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A hardened ex-cop with great instincts, a sharp eye, and a short fuse, Tony Valentine still catches crooks, but a very special breed of them. He nabs hustlers who rob casinos, and finds the fatal flaw that allowed the place to get ripped off in the first place. Sometimes that means biting the hand that feeds him, but Valentine isn’t paid to sugarcoat the cold, hard truth. Along flashy strips and in seedy dives, if there’s a game to be fixed, Valentine knows how to spot the tricks, the scams, the sleight of hand. And with his new case, there’s definitely more on the table than meets the eye.
Harry Smooth Stone, head of security at the Micanopy Indian Reservation Casino in South Florida, desperately needs Valentine’s expertise. A blackjack dealer has rigged a game, dealt a player eighty-four winning hands in a row, and disappeared. Valentine’s gut tells him a different story: that the runaway dealer is alligator food and his employers are keeping secrets.
But the missing dealer is part of an even bigger, far deadlier scheme. Valentine’s trail leads him to Rico Blanco, a ruthless gangster who once worked for John Gotti, his shady, elusive partner-in-crime, Victor Marks, and a bombshell named Candy Hart, a hooker with dreams of love, a combination tailored made to double-cross. It appears they have a con going down involving a cocky, filthy rich Brit and his millions of dollars. Valentine’s challenge: to figure out how all the pieces of the seamy puzzle fit together . . . before his luck runs out and his life goes bust.
In prose that sizzles with style and a wicked sense of humor, with plot twists that could cause whiplash, James Swain takes readers behind the neon-lit scenes of casinos and the gambling trade—and reveals a colorful cast of hustlers and con men, bookies and grifters. Make no mistake about it: on the crowded shelves of fiction, Sucker Bet is a sure thing.
Harry Smooth Stone, head of security at the Micanopy Indian Reservation Casino in South Florida, desperately needs Valentine’s expertise. A blackjack dealer has rigged a game, dealt a player eighty-four winning hands in a row, and disappeared. Valentine’s gut tells him a different story: that the runaway dealer is alligator food and his employers are keeping secrets.
But the missing dealer is part of an even bigger, far deadlier scheme. Valentine’s trail leads him to Rico Blanco, a ruthless gangster who once worked for John Gotti, his shady, elusive partner-in-crime, Victor Marks, and a bombshell named Candy Hart, a hooker with dreams of love, a combination tailored made to double-cross. It appears they have a con going down involving a cocky, filthy rich Brit and his millions of dollars. Valentine’s challenge: to figure out how all the pieces of the seamy puzzle fit together . . . before his luck runs out and his life goes bust.
In prose that sizzles with style and a wicked sense of humor, with plot twists that could cause whiplash, James Swain takes readers behind the neon-lit scenes of casinos and the gambling trade—and reveals a colorful cast of hustlers and con men, bookies and grifters. Make no mistake about it: on the crowded shelves of fiction, Sucker Bet is a sure thing.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
James Swain, a gambling expert, is the author of Grift Sense and Funny Money. Swain is considered one of the best card handlers in the world. He lives in Odessa, Florida, where he is currently working on his fourth mystery featuring Tony Valentine. Visit his Web site at www.jimswain.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
The Turn of a Card
The mark’s name was Nigel Moon. Jack Lightfoot recognized Moon the moment he stepped into the Micanopy Indian reservation casino. Back in the eighties, Moon had played drums for an English rock band called One-Eyed Pig, his ransacking of hotel rooms as well-publicized as his manic solos. Unlike the other band members, who’d fried their brains on drugs and booze, Moon had opened a chain of popular hamburger joints that now stretched across two continents. As Moon crossed the casino, Jack eyed the delicious redhead on his arm. She was a plant, or what his partner Rico called a raggle. “The raggle will convince Moon to come to your casino,” Rico had explained the day before, “and try his luck at blackjack. She’ll bring him to your table. The rest is up to you.” She looked familiar. Jack frequented Fort Lauderdale’s many adult clubs and often picked up free magazines filled with ads of local prostitutes. The raggle was a hooker named Candy Hart. Her ad said she was on call twenty-four hours a day, Visa and MasterCard accepted. “Good evening,” Jack said as they sat down at his empty table. Moon reeked of beer. He was pushing fifty, unshaven, his gray hair pulled back in a pigtail like a matador’s coleta. He removed a monster wad from his pocket and dropped it on the table. All hundreds. “Table limit is ten dollars,” Jack