Anger, frustration, and relief churned within Buster Malloy’s soul as he reluctantly escorted Jurgen Voss out the back entrance of the casino to where the Galaxy’s security cars were parked.
He was still furious about the baccarat incident; that fucking zip should be the one going to jail, not this poor little wanker. He was frustrated about having been obliged to suck up to that cocky bastard Forrester. Yet he was more than a little relieved that he still had the job; the prospect of being fired and looking for another one at his age, with his lack of education, was not a pleasant one.
He felt quite sympathetic toward his prisoner. In Malloy’s opinion, anyone who had the brains to beat his shithead employers out of a few bucks deserved a fucking medal, not a trip to jail.
“Wanna ride up front with me?” Buster asked the card counter, unlocking the passenger door of a white Caprice sedan with blue roof flashers and GALAXY SECURITY lettered on the sides. Obviously, the little fellow posed no threat to the big security guard; otherwise, he would have cuffed him and tossed him in the backseat behind the Plexiglas divider.
Surprised, Voss nodded.
“Don’t try nothin’ funny,” Malloy warned sternly as he walked around to the driver’s side. Settling himself behind the wheel, he added, “Not that you look like the type that would.”
Sensing an ally in the security guard, Jurgen ventured, “Will I be put in jail?”
Malloy started the car and slipped it into gear. “Well, kinda. But not exactly. They’ll keep you in a holdin’ cell until you go to court. But it ain’t really jail.” Here Malloy spoke from experience, having himself been
convicted of common assault twice in Southie. The second conviction had gotten him a thirty-day sentence in the South Boston Municipal Detention Facility. He had also earned several sojourns in the brig in Saigon for brawling. “The holdin’ cell is kinda like a waitin’ room, except you’re locked in. Jail is where you go after they find you guilty.”
“You are saying that they will not put me in jail?”
“Most likely not,” replied Buster as they drove out of the Galaxy parking lot onto the Strip. “You’ll be out in a few hours. The Galaxy don’t really give a shit what happens to you. It ain’t like them sawdust joints downtown where they’d as soon break a fella’s arms as look at ‘im when they’d catch ’im cheatin’. Not that I think you were. Cheatin’, that is. I figure a guy’s got the fuckin’ brains to beat their games, more power to ’im.” They were forced to crawl past Treasure Island as motorists slowed down to catch a glimpse of the hourly battle between the Royal Navy and the buccaneers—Steve Wynn’s carefully orchestrated drama of sound and fury. Just once, Malloy would like to see the goddamn pirates lose. “They’ll just charge you with DC.”
“DC?”
“Disorderly conduct. They’ll keep you for a few hours in the lockup, prob‘ly fingerprint you an’ take a mug shot. Then the judge’ll let you go.”
“This is all? I will not be given the opportunity to defend myself?” Suddenly Voss felt cheated. He had already begun to visualize his courtroom debut, a superintelligent David against a powerful but dull-witted Goliath, impressing judge and jury with his genius-level IQ, his clear logic, his flawless reasoning.
“You won’t need to. I ain’t never seen ‘em throw a card counter in jail yet. My boss jus’ wanted to put the fear o’ Christ in you.” He pronounced it Chroyst.
“I see. I have obviously made an error in judgment when I have argued with Herr Forrester.”
“Maybe. But in a way, I don’t blame you. Like, why should you buy that crap from them? You jus’ told it the way it is. You wasn’t cheatin’. You’re smart an’ they’re a buncha jerkoffs.”
The card counter took off his thick glasses and wiped them with a dirty handkerchief. “You are right, of course, Officer—”
“My name’s Buster Malloy.”
“—und yet I wonder. If I am so smart, why are they the ones with the money?”
“Because they kiss their precious fuckin’ slanty-eyed customers’ arses an’ treat their employees like shit.”
Jurgen could not quite grasp the logic of this statement, but he quickly understood that this was an angry, bitter man. “Then why do you work there?” he asked, genuinely curious. How sonderbar this Malloy was!
