“Excuse me—Mr. Voss, isn’t it? I’m Steve Forrester of the Galaxy and I wonder if I could have a word with you,” he said pleasantly.
Jurgen Voss froze for an instant. Then he frowned in disbelief. How did they know who he was? He had felt the bad vibrations from the lady pit boss and ignored them. A mistake, his first in ten years. But he was confident he could talk his way out of this.
“You have the wrong person. My name is Jackson. Harry Jackson. I am here on a convention.”
“Which convention?”
Jurgen was silent for a moment, trying to decide between lie and indignation. He chose the latter. “That is my business.”
Steve noted the man’s pronounced foreign accent. He certainly didn’t sound like a Harry Jackson. “Sir, we know who you are, and we know what your business really is. I’ll have to ask you to step away from the table.”
“What for?”
“We can’t allow you to play blackjack here anymore,” said Forrester mildly. “Now, please step away.”
Emboldened by Steve’s courteous, diffident manner, the card counter swung round on his stool and scowled at the interloper. “Who the devil are you, anyway? Why must I leave this table?”
“I’m in charge of security here at the casino, and if you’ll just look over there, I’ll show you a very good reason.” On cue, Buster Malloy moved up and flanked Jurgen.
“That is not a reason. That is a big stick.”
“I’m afraid it’s all the reason we need. Now please stand.”
Steve had hoped to avoid a noisy confrontation, but those hopes were fading as a curious crowd began to gather.
Lucy Baker, the young floor supervisor who had spotted the card counter and had informed the eye, looked on quietly as the handsome casino executive and the sinister security guard with the eye patch confronted the little man with the big head.
“What kind of cheap people are you?” the counter protested. “Can you not afford to let the players win once in a while?”
“Sir, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” said Forrester. “It’s your choice.”
“I have rights,” he blustered.
“Wrong. You have no rights in here—you’re a card counter and you’ve just taken us for over two grand.”
Voss’s voice rose an octave. “I will get a lawyer! I will sue—”
Forrester cut him off brusquely. “Sergeant Malloy,” he said, “I believe you have something to read to this gentleman.”
Malloy planted himself in front of Jurgen Voss and extracted a plastic-coated card from the breast pocket of his uniform. In a sullen, unenthusiastic monotone he read from the card: “You are considered to be a professional card counter. You are not allowed to gamble at a blackjack table in this casino. If you attempt to do so, you will be considered a disorderly person and be evicted from this casino. If you subsequently return to the casino, you will be subject to arrest—”
“Arrest me? You cannot arrest me! I have broken no law! Are you the Gestapo?”
“Sir, we’re trying to be civilized about this,” said Steve. “But if you persist in arguing—”
At this point, foolishly, the little man’s tremendous ego overcame the caution he knew he should be exercising. He shouted: “I will argue if I wish! You stupid people do not know with whom you are dealing! I have more intelligence than all of you together!”
“Then you admit you’ve been counting?” Forrester asked quietly.
“I have been using my brains … something you know nothing about—”
Steve’s eyes hardened. “Okay, that’s it,” he said. “Sergeant Malloy, take Mr. Voss to the station. Ask Lieutenant Marshall to contact me when you get there. You can sign the complaint form.”
Engrossed in the confrontation, Steve Forrester never noticed Lucy Baker, the young table supervisor, standing in the pit.
She, however, was fascinated by this handsome casino executive and could not help wondering if he was married.