informed him. Moon made a face. Candy touched Moon’s arm. “You can’t bet more than ten dollars a hand,” she said sweetly. “All of the table games have limits.” Moon drew back in his chair. “Ten bloody dollars? What kind of toilet have you brought me to, my dear? I can get a game of dominos with a bunch of old Jews on Miami Beach with higher stakes than that.” Candy dug her fingernails into Moon’s arm. “You promised me, remember?” “I did?” “In the car.” Moon smiled wickedly. “Oh, yes. A moment of weakness, I suppose.” “Shhhh,” she said, glancing Jack’s way. Moon patted her hand reassuringly. “A promise is a promise.” Moon slid five hundred dollars Jack’s way. Jack cut up his chips. During a stretch in prison, Jack heard One-Eyed Pig’s music blasting through the cell block at all hours, and he knew many of the lyrics by heart. Jack slid the chips across the table. Moon put ten dollars into each of the seven betting circles on the felt. Jack played a two-deck game, handheld. He shuffled the cards and offered them to be cut. “Count them,” Moon said. “Excuse me?” Jack said. “I want you to count the cards,” Moon demanded. Jack brought the pit boss over, and Moon repeated himself again. “Okay,” the pit boss said. Jack started to count the cards onto the table. “Faceup,” Moon barked. “Excuse me?” Jack said. “You heard me.” Jack looked to the pit boss for help. “Okay,” the pit boss said. Jack turned the two decks faceup. Then he counted them on the table. “What are you doing?” Candy asked. “Making sure they’re all there,” Moon said, watching intently. “I ran up against a dealer in Puerto Rico playing with a short deck and lost my bloody shirt.” Jack finished counting. One hundred and four cards. Satisfied, Moon leaned back into his chair. “A short dick?” Candy said, giggling. “Short deck. It’s where the dealer purposely removes a number of high-valued cards. It gives the house an unbeatable edge.” “And you figured that out,” she said. “Yes, my dear, I figured it out.” Jack saw Candy’s hand slip beneath the table and into Moon’s lap. Moon’s face lit up like a lantern. “You’re so smart,” she cooed. Jack reshuffled the cards. For Moon to have figured out that a dealer was playing with a short deck meant that Moon was an experienced card-counter. Card-counters were instinctively observant, and Jack realized that he was going to have to be especially careful tonight, or risk blowing their scam before it ever got off the ground. He slid the two decks in front of Moon, who cut them with a plastic cut card. “Good luck,” Jack said. Then he started to deal.
Jack Lightfoot was not your typical card mechanic. Born on the Navajo Indian reservation in New Mexico, he’d been in trouble almost from the time he’d started walking. At seventeen, he’d gone to federal prison for a string of convenience store robberies and spent the next six years doing hard time. The prison was filled with gangs. Jack had gravitated to a Mexican gang and hung out in their cell block. The Mexicans were heavy gamblers and often played cards all day long. They liked different games—seven-card stud, Omaha, razzle-dazzle, Texas hold ’em. Each game had its subtleties, but the game Jack fell in love with was blackjack. And whenever it was Jack’s turn to deal, blackjack was the game he chose. Dealing blackjack gave Jack an edge over the other players. He’d worked it out and figured it was slightly less than 2 percent. It was offset by the fact that if he lost a round, he had to pay off the other players, and that could be devastating to his bankroll. But if he won, the other players had to pay him. Blackjack was the game with the greatest risk but also the greatest reward. One night, Jack had lain on his cot, thinking. He’d seen a lot of cheating among the Mexicans. They marked cards with shoe polish or palmed out a pair before a hand began. It occurred to him that if he was going to cheat, wouldn’t blackjack be the game to do it in? He thought about it for months. The Mexicans were suspicious guys, and manipulating the cards was out of the question. But instead of manipulating the cards, why not manipulate the other players into making bad decisions? Guys did it in poker all the time. It was called bluffing. Why not blackjack? One night, one of the Mexicans gave Jack a magic mushroom. Jack ate it, then went to bed. When he woke up a few hours later, he was screaming, his body temperature a hundred and six. While Jack was strapped to a bed in the prison infirmary for two days, his brain turned itself inside out. When he finally came out of it, a single thought filled his head. With the turn of a single card, he could change the odds at blackjack. With the turn of a single card, he could force other players into making bad decisions. With the turn of a single card, he could master a game that had no masters. One card, that was all it took. And all Jack had to do was turn it over. He howled so hard, they kept him strapped to the bed for an extra day.