“When you ain’t got but one eye an’ a grade-eight education, you can’t be too choosy. For guys like me, jobs don’t grow on trees.”
“I am sorry to hear this.”
“Ah, shite, it’s a livin’,” said Malloy with a grimace as he hung a left onto Tropicana Avenue. “If I could do what you do, I’d be in there countin’ the cards right alongsid‘a you. In fact, I’d take their fuckin’ money any way I could.”
“You mean, steal it?”
Buster laughed bitterly. “Goddamn right. But there’s a fat chance o’ that ever happenin’. They’re tighter’n choirboys’ arseholes with their cash. They don’t trust nobody. Especially their employees.”
“This I have observed.”
They drove for a few more moments in silence. On any other day, Jurgen would have enjoyed the drive along the Strip. The massive marquees blazed relentlessly, advertising Liza at Bally’s, Englebert at the Roman Palladium, Siegfried and Roy at the Mirage, Dolly at the Desert Inn. The big stars needed only first names, the card counter thought abstractedly.
“Well, here we are.” Malloy swung the car into the parking lot beside the Southwest Area Command Station on Spring Mountain Road. “Sorry about this, boyo. I’m jus’ doin’ me job.”
“I understand.”
They entered and Buster Malloy greeted the desk sergeant. “Got another’ un for you, Fred. Oh yeah, an’ Mister High an’ Mighty Steve Fuckin’ Forrester wants Lieutenant Marshall to call ’im before you do the paperwork.”
As Malloy had predicted, Jurgen Voss was charged not with cheating, nor fraud, nor any other exotic offense, but with that mundane catch-all of the American justice system, disorderly conduct. The LVMPD desk sergeant, an affable middle-aged man with a graying walrus mustache, confided to Jurgen that charges of card counting were difficult to prove and seldom resulted in convictions. “The lieutenant spoke to Mr. Forrester,” said the
sergeant after Voss had cooled his heels for several minutes. “And they agreed on the DC charge. You’ll go in front of a judge this afternoon.”
“Will I need a lawyer?”
“Well, sir, that’s up to you. We can get you one if you want. Have you got any priors?”
“Priors?”
“Ever been arrested before?”
“No.” His capture at Harry’s in Reno a decade earlier had been effected by private security guards, not cops.
“Then I wouldn’t bother with a lawyer. You’d have to wait at least another day while they found you a public defender. And the judge’ll probably let you go anyway. Minor offense, no priors. It’s only a misdemeanor. If he’s in a bad mood, you might catch a fifty-dollar fine. But I doubt it.”
The complaint form was typed up in triplicate by the sergeant on an old IBM Selectric. Buster Malloy signed it on behalf of the Galaxy without so much as a glance at its contents.
“Good luck, mister,” said Malloy, turning to leave. “Don’t let the wankers grind you down.”
“Danke schön, Herr Malloy,” said Jurgen.
“An’ don’t do no more card countin’ at the Galaxy,” Malloy called back over his shoulder as he barged out the front door.
Voss was relieved of his wallet, belt, and shoelaces and taken to a small room where he was photographed and fingerprinted. Ashamed of his mutilated fingertips, Voss avoided eye contact with the police fingerprint technician, who involuntarily shuddered in disgust at the sight of Voss’s scabbed and bloody appendages. Following this procedure, a sweaty, overweight desk officer escorted him politely but firmly to the holding cell. The mesh-walled area measured about sixteen feet square and was furnished with wooden benches bolted to the concrete floor. A strong disinfectant odor failed to mask the pervasive underscent of stale perspiration, urine, and vomit. Fluorescent ceiling fixtures cast an unforgiving white glare upon the cell’s three tenants.
The officer unlocked the door, ushered Jurgen through, and closed it behind him with a clang that made the little man jump. Voss folded his thin arms protectively across his chest and glanced furtively around at the occupants of the cell as his escort vanished down the corridor and left him with—who knows what? Murderers, rapists, muggers? The unfrocked card counter had not felt so alone and vulnerable since the Reno incident, when
the casino security men had roughed him up. He remembered with distaste the blows to his stomach: only two punches, but his abdomen had ached for days. But those were private security men; surely he was safe in this fortress of the law! Taking some comfort from this thought, yet keeping his back to the wall, Voss sidled over to a spot on the benches as far as possible from the other prisoners.
