“Good morning, Steve,” said Suzanne Hughes, Steve Forrester’s British executive assistant. “Lovely spring day. Coffee’s on. Al Mitchell’s waiting in your office. And Thurman has a card counter; he needs to see you s.a.p. in the eye.”
“Take a number, folks.” Steve poured himself a mug of steaming Blue Mountain coffee and lit his tenth Vantage 100 of the day. “What does Mitchell want?”
“Something about a punch-up in the baccarat room.”
Freshly summoned to the carpet in Vice President Steve Forrester’s office, Buster Malloy stood rigidly at attention, clenching and unclenching his huge fists. His face was still flushed, the result of his outburst in the baccarat room an hour earlier.
“So that was it? You grabbed Mr. Ling?”
Malloy set his jaw resolutely. “I didn’t grab ‘im, Mr. Forrester. I jus’ touched ’im politely on the shoulder to kinda get ’is attention.”
“Al Mitchell says you attacked him.”
“Only after ’e threw ‘is drink in me face. Before that, I was jus’ doin’ me job.”
“It isn’t your job to beat up the customers.”
“’Specially not the high rollers,” Buster muttered bitterly.
“I don’t care whether they’re high rollers or nickel slot players. You know the policy here: no physical contact unless security is threatened.” Forrester lit a cigarette. “As it happens, you attacked one of our biggest clients. He has a million-dollar credit line, and we sure as hell don’t need you to collect his markers.”
“The little zipperhead ‘ad no call doin’ what ’e did.”
“Zipperhead? What kind of racist remark is that?” demanded Forrester.
“Shit, I spent me best years zappin’ monkeys like ’im. That’s what Vietnam was all about—protectin’ people like you from—”
“For your information, the gentleman was Chinese, not Vietnamese—”
“There ain’t no difference. A slope is a slope.”
“Look, Malloy, this discussion is pointless. The Galaxy will not tolerate that kind of vicious retaliation.”
“‘E still didn’t have no right to do what ’e did,” Malloy repeated sullenly.
“Maybe. But neither did you. And the difference is, he’s the customer.”
Malloy hated the position he was in. Why the fuck did he have to explain his actions to this bollixing bastard? Only because he needed the goddamn job. He struggled to control his temper. “All right, then, Mr. Forrester.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll say I’m sorry. It’s me only slipup in t’ree years on the job—”
“Is that a fact?” Forrester picked up a file folder from his desk and thumbed through the contents. Acting as judge and jury in matters like this was a duty he disliked intensely, but it was one that went with the territory. God knows, I probably would have done the same thing in Malloy’s position, he thought. “Yes. I see that your performance reviews have been satisfactory.” He sighed and closed the folder. “Okay, Malloy, I guess under the circumstances—look, man, nobody’s perfect. And I can see you were provoked. Everybody deserves a second chance. As Mr. Ling isn’t pressing charges, I’m willing to overlook the incident. This time. But, goddamn it, Buster, if anything like this ever happens again …”
Buster Malloy bit his lip, clenched his fists, and stifled the urge to beat the shit out of this arrogant prick. “Understood,” he mumbled.
“Then let’s say no more about it.”
“Yes, sir.” Malloy remained livid, an emotion tempered only slightly by the knowledge that he hadn’t lost his job.
For his part, Steve Forrester had never believed in holding grudges or remaining angry. Once a situation had been resolved, you put it behind you. Life was too short. Remembering what Suzy had said when he arrived, he thought for a moment and addressed Malloy in a matter-of-fact, businessas-usual tone: “As long as you’re here, Buster, there’s something you can help me with right now. It appears we’ve got a blackjack card counter downstairs. Why don’t you come along with me for backup?”
“Yes, sir. We goin’ down now?”
“In a few minutes. I just want to check it out with Thurman Washington first. Walk with me to the eye, then we’ll go down together.”
Unlocking an unmarked door on level two, Steve Forrester and Buster Malloy stepped into the eerie half-world of the catwalks hidden above a false ceiling over the casino. The central section of the Galaxy’s main gaming area was open to the top of the atrium in order to accommodate the Saturn rocket and was spied upon by suspended, retractable cameras that were concealed in simulated satellites and asteroids. The catwalk area covered the rest of the casino; here, Plexiglas bubbles and one-way mirrors (strategically placed to afford a direct overview of the baccarat pit and the higher-stakes blackjack tables) complemented the video cameras. Despite the electronic surveillance, it was still desirable on occasion to observe the games directly. The catwalks also provided a means for technicians to service the cameras.
Forrester strode purposefully along the railed walkways while Buster Malloy followed a few paces behind, fists clenched and jaw set in an angry line. Only with the greatest restraint did the recently chastised security guard resist the impulse to shove his superior over the rail and send him crashing through the ceiling to the casino floor forty feet below.
Unaware of the fury seething within Malloy, Steve Forrester glanced down at the games in progress below. It was totally illogical, but in the catwalks he often felt a slight twinge of voyeuristic guilt. Keyhole peeking had never been his sport. In any event, there didn’t seem to be too much happening; early morning was always the slowest time of day at the Galaxy. Without incident, the two men reached the eye-in-the-sky office, located at the intersection of two catwalks, and stepped inside. Both needed a moment for their vision to adjust to the near darkness within.
