Sucker bet - James Swain [63]
“So Nigel and I get drunk. He says, ‘I want to show you something.’ So I let him. It’s a software program on his laptop. Says he paid twenty grand for it.”
Unwrapping a candy bar, Bobby bit off an end. “What’s it do?”
“This is sweet. The program analyzes point spreads on college basketball games. Moon bought it from some scammer in Las Vegas. This scammer convinced Moon that each week, there are one or two games where the point spread is wrong. Some statistical-error mumbo jumbo.”
Bobby laughed so hard that he started to choke. Reaching into a cooler, he extracted a bottle of Pepsi and unscrewed the top with his teeth. Everyone had heard about scams out in Las Vegas where con artists sold devices that predicted the outcome of sporting events. The devices were always junk. The scam worked by predicting games that had already been played, then convincing the sucker otherwise. Rico watched the soda in Bobby’s bottle disappear. He wished Bobby would offer him a drink, but Bobby wasn’t like that. He hadn’t reached four hundred pounds by sharing his food.
“What a sucker,” Bobby said.
“Here’s the good part. Nigel told me this computer program has given him an incredible tip, and he wants to place a big bet.”
“How big?”
“Two hundred grand.”
“You’re shitting me. On which game?”
“Miami College against Duke. He thinks Miami has a chance.”
“Of beating the spread?”
“No, of winning.”
Bobby slapped the counter and roared with laughter. The exertion caused him to belch, the sound so loud that it hurt Rico’s ears. He was easily the most disgusting human being that Rico had ever known, and Rico was looking forward to taking him to the cleaners.
“Is that what his computer program tells him? That stinky Miami College is going to beat the number three team in the nation? I can cover that two hundred grand. What’s your take?”
Rico smiled to himself. It had gone exactly the way Victor had said it would.
“Twenty percent,” he said.
“Deal,” the bookie replied.
Taking the Chinese leftovers out of the minibar, Valentine and Gerry ate out of the white cartons. Mealtime had been a no-nonsense affair in their house, and silence ruled. When the food was gone, Gerry said, “I need to talk to you about something.”
Valentine arched his eyebrows. “What’s that?”
“The bar.”
Gerry’s bar in Brooklyn had been a constant source of friction. Valentine had put up the seed money, and the liquor license was in his name. The problem was the office in back, where Gerry ran his bookmaking operation.
“What about it?”
“I’m thinking of selling it.”
There was a rap on the door. Valentine got up and stuck his eye to the peephole. It was Gladys Soft Wings. He glanced at his son, who was in his Jockeys, and said, “Company,” then cracked the door, and said, “Good morning.”
“I got the tribal police to search the dealers’ lockers.” She held up several typed sheets of paper. “Here’s what they found.”
“Come on in.” He heard his son scoot into the bathroom, then opened the door fully. Gladys walked in and tossed her handbag on the bed. Valentine took the typed sheets out of her hand and scanned the list, paying careful attention to the items owned by Karl Blackhorn. Being the most inexperienced member of the gang, he was the most likely candidate to have left something incriminating in his locker.
Fifteen items were listed beneath Blackhorn’s name. Most of it was ordinary stuff like aftershave and hairbrushes. There was an envelope from an Eckerd drug store, and in parentheses it said Pictures. He pointed at the word, and said, “Did the tribal police let you see what the pictures were?”
“Yes,” she said. “They were taken at a restaurant, and showed some men sitting at a table, pigging out on barbecue.”
“Know any of them?”
“Oh, sure,” she said after a few seconds. “Karl, Smooth Stone, and the other three dealers we arrested. And there’s a dealer who left the casino.”
“Who’s that?”
“Jack Lightfoot.”
It made all the sense in the world, and Valentine was surprised he hadn’t seen it sooner. Jack Lightfoot had come to the Micanopy reservation to do a job