Dan Shiller was ready to call it a night.
The card cheat had been hand mucking at a five-dollar table in Diamond Lil’s, one of the smaller downtown joints on Casino Center. Maybe just one more hand; he had an ace concealed in his palm, and he hated to waste it. All he needed was for a ten or a face card to be dealt to him in order to produce a “blackjack” and be paid sixty dollars for his forty-dollar bet.
Just like clockwork, the dealer gave him a queen and a six facedown. He picked up the cards in his right hand, smoothly substituting the ace for the six, and tossed the natural twenty-one faceup on the table.
“Blackjack,” the dealer announced.
“Hold it right there,” growled a deep voice directly behind Shiller. “Don’t pay that bet.”
In a heartbeat, the hand mucker’s right wrist was clamped to the table in an iron grip. Dan twisted his head around in alarm and saw that his captor was a beefy six-foot security guard backed by two others and a toughlooking man in a dark suit. Tightening his grip, the guard forced Shiller’s wrist over, revealing the hidden card.
“Okay, mister, come with us,” said the man in the dark suit menacingly. “Leave your chips on the table.” Grasping the cheater firmly under each elbow, the other two guards dragged him off his stool. It fell to the floor with a crash.
A cold shiver ran down Dan Shiller’s spine. He remembered how they’d broken his colleague’s fingers in Tahoe. His mind raced. Maybe there was a chance, a slim chance, to get out of this in one piece. He was sandwiched between two guards, each of whom had a firm grip on his upper
arm, while a third guard stood behind. Gathering his wits, he forced a wan smile and addressed the man in the suit: “Guess you’ve got me, gentlemen. I’ll go quietly.”
He feigned resignation and pretended to be escorted along willingly. As he had hoped, the guards relaxed their hold on him slightly. Suddenly he ducked, twisted his body, and wrenched free of their grasp.
With the guards in hot pursuit, fruitlessly shouting at him to stop, the exposed cheater barged through the packed casino, bowling over a hapless slot-change girl and knocking the plastic cup from an elderly woman’s hand. Quarters rained down on the floor in a silver shower. If he could only make it to the street, maybe he could get lost in the crowd. He was almost at the door, but they were gaining. With a supreme final effort, he shouldered his way through a group of dumbfounded Japanese tourists, his momentum popping him out of the doors like a cork exploding from a champagne bottle. He flew across the sidewalk in a half stumble and careened helter-skelter into the roadway.
At which point his luck ran out.
Over a decade earlier, the Southeast Area Command of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department had set up an experimental bicycle squad to improve patrol efficiency and speed up response time among the crowded sidewalks and congested traffic of the Strip. The experiment proved such a success that within a year the Northeast Area Command had established its own bicycle squad to patrol the downtown casino core. When Fremont Street was converted to a pedestrian mall, the practicality of this approach became even more evident. Helmeted cops on ten-speed bikes now constituted the frontline of law and order downtown.
Officer Al Dodd had signed up to be a Las Vegas bicycle cop not only because he enjoyed exercise but also because he liked people.
So far, the job had lived up to his expectations. He’d met numerous fascinating people—apart from cooling off the odd drunk or breaking up the occasional fight, most of his time was spent schmoozing with tourists, providing them with information and directions.
Dodd took great care to avoid running into pedestrians on his bike. Hordes of them, fascinated by the overhead neon spectacular, bumbled their way through the Fremont Street Experience without ever looking where they were going.
Apart from an occasional brush, he had never actually collided with a pedestrian.
Until today.
In a tangle of flying arms and legs and spokes and pedals, Dan Shiller, escaping grifter, ran squarely into Officer Al Dodd on his bicycle.
Stunned and disoriented, Shiller attempted to scramble to his feet, but it was too late.
“Officer! Hold that guy!” one of the Diamond Lil’s guards shouted.
Recovering first, Officer Dodd grabbed Dan Shiller under the armpits and stood up, carefully pulling the man to his feet.
“Are you hurt, sir?” the policeman inquired solicitously, looking Dan over for apparent damage but nonetheless retaining a firm grip on his jacket.
“No—no harm done,” Shiller panted. “I’ll just leave now, Officer—”
“One moment,” said the man in the suit from Diamond Lil’s. “We caught this grifter hand mucking in the casino. He was attempting to escape custody when he ran into you.”
“I see,” said the cop. “Do you wish to press charges?”
“Damn right,” replied the suit, who privately would have preferred to administer his own brand of justice in the casino’s back room. It was lucky for the bastard that he ran into this cop. But at least he wouldn’t get away. “If you’ll take him in—”
“You have witnesses?”
“Yeah. Myself, these three guards, and the dealer. We were just about to call you guys,” he lied, “when he ran.”
“Okay,” said Officer Dodd, not believing the casino security man for a second. “I’ll call for a patrol car.”
“It’s all a mistake,” Dan pleaded. “I didn’t—”
“Sir, you’re under arrest for fraud,” said the policeman as he applied handcuffs to Shiller’s wrists. Dodd glanced meaningfully at Dan’s would-be captors and lowered his voice: “Just between us, buddy, you’re lucky I came along when I did.”
“Believe me, I know,” replied the grifter quietly, dismayed to have been apprehended, yet grateful to have avoided a fate that could have been infinitely more painful.
“You have the right to remain silent … .”