Nigel Moon’s stack of chips soon resembled a small castle. A crowd of gaping tourists had assembled behind the table to watch the carnage. The Brit cast a disparaging look over his shoulder, like he was pissed off by all the attention. “You’ve got groupies,” Candy said. Moon’s eyes danced behind his sour expression. He sipped his martini, trying to act nonchalant. Candy stared at him dreamily. “Congratulations, sir,” Jack said, his lines committed to memory. “You just broke the house record.” Moon fished the olive out of his martini glass. “And what record is that, my good man?” “No one has ever won eighty-four hands before,” Jack informed him. The Brit sat up stiffly, basking in the moment. “Is that how many I’ve won?” “Eighty-four, yes, sir.” “And no one’s ever done that before.” “Not in a row, no, sir.” “So I’m the champ?” “Yes, sir, you’re the champ.” Moon snapped his fingers, and a cocktail waitress came scurrying over. “Drinks for everyone,” he said benevolently. The crowd gave him a round of applause. Candy brought her mouth up to Moon’s ear and whispered something dirty. Moon’s eyes danced with possibilities. Jack gathered up the cards. He’d dealt winning hands to players before, and the transformation was always fun to watch. Weak men turned brave, the shy outspoken. It changed them, and it changed how others saw them. And all because of the turn of a single card. “A question,” Moon said. Jack waited expectantly. “Is there a limit on tipping?” “Sir?” “I know there’s a limit on betting,” Moon said. “Is there a limit on tipping?” “Not that I’m aware of,” Jack said. Moon shoved half his winnings Jack’s way. Standing, he leaned over the table and breathed his martini onto Jack’s face. “Do something wicked tonight. On me.” “Yes, sir,” Jack replied. * * * Jack’s shift ended at midnight. He changed out of his dealer’s clothes into jeans and a sports shirt and drifted outside through the back door. Standing in the parking lot were his other dealer buddies. They were planning an excursion to the Cheetah in Fort Lauderdale to gape at naked college girls. Jack told them he had plans and begged off. His buddies got into their cars and left. Jack lit a cigarette. A full moon had cast a creamy patina across the macadam. The casino backed onto a lake, and across its surface floated a dozen pairs of greenish eyes. The Micanopy reservation was in the Everglades, and alligators were always hanging around, eyeing you like a meal. He smoked his cigarette down to a stub while thinking about the raggle. She had melted when Moon had started winning, and Jack had watched her leave the casino draped to his side. Was she falling for him? He sure hoped not. A black limo pulled into the lot. Behind the wheel sat Rico’s driver, a spooky Cuban guy named Splinters. The limo pulled up and the back door popped open. Rico Blanco sat in back, jabbering on his cell phone. Jack got in. “South Beach,” Rico told his driver. The limo glided out of ...