He noted a well-dressed, prosperously bronzed man, looking for all the world like the president of General Motors, seated casually in the opposite corner, legs crossed elegantly. An expensive-looking camel-hair jacket lay folded neatly on the bench next to him. At first glance, the man seemed out of place in this cell … yet Voss sensed an aura of larceny about him. In Jurgen’s line of work, you learned that appearances could be misleading. After all, wasn’t casino camouflage one of his own specialties? The card counter wondered what this man had done to deserve arrest.
Ten feet away from the smartly dressed man a Hispanic youth was curled up in a fetal position on one of the benches, moaning softly in Spanish. He had bundled a dirty windbreaker into a makeshift pillow. From the bruise on his cheek and the slightly bloody gauze pad on the boy’s temple, Jurgen surmised that he had been involved in a fight, or perhaps he had been injured resisting arrest.
The third occupant of the enclosure caused Jurgen to shiver involuntarily. He was a mountain of a man, obviously a biker, all hard fat, at least equivalent in weight to a full-size refrigerator and considerably taller. He leaned insouciantly against the steel-mesh wall and chewed on a toothpick. Clad in faded jeans, steel-toed boots, and black leather vest, he sported a diamond stud in his left earlobe. Colorful tattoos festooned his bare arms. A fringe of greasy black hair encircled a large bald spot atop his head. As if to compensate for the lack of growth above, a Fu Manchu mustache and a stringy beard adorned the lower half of his face. The man’s florid, pockmarked cheeks resembled pepperoni pizza; a bulbous, purple-veined nose testified to a lifetime of excessive drinking. Cheap plastic wraparound sunglasses hid the biker’s eyes, yet Voss could feel the penetrating stare bore into him. It caused his scrotum to shrivel with apprehension.
Unsure of the etiquette of the occasion—did one acknowledge one’s fellow captives, or did one ignore them?—Jurgen opted for the latter, averting his eyes and sitting down timidly on one of the hard wooden benches. He sighed, dejected. Why had he acted so foolishly, flaunting his intelligence, daring that Steve Forrester to arrest him? He could have walked
away and been home by now instead of in this holding cell. Even the satisfaction of denouncing his persecutors in a court of law was to be denied him. And to make matters worse, the police would now have his photograph and a record of his activities on file—information that Voss was fairly certain would be circulated to all the casinos on his “paper route.” It probably meant that he was finished as a card counter in Las Vegas—probably all of Nevada, for that matter. He would be forced to move to another state, to give up his apartment, all because—
“Where the fuck d‘you think yer sittin’?” said a deep voice.
Startled, Jurgen looked up to see the biker looming over him like a monstrous avenging angel. An irrational fear gripped the card counter. Or was it irrational? Could this be Harry’s all over again? Was he about to suffer another beating—or worse? Should he call for help? After all, this was a police station, not the back room of some grindout joint in Reno—
“I asked you a question, dickhead.”
Voss cowered as the biker moved closer. He flinched at the powerful odor of marijuana, motor oil, and sweat that now engulfed him. “I … I am sorry,” the card counter gulped. “I do not understand what … what you want.”
“Move yer ass, boy. This here’s my spot.”
“Yes, of course.” Jurgen hastily rose to his feet and scuttled over to the next bench.
“Not there, either, asshole.”
“But where … ?”
“You sit on the floor.”
Voss looked pleadingly at his tormentor. “I do not know you. Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because you remind me of a piece of shit stuck on a toilet bowl.” The biker removed the toothpick from his mouth and hawked on the concrete floor, narrowly missing Jurgen’s feet. “Because you talk funny. Because you ain’t no American.” The biker removed his sunglasses, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes with grossly dilated pupils. “What are you, a Jew boy?”
The card counter quavered indignantly. “I am not Jewish.”
