in. Several of the waiters were in street clothes and carried their uniforms in see-through dry-cleaning bags. He stared at the uniforms, then removed from his wallet the list of items that Jacques had told Mabel he’d found inside the dealers’ lockers, and read them again.
shoe polish
hair gel
combs/brushes
mustache trimmer
mouthwash/breath mints
aftershave
hair tonic
toothpaste
deodorant
clothes iron
sewing kit
newspaper
nude picture
candy bar
Smiling, he powered up his cell phone and called Mabel.
“Grift Sense.”
“Do you do psychic readings?”
“Very funny,” his neighbor said. “I’ve been trying to call you. Don’t you ever leave your cell phone on?”
No, he never did. He hated hearing cell phones ring in public places and private ones, as well. He ignored the question, and said, “I solved the mystery of Jacques’s dice cheater.”
“You did! Jacques called twenty minutes ago. He’s so irritating!”
“Tell Jacques the craps dealer who has the clothes iron in his locker is the cheater.”
“The clothes iron?”
“That’s right. I’m surprised I didn’t figure it out sooner.”
“Figure what out?”
“I’ve known a lot of craps dealers over the years,” he said, “and none iron their shirts. They have them dry-cleaned. Jacques’s cheater is using the iron to shrink the dice. You put a die up to a red-hot iron and hold it against the metal for a split second. The iron shrinks the circumference of the die. That causes the die to be biased, and certain combinations will come up more than others. The neat part is once the die cools off, it returns to its original size. All the evidence disappears.”
Mabel laughed with delight. “That’s wonderful. Now we get to keep the money.”
“After you call Jacques back, I’ve got two more things for you to do.”
“Fire away,” she said.
“First, I need you to call Detective Eddie Davis in Atlantic City and ask him to run a check on a guy named Rico Blanco.”
“The same Rico Blanco who ripped off your son?”
Valentine nearly slapped himself in the head. Two months ago, a hoodlum named Rico Blanco had stolen fifty grand from Gerry by getting him to bet on a videotape of a college football game. It had to be the same guy.
“You’re a genius,” he said.
“Thank you. Then what?”
“Turn on my computer—”
“Done.”
“—and boot up Creep File. Pull up the file on Victor Marks.”
Creep File was a database of over five thousand hustlers, crossroaders, and con men that he’d crossed paths with during his years policing Atlantic City’s casinos. It was a veritable Who’s Who of Sleaze.
“Here he is,” Mabel said. “Victor Marks. Professional con artist. Came to Atlantic City in 1982. Doesn’t read like he stayed long. No picture.”
Valentine closed his eyes and tried to remember him. He drew a blank.
“There’s no physical description,” Mabel added, “so I guess he got away. Ah, here’s something. He had a partner who you arrested. Saul Hyman.”
Valentine smiled thinly. Saul he did remember. An old-time scuffler, one of those guys who couldn’t stop stealing if his life depended on it.
“Pull up his file, will you?”
Mabel’s fingers tapped away. “Saul Hyman, aka the Coney Island Kid. Your notes are several pages long. Did he really do all these things?”
“That’s the tip of the iceberg. See if the file has his last known address.”
Mabel laughed out loud when she found it. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“What’s that?”
“He lives on Miami Beach.”
Saul Hyman lived in a retirement village in north Miami called Sunny Isles. He had to be pushing eighty, and Valentine imagined him doing what most old guys in Florida did: going to doctors, going to the track, and ogling the pretty girls who dotted the landscape like palm trees.
“Would you like his phone number?” Mabel asked.
“How did you get that?” Valentine asked.
“I typed his name into a
shoe polish
hair gel
combs/brushes
mustache trimmer
mouthwash/breath mints
aftershave
hair tonic
toothpaste
deodorant
clothes iron
sewing kit
newspaper
nude picture
candy bar
Smiling, he powered up his cell phone and called Mabel.
“Grift Sense.”
“Do you do psychic readings?”
“Very funny,” his neighbor said. “I’ve been trying to call you. Don’t you ever leave your cell phone on?”
No, he never did. He hated hearing cell phones ring in public places and private ones, as well. He ignored the question, and said, “I solved the mystery of Jacques’s dice cheater.”
“You did! Jacques called twenty minutes ago. He’s so irritating!”
“Tell Jacques the craps dealer who has the clothes iron in his locker is the cheater.”
“The clothes iron?”
“That’s right. I’m surprised I didn’t figure it out sooner.”
“Figure what out?”
“I’ve known a lot of craps dealers over the years,” he said, “and none iron their shirts. They have them dry-cleaned. Jacques’s cheater is using the iron to shrink the dice. You put a die up to a red-hot iron and hold it against the metal for a split second. The iron shrinks the circumference of the die. That causes the die to be biased, and certain combinations will come up more than others. The neat part is once the die cools off, it returns to its original size. All the evidence disappears.”
Mabel laughed with delight. “That’s wonderful. Now we get to keep the money.”
“After you call Jacques back, I’ve got two more things for you to do.”
“Fire away,” she said.
“First, I need you to call Detective Eddie Davis in Atlantic City and ask him to run a check on a guy named Rico Blanco.”
“The same Rico Blanco who ripped off your son?”
Valentine nearly slapped himself in the head. Two months ago, a hoodlum named Rico Blanco had stolen fifty grand from Gerry by getting him to bet on a videotape of a college football game. It had to be the same guy.
“You’re a genius,” he said.
“Thank you. Then what?”
“Turn on my computer—”
“Done.”
“—and boot up Creep File. Pull up the file on Victor Marks.”
Creep File was a database of over five thousand hustlers, crossroaders, and con men that he’d crossed paths with during his years policing Atlantic City’s casinos. It was a veritable Who’s Who of Sleaze.
“Here he is,” Mabel said. “Victor Marks. Professional con artist. Came to Atlantic City in 1982. Doesn’t read like he stayed long. No picture.”
Valentine closed his eyes and tried to remember him. He drew a blank.
“There’s no physical description,” Mabel added, “so I guess he got away. Ah, here’s something. He had a partner who you arrested. Saul Hyman.”
Valentine smiled thinly. Saul he did remember. An old-time scuffler, one of those guys who couldn’t stop stealing if his life depended on it.
“Pull up his file, will you?”
Mabel’s fingers tapped away. “Saul Hyman, aka the Coney Island Kid. Your notes are several pages long. Did he really do all these things?”
“That’s the tip of the iceberg. See if the file has his last known address.”
Mabel laughed out loud when she found it. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“What’s that?”
“He lives on Miami Beach.”
Saul Hyman lived in a retirement village in north Miami called Sunny Isles. He had to be pushing eighty, and Valentine imagined him doing what most old guys in Florida did: going to doctors, going to the track, and ogling the pretty girls who dotted the landscape like palm trees.
“Would you like his phone number?” Mabel asked.
“How did you get that?” Valentine asked.
“I typed his name into a
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