The mark’s name was Nigel Moon. Jack Lightfoot recognized Moon the moment he stepped into the Micanopy Indian reservation casino. Back in the eighties, Moon had played drums for an English rock band called One-Eyed Pig, his ransacking of hotel rooms as well-publicized as his manic solos. Unlike the other band members, who’d fried their brains on drugs and booze, Moon had opened a chain of popular hamburger joints that now stretched across two continents. As Moon crossed the casino, Jack eyed the delicious redhead on his arm. She was a plant, or what his partner Rico called a raggle. “The raggle will convince Moon to come to your casino,” Rico had explained the day before, “and try his luck at blackjack. She’ll bring him to your table. The rest is up to you.” She looked familiar. Jack frequented Fort Lauderdale’s many adult clubs and often picked up free magazines filled with ads of local prostitutes. The raggle was a hooker named Candy Hart. Her ad said she was on call twenty-four hours a day, Visa and MasterCard accepted. “Good evening,” Jack said as they sat down at his empty table. Moon reeked of beer. He was pushing fifty, unshaven, his gray hair pulled back in a pigtail like a matador’s coleta. He removed a monster wad from his pocket and dropped it on the table. All hundreds. “Table limit is ten dollars,” Jack informed him. Moon made a face. Candy touched Moon’s arm. “You can’t bet more than ten dollars a hand,” she said sweetly. “All of the table games have limits.” Moon drew back in his chair. “Ten bloody dollars? What kind of toilet have you brought me to, my dear? I can get a game of dominos with a bunch of old Jews on Miami Beach with higher stakes than that.” Candy dug her fingernails into Moon’s arm. “You promised me, remember?” “I did?” “In the car.” Moon smiled wickedly. “Oh, yes. A moment of weakness, I suppose.” “Shhhh,” she said, glancing Jack’s way. Moon patted her hand reassuringly. “A promise is a promise.” Moon slid five hundred dollars Jack’s way. Jack cut up his chips. During a stretch in prison, Jack heard One-Eyed Pig’s music blasting through the cell block at all hours, and he knew many of the lyrics by heart. Jack slid the chips across the table. Moon put ten dollars into each of the seven betting circles on the felt. Jack played a two-deck game, handheld. He shuffled the cards and offered them to be cut. “Count them,” Moon said. “Excuse me?” Jack said. “I want you to count the cards,” Moon demanded. Jack brought the pit boss over, and Moon repeated himself again. “Okay,” the pit boss said. Jack started to count the cards onto the table. “Faceup,” Moon barked. “Excuse me?” Jack said. “You heard me.” Jack looked to the pit boss for help. “Okay,” the pit boss said. Jack turned the two decks faceup. Then he counted them on the table. “What are you doing?” Candy asked. “Making sure they’re all there,” Moon said, watching intently. “I ran up against a dealer in Puerto Rico playing with a short deck and lost my bloody shirt.” Jack finished counting. One hundred and four cards. Satisfied, Moon leaned back into his chair. “A short dick?” Candy said, giggling. “Short deck. It’s where the dealer purposely removes a number of high-valued cards. It gives the house an unbeatable edge.” “And you figured that out,” she said. “Yes, my dear, I figured it out.” Jack saw Candy’s hand slip beneath the table and into Moon’s lap. Moon’s face lit up like a lantern. “You’re so smart,” she cooed. Jack reshuffled the cards. For Moon to have figured out that a dealer was playing with a short deck meant that Moon was an experienced card-counter. Card-counters were instinctively observant, and Jack realized that he was going to have to be especially careful tonight, or risk blowing their scam before it ever got off the ground. He slid the two decks in front of Moon, who cut them with a plastic cut card. “Good luck,” Jack said. Then he started to deal.