“So you must be one of them fuckin’ non-Aryan mongrels, huh?” With an arm as big around as Voss’s waist, the biker pushed the little man lightly on his scrawny chest, causing him to stumble backward and nearly fall. “You a homo, too?”
Jurgen glanced around in desperation. Where were the police? What if
he cried out for help and they did not hear him? Would that incite this bully to more violence? How ironic that the superior intelligence which had landed him here in the first place counted for absolutely nothing in dealing with such mindless brute force. In this arena he was totally helpless.
The man grabbed a fistful of Jurgen’s shirt and with ridiculous ease lifted the little man so that only his toes touched the ground. “You know what we do to mongrel homos where I come from?”
“Please—”
“Hey, you,” said the well-dressed man in the corner, quietly.
Without letting go of his victim, the biker turned his head. “You talkin’ to me, man?”
“Who else?”
“This ain’t none o’ yer business.”
“Knock it off, for Chrissake. Leave him alone.” The man fixed a steady gaze on the biker. He did not rise from his bench.
“What the hell do you care about the little prick?”
“I don’t. But you’re annoying me. So put him down.”
“Or what?” said the biker contemptuously.
“Or I’ll call the desk officer and I’ll testify that you threatened and assaulted this guy. And I’m sure he’ll back me up. Right, pal?”
A trembling Voss, still in the grasp of the biker, nodded his head vigorously.
“Not only that,” the man added, “but we’ll tell them that you tried to rape the Spanish kid.”
Jurgen’s assailant hesitated. He knew he could beat the shit out of both men with one arm tied behind his back—but then where would he run? And despite a drug-induced fog, he recognized the validity of the man’s threat. He was in enough trouble already, what with the possession and the resisting-arrest charges. He didn’t need assault and rape added to his tab with the cops.
The biker released his grip on Voss’s shirtfront and backed away. “Ah, fuck it anyway,” he mumbled as he returned to his spot by the wall. “The little fag ain’t worth the trouble.”
“Good. Maybe now we’ll get a little peace around here,” said Dan Shiller.
A pale and shaken Jurgen Voss collapsed onto a bench near his rescuer. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer, and he observed that his hands were trembling—yet he felt the relief wash over him like a warm wave.
“Thank you for … what you have done … to help me,” Jurgen stammered.
“It wasn’t to help you,” replied Shiller icily. “That blowhard just happened to be getting on my nerves.”
“Nevertheless, I am grateful.” Jurgen’s pulse rate was returning to normal. “It is good to know there are still decent people in the world.”
“Nobody’s called me that for some time.” Dan smiled sardonically. “Decent. A decent person! If I was really such a decent person, I wouldn’t be cooling my heels in the LVMPD Hotel now, would I?”
“I do not know. May I ask—of course, it is not my business—but why are you here? You do not look like you belong in a place like this.”
“Neither do you.”
“Perhaps you would rather not talk. I have no right to ask—”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t mind trading war stories. But you go first.”
Voss snorted. “The only crime I have done is using my intelligence to win a little money at cards. I have not cheated and have not broken rules. And still like a thief the casino treats me!” The little man’s voice rose in frustration. “They build their gefeckte palaces with the money of people who play their games like idiots, yet they will not allow to play even the one person in a tausend who knows how to play correctly! And the law says that they can arrest such people.” Even the lingering fright from his confrontation with the biker had paled in comparison to the anger he felt toward the Galaxy—mingled with disgust at himself for having allowed the whole debacle to happen in the first place. “And yet … and yet, I should have said nothing. What a dummkopf I was! I should when I had the chance have left quietly instead of losing my temper. I knew of their policies. And now this—”
“You’re a card counter, right?”
“Ja, ja, of course. I did not explain that clearly. And yourself?”
“I’m a casino cash-removal specialist.”
The card counter looked puzzled for just a fraction of a second, then chuckled as he realized his new acquaintance had made a joke. “I have never heard it said exactly like this. How do you remove the cash?”
“Lots of ways. Lately I’ve been working this roulette scam.”