Aside from two low-voltage spotlights in the black acoustic-tile ceiling, the only illumination in the room came from a wall of softly glowing video monitors and from the green, red, and white LED readouts on the control console. A bank of VCRs hummed quietly, recording every moment of every table game as well as the higher-denomination slot machines.
Steve rolled up a chair next to Thurman Washington, his graveyard eye-in-the-sky operator, and sat down. Malloy remained standing stiffly.
“Hey, Thurm. What’s so important, I couldn’t even finish my morning coffee in peace?”
“Sorry about that, Steve. But I’m pretty sure we got us a counter on thirty-six.” The reference was to blackjack table thirty-six, located in pit four.
“How much is he up?”
“Not much. A couple of thousand, maybe.”
“What’s he betting?”
“Lucy says twenty to eighty.”
“Lucy?”
“Lucy Baker, the floor supe.”
“For this you dragged me all the way up here?”
“Only following your instructions, boss. Remember the memo you sent out last month? How we’re cracking down on cheaters? You said, and I quote, all incidents of suspected card counting are to be brought to your attention?”
Forrester did remember the memo. The Vegas Strip had recently been plagued by a team of card counters from Atlantic City, and he was determined that they’d never make a dime at the Galaxy. Normally, he wouldn’t involve himself personally in situations that could easily be handled by the floor people. But under these circumstances he felt that his personal intervention was warranted. Besides, it didn’t hurt his tough-guy reputation amongst the grifters of Las Vegas to show the flag from time to time. Secretly, Steve was pleased that his instructions were being followed. But he couldn’t resist the urge to gripe.
“I should have my head read. Who is this guy, anyway?”
“He says his name is Harry Jackson. Lucy thinks it’s a phony.”
“Let’s see the tape.”
Washington pressed a button, and the thirty-five-inch screen directly in front of him lit up. The crisp full-color image displayed an overhead view of a blackjack table, with a skinny, owlish fellow perched on the middle seat, nursing a few small stacks of five-, twenty-five-, and hundred-dollar chips. The man did not look like any of the Atlantic City team members they’d identified so far.
“That’s our boy,” said Thurman.
“Fast-forward to the beginning of the next shoe, please, Thurm.” At high speed, the three men watched as the six decks were shuffled, reinserted in the shoe, and redealt. Then Washington slowed the tape down to normal speed. “I’m going to count this shoe down along with our friend,” Forrester said.
During the video replay, the player started with a twenty-dollar bet—four red chips. For the next six or seven hands, according to Steve’s calculations, the deck remained neutral—neither positive nor negative. And the man’s bet remained at twenty dollars. He won a few hands and lost a few.
The swing happened very quickly, and it was what Forrester had been waiting for. A series of small cards raised the true count to plus eight, a very advantageous situation for a card counter. And just like clockwork, the suspect raised his bet—to thirty-five, then fifty dollars.
“Look, Thurm, the son of a bitch won,” he exclaimed, unable to disguise a note of reluctant admiration in his voice. “Let’s give him a little more rope.”
Gradually, while the count remained positive, the player raised his bet to sixty, to seventy, to eighty dollars, splitting a pair of kings against the dealer’s eight, doubling down on ten against an ace and surrendering half his bet (an option the Galaxy allowed its customers) with an eighteen against the dealer’s nine upcard. Meanwhile, his stack grew.
Then, as rapidly as the count had soared, it plummeted to the negative side of zero. And within three hands, the player had reduced his bet to the original twenty dollars.
“I think we’ve got him. Let’s just check the computer to be sure.”
All pertinent information about known players was stored in the casino’s mainframe and could be accessed from any terminal with the right password. In addition to the player’s name, Social Security number, home address, and business address, a complete historical record of all his or her visits—wins and losses right back to day one—was available. The computer kept statistics on the player’s average bet and number of hours of play per visit. For premium players, personal information such as birthdays, anniversaries, spouse’s name, even the player’s favorite liquor, could be programmed in to the card. Washington punched his keyboard and a monochrome computer screen below the video monitor flashed a readout.
“We don’t have any Harry Jackson,” Steve read as Washington scrolled through the names on the screen. “But that’s not surprising. Let’s check the blacklist.”
A rogues’ gallery of known cheaters, including card counters, was also programmed into the Galaxy’s database. This information, provided by the various casinos’ own security forces and by local police departments throughout the state, was shared freely among major Nevada casinos. It
included MOs, mug shots, arrest records, and any other facts that might assist the casinos in protecting their bankrolls.
“Okay, Steve,” said Washington, warming to his task. “I’ll look in the card counter’s section. Then I’ll narrow down the list by bet size and the guy’s physical appearance. If he’s ever been nailed, we’ll find out.”
For several minutes the operator tapped on his keyboard. Faces and descriptions flashed by on the screen.
“Bingo!” exclaimed Thurman.
Forrester leaned in closer. “Jurgen Voss,” he read aloud. “Caught once in Reno—by house security at Harry’s—for card counting.”
“That’s got to be him. Look at the picture.” A coarse but recognizable photo scan stared back at them from the monitor. “This was taken, what, ten years ago? Same big head, same skinny neck. Take away a little hair …”
“Jesus, only one pinch in ten years? The guy must be good.”
“Yeah, but we’re better.”
“You’re absolutely right, ol’ buddy. I guess I owe you one.” Forrester picked up his coffee cup and rose to leave. “Why the hell did I ever write that memo? Now I’ve got to get in there and play the heavy. Let’s go, Buster.”