [48]
Black limousines were symbols of power, and he circled the carnival’s perimeter without anyone stopping him. Parking beside the owner’s trailer, he hopped out and looked around. Peals of laughter floated down from the carnival Ferris wheel. It was Friday afternoon, and the grounds were teeming with teenage kids.
He walked up the trailer ramp and rapped loudly on the door. When no one came out, he pushed the door open and stuck his head in. The shit smell that greeted him was like a punch in the face, and his eyes settled on the caged chimpanzee. Rico hadn’t mentioned anything about a fucking ape.
Splinters stepped inside and shut the door. The chimp was strumming a miniature guitar, his head swinging back and forth. The tinny sounds of Madonna’s Like a Virgin sent an icy chill running down Splinter’s spine. First a ghost in the swamp, now a chimp playing his favorite song.
“Play something else,” he said.
The chimp broke into Prince’s Purple Rain, another favorite. Splinters decided he was hallucinating, the music really nothing more than random chords he was mistaking for these songs. He got behind the desk and started opening drawers. Suddenly, the chimp started hissing at him like a cat.
Splinters drew his gun. He didn’t want to shoot the chimp, but if the chimp started making noise, Splinters wasn’t going to have a choice. The chimp stared at the gun, then flopped on his back and played dead, his feet twitching comically.
Splinters jerked open the top drawer of the desk. Inside lay a stack of hundred-dollar bills. He counted out forty-two hundred dollars and was stuffing the money into his pockets when the chimp came flying out of the cage.
“You want to hear a cool scam?” Zoe asked.
They were sitting on a couch in the Fontainebleau’s lobby, Kat watching the front doors. She’d checked into the Castaway the night before, then started trying to reach Tony. No answer in his hotel room or on his cell phone. She didn’t want to leave a message and sound desperate, so she’d parked herself in his hotel. It would be better to see him in person, she’d decided, and get things back on track.
“Tony taught it to me,” her daughter said. “A world-famous poker player showed it to him. He doped out the math for me and everything. It’s really cool.”
“It’s mathematical?”
“Yeah, sort of. You want to hear it?”
From where she sat, Kat had a bird’s-eye view of the hotel valet stand. A black Volvo pulled up, and a muddy Tony and an Indian woman got out. With them was a woman with red hair whose clothes were also muddy. She was glued to Tony’s side, and Kat felt her stomach do a slow churn.
“Sure,” she said.
“It’s called the birthday bet. You go into a room where there’s thirty people, and you bet someone a dollar that two or more of the people in the room share the same birthday. No shills.”
“Shills?” Kat asked, watching the trio cross the lobby floor. Tony had a funny look on his face. Was he dazed, or smitten?
“No stooges. You don’t have to know anybody in the room. Now, you tell the person you’re betting with that the odds are twelve-to-one in his favor, because thirty people divided into three hundred and sixty-five birthdays is 12.17. The sucker usually takes the bet, and you win!”
“Really,” Kat said, watching them wait for an elevator. The redhead was hanging on Tony like he’d just saved her life and she just had to show her appreciation.
“I’ll tell you how it’s done,” Zoe said. “It’s based on a principle called progressive calculation. You’re not betting on two people sharing one particular birthday. You’re betting that two people will share any birthday. The chances are fifty-fifty with twenty-two people in the room. Every additional person increases the odds in your favor. With thirty people in the room, the odds are four-to-one against your opponent. You will almost always win. Pretty cool, huh?”
Kat watched them get into an elevator and the doors shut. In the six weeks she’d known Tony, she’d seen a lot of different