“Past-posting?”
“You got it.”
“This must be difficult. Also risky.”
“Not really. Not if you’re well prepared. It’s much safer than chip hustling at dice, but then again it’s usually not as profitable—”
“You are also a rail thief?” Voss asked, a note of admiration in his voice.
“Yes, to put it indelicately. It’s the best-paying thing I do. I picked up five yellow checks at the Palladium a couple of weeks ago.”
“Five thousand dollars! That is more than I make in a month at blackjack!”
Suddenly the biker coughed. In his fascination with Dan’s story, Jurgen had completely forgotten about his confrontation with the bearded monster. In the opposite corner of the holding cell the big man was slouched on a bench, mumbling to himself. He coughed again and spat on the floor. The kid appeared to be asleep.
Voss returned to his conversation with the grifter. “Are you also a card counter?”
“No, I don’t have the brains for that. But I admire people like yourself who do. I do play the game, though. You could call me a reasonably competent mechanic. Except this time I got caught at it.”
“Hand mucking?”
“Yeah. I was holding out cards at Diamond Lil’s. Usually I can spot heat a mile away—you know, the way they whisper, the way they avoid looking at you, the way your balls tingle—”
Jurgen smiled ruefully. “I know exactly what you mean. I myself actually felt some heat, but I ignored it. Again, I was a dummkopf. Even after they spotted me, ja, I could have walked away. But I chose to remain and argue.”
“Worst thing you could have done.” The man rose to his feet, stretched, and yawned. “By the way, my name’s Dan Shiller. What’s yours?”
“Jurgen Voss. I am very happy to meet you.”
“Likewise.” The two men shook hands, a ritual Voss hated because it forced him to expose his fingertips. Shiller noticed the disfigured digits but managed to avoid shuddering. “Where did they nail you, Jurgen?” he asked.
“At the Galaxy.”
“Steve Forrester?”
“Ja, Forrester.” Voss sounded surprised. “You know this man?”
“We’ve never been formally introduced. But I’ve heard all about him. He’s an ex-cop. Just last month at the Galaxy he nailed Mel Garfinkle, one of the best in the business. Mel was in cahoots with a dealer—dumping off
black chips. Forrester spotted the scam right away. He’s tough and smart. There are plenty of guys in our business who found that out the hard way. Since he took over security at the Galaxy, I don’t go near the place.”
“I am afraid I now will not be able to go near any place in Nevada,” Jurgen reflected gloomily. “After this incident my name and also my photograph will be in every casino database from here to Reno.”
“Mine, too.”
“And next time I may not be so lucky … if you know what I mean.”
Shiller laughed humorlessly. “I know exactly what you mean, my friend.” He held his thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “I came this close to getting the shit beat out of me at Diamond Lil’s. If that cop hadn’t come along on his bicycle when he did … they’d probably be feeding me through a tube right now.”
Both men sat silently for a few moments, Jurgen reflecting on his plight, Dan deep in thought. The biker had ceased muttering and was engrossed in picking small objects out of his beard. The Hispanic kid snored softly.
Shiller broke the silence. “You know, we’re both in deep shit.”
“I know,” said Voss.
“I don’t mean with the law. You’ll probably walk, and the worst I’ll get is a few days in the local slam.”
“You mean with the casinos.”
“Like you said, they’ve got our pictures. They’ll be watching for us. From now on, it’s going to be damn tough for us to make a living.”
The card counter nodded glumly. “That is certain.”
“Besides which, I’m not getting any younger. I’m tired of grifting. I need to get out of this racket.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“Trouble is, I can’t afford to quit.”
“Really? Even with the tausends of dollars you make by hustling checks?”
“Never saved any of it. I seem to piss it away as fast as it comes in. Sometimes faster.”
“I am in much the same … predicament. True, I have managed to put aside a little money. But nowhere near enough to live on for … always.” He grimaced. “I suppose I must now move far away … to somewhere else in America.”