Jack Lightfoot was not your typical card mechanic. Born on the Navajo Indian reservation in New Mexico, he’d been in trouble almost from the time he’d started walking. At seventeen, he’d gone to federal prison for a string of convenience store robberies and spent the next six years doing hard time. The prison was filled with gangs. Jack had gravitated to a Mexican gang and hung out in their cell block. The Mexicans were heavy gamblers and often played cards all day long. They liked different games—seven-card stud, Omaha, razzle-dazzle, Texas hold ’em. Each game had its subtleties, but the game Jack fell in love with was blackjack. And whenever it was Jack’s turn to deal, blackjack was the game he chose. Dealing blackjack gave Jack an edge over the other players. He’d worked it out and figured it was slightly less than 2 percent. It was offset by the fact that if he lost a round, he had to pay off the other players, and that could be devastating to his bankroll. But if he won, the other players had to pay him. Blackjack was the game with the greatest risk but also the greatest reward. One night, Jack had lain on his cot, thinking. He’d seen a lot of cheating among the Mexicans. They marked cards with shoe polish or palmed out a pair before a hand began. It occurred to him that if he was going to cheat, wouldn’t blackjack be the game to do it in? He thought about it for months. The Mexicans were suspicious guys, and manipulating the cards was out of the question. But instead of manipulating the cards, why not manipulate the other players into making bad decisions? Guys did it in poker all the time. It was called bluffing. Why not blackjack? One night, one of the Mexicans gave Jack a magic mushroom. Jack ate it, then went to bed. When he woke up a few hours later, he was screaming, his body temperature a hundred and six. While Jack was strapped to a bed in the prison infirmary for two days, his brain turned itself inside out. When he finally came out of it, a single thought filled his head. With the turn of a single card, he could change the odds at blackjack. With the turn of a single card, he could force other players into making bad decisions. With the turn of a single card, he could master a game that had no masters. One card, that was all it took. And all Jack had to do was turn it over. He howled so hard, they kept him strapped to the bed for an extra day.
Nigel Moon’s stack of chips soon resembled a small castle. A crowd of gaping tourists had assembled behind the table to watch the carnage. The Brit cast a disparaging look over his shoulder, like he was pissed off by all the attention. “You’ve got groupies,” Candy said. Moon’s eyes danced behind his sour expression. He sipped his martini, trying to act nonchalant. Candy stared at him dreamily. “Congratulations, sir,” Jack said, his lines committed to memory. “You just broke the house record.” Moon fished the olive out of his martini glass. “And what record is that, my good man?” “No one has ever won eighty-four hands before,” Jack informed him. The Brit sat up stiffly, basking in the moment. “Is that how many I’ve won?” “Eighty-four, yes, sir.” “And no one’s ever done that before.” “Not in a row, no, sir.” “So I’m the champ?” “Yes, sir, you’re the champ.” Moon snapped his fingers, and a cocktail waitress came scurrying over. “Drinks for everyone,” he said benevolently. The crowd gave him a round of applause. Candy brought her mouth up to Moon’s ear and whispered something dirty. Moon’s eyes danced with possibilities. Jack gathered up the cards. He’d dealt winning hands to players before, and the transformation was always fun to watch. Weak men turned brave, the shy outspoken. It changed them, and it changed how others saw them. And all because of the turn of a single card. “A question,” Moon said. Jack waited expectantly. “Is there a limit on tipping?” “Sir?” “I know there’s a limit on betting,” Moon said. “Is there a limit on tipping?” “Not that I’m aware of,” Jack said. Moon shoved half his winnings Jack’s way. Standing, he leaned over the table and breathed his martini onto Jack’s face. “Do something wicked tonight. On me.” “Yes, sir,” Jack replied. * * * Jack’s shift ended at midnight. He changed out of his dealer’s clothes into jeans and a sports shirt and drifted outside through the back door. Standing in the parking lot were his other dealer buddies. They were planning an excursion to the Cheetah in Fort Lauderdale to gape at naked college girls. Jack told them he had plans and begged off. His buddies got into their cars and left. Jack lit a cigarette. A full moon had cast a creamy patina across the macadam. The casino backed onto a lake, and across its surface floated a dozen pairs of greenish eyes. The Micanopy reservation was in the Everglades, and alligators were always hanging around, eyeing you like a meal. He smoked his cigarette down to a stub while thinking about the raggle. She had melted when Moon had started winning, and Jack had watched her leave the casino draped to his side. Was she falling for him? He sure hoped not. A black limo pulled into the lot. Behind the wheel sat Rico’s driver, a spooky Cuban guy named Splinters. The limo pulled up and the back door popped open. Rico Blanco sat in back, jabbering on his cell phone. Jack got in. “South Beach,” Rico told his driver. The limo glided out of ...
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- PublisherBallantine Books
- Publication date2003
- ISBN 10 0345461754
- ISBN 13 9780345461759
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages320
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