“Maybe not.” The grifter paused, thoughtfully sizing up his companion. “There may be a way—”
At that moment, the sweaty desk officer reappeared outside the holding cell, carrying a tray loaded with cellophane-wrapped sandwiches and coffee in Styrofoam cups. “Chow time,” the cop called out. “Compliments of the management.” He slid the tray through a horizontal slot in the door. The biker got to the tray first and grabbed the lion’s share of the food. Jurgen and Dan shared the rest. The kid never woke up.
After picking at a soggy egg-salad sandwich and taking a couple of sips of lukewarm coffee, Voss said, “I am curious. What were you going to say?”
Shiller swallowed the last of his coffee. “Suppose I told you I had a plan for a major score. Big enough to retire on. I mean really retire. None of this Social Security and golden-age-discount-coupon shit. What would you say to that, my friend?”
Jurgen thought for a moment. “Well, I am a realist. Please do not take offense, but I would have to say you are dreaming,” he replied. “On the other hand, it is always pleasant to dream. What else is there to do in a place like this?”
“Man, this is no dream. It’s an idea I’ve been developing for some time now. But it’s way too big to handle alone.” Shiller lowered his voice. “I’d need a team. Somebody like yourself, somebody with brains. And at least one other person.”
“Is it some kind of scam? A swindle?”
“No, it’s way bigger than that. I’m talking millions of dollars here. Tens of millions.”
Voss blinked. “Tens of millions! Incredible! But please go on.”
“Okay. Follow the bouncing ball. First of all, who are the fattest pigeons in this town?”
“That is easy. The casinos.”
“You’re goddamn right! Now, who are the most vulnerable marks?”
“Most probably the same answer.”
“Right again! The casinos! Think about it. At any given time they’ve got five to ten million dollars in cash in their counting rooms. Sometimes more. Any schmuck can walk into any casino at any time. There’s no security to speak of—”
“Aber, Dan … if there is no security, then why are we here?”
“I don’t mean that kind of security. Sure, they’ve got people trained to
protect their cash from guys like us. But they don’t have real security like there is in airports and courthouses and military bases. Even after Oklahoma City and Nine-Eleven, this town is pretty slack in that department. No metal detectors, no baggage searches, no ID checks. You could walk in with a fucking arsenal in your suitcase and they’d never know.”
“You are not planning to hold up a casino?”
Shiller laughed. “No way, pal. That would be far too risky. And it isn’t my style. I’m just reminding you how much cash they’ve got floating around … and how easy it is to get inside their candy store.”
Voss shrugged. “All right. So. It is not a scam and it is not a holdup. Bitte—precisely tell me what is your plan.”
“Not unless you’re in.”
“I must agree first to join before you explain?”
“Yep.”
“I would have to think about it. How much is the … payoff?”
“Could be as high as fifty million. Split three ways.”
“Fifty million dollars? Only in America! What would I do?”
“Help me with the planning. I’ve got a broad outline worked out, but I need to focus on the details. I’m not good at logistics—but I suspect you might be.”
“I have an IQ of two hundred and five,” replied Jurgen with barely concealed pride. “In addition, I possess a photographic memory. I am familiar with computers. My hobby is electronics. Does that qualify me?”
“My God, does it ever. You are exactly the guy I’ve been looking for.”
“Ja, perhaps. And you have mentioned a third person. Who would that be?”
“We’d need an inside man. Somebody who knows the workings of the casinos.”
“Do you have in mind someone?”
“There are a couple of guys I could ask. But I’m open to suggestions.”
Voss remembered the ride to the police station with the embittered security guard, Malloy. “Perhaps I can recommend somebody. That is, if I decide to … join you.”
“Take your time, Jurgen. I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
“I will admit it sounds … interessant.”
Shiller lapsed into silence. After a moment he turned to the younger man, his expression serious. “Before you come in, there’s something else you should know.”
“Ja?”
“My plan will involve … violence.”
“Violence? You mean someone will be hurt? Who?”
“I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care. It’ll be totally random. Luck of the draw. The upside is, they’ll never find out who was responsible. The downside is …”
“Ja?”
“People will die.”