James Swain - Gift sense

"You're out of jail?"

"I most certainly am!"

Valentine heard a screen door slam in the background, then a familiar voice. "Mabel, where'd you say the ice cream was?"

"Gerry?" he said in astonishment.

"In the icebox in the garage," Mabel said. "I've got your father on the line."

"Hey, Pop," Gerry said from afar.

"Gerry?" Tears rolled down Valentine's face. "Gerry!"

"Hey," his son said, coming on the line.

"You're alive!"

"You bet I'm alive. Those judo moves you taught me as a kid finally came in handy."

"What happened?"

"Guy was choking me to death in the Holland Tunnel and I snapped his arm back. He fell over, hit his partner, bidda-bang, bidda-boom, they're both out cold. I cabbed it to the airport, jumped on a plane."

Valentine could not remember when his son's voice had sounded so good. "You called Yolanda, didn't you?"

"She's flying down tomorrow," his son said. "We're going away for a few days."

"Good boy."

"Mabel's dying to talk to you."

Valentine heard the screen door open and close. Ice cream. His son had gone to get some ice cream. Did he have any idea the anguish his father had been through, thinking him dead?

No, Valentine realized, probably not.

Mabel came on, her voice filled with schoolgirl glee. "Oh, Tony. You would have been so proud."

"Tell me," he said.

"Your son flew down an hour ago and drove straight to the courthouse. He begged a judge to hear my case, and they dragged me out of jail. Your son told that judge exactly what happened, how he was to blame, and how he should have come down and straightened things out, and how his father was a cop, and that he'd been raised knowing right from wrong, and this time there was no doubt he was wrong. Then he begged the judge to let me go-"

"Mabel," Valentine said, "slow down before you croak!"

His neighbor took a deep breath, then plunged back in. "Tony, it was so touching, I cried. Gerry told the judge that just a few hours ago, two hoodlums had tried to murder him and that he'd had this amazing life-changing experience. He had a strange name for it-"

"An epiphany?"

"That's it. Anyway, he said it was a real wake-up call. He told the judge that he had to take responsibility for his life and that this was as good a way as any to start."

"Gerry said that?"

"I know," she laughed merrily. "Tony, for a minute I thought I was listening to you!"

"What did the judge say?"

"Well, the judge was a she and a real tough nut. She praised Gerry for his honesty, but then told him the law was the law, and fined him fifty-five hundred dollars."

"Fifty-five hundred bucks!" he shouted into the phone. "That's highway robbery. She ought to be run out of town."

"Well, your son doesn't feel that way."

"What do you mean? What did he do?"

"He paid up."

"What?"

"He said, and I quote, 'I broke the law, and I'll pay whatever fine you see fit.'"

Valentine heard the screen door slam. "Put him on, will you?"

"Hey," his son said a moment later.

"Mabel told me what you did. I'm proud of you, boy."

"Yeah, well, now that you mention it, I was wondering if I could ask you a favor," his son said.

"Sure."

"I paid the court with a check, and my cash flow's been kinda short lately, if you know what I mean."

Valentine pushed himself off the bed, not believing his ears.

"You want me to cover you?"

"Well, yeah," his son said.

Valentine kicked the night table and got violent feedback from his big toe. The more things changed, the more they remained the same.

"I'll pay you back," his son mumbled.

An uncomfortable silence followed. Gerry cleared his throat. "Pop."

"What?"

"I know this is hard to believe, but I'm trying."

"You're trying," Valentine echoed.

"Yeah, I'm trying."

Across the street the Mirage's volcano spit a doughnut-shaped cloud into the air. The police cruisers were leaving the Acropolis, their wailing sirens drowning out all other sound. Roxanne was in one of those cruisers, getting her first taste of her new life. She would do a minimum of five years in the state pen and her life would never be the same again. Only when the cruisers were gone did Valentine speak.

"Well," he said, "it's about time." By James Swain Published by Ballantine Books:

Grift sense refers to the instinct for spotting a scam and Tony has plenty of opportunity to use his skills in this entertaining read." -The Tampa Tribune-Times "Grift Sense is one of the best debuts I've read in years. It has a great plot, wonderful characters, and a slick, subtle wit." -The Toronto Globe and Mail "The hard-nosed dialogue and the fast-paced, serpentine plot deliver a page-turner of a mystery. Just when readers start to relax, thinking it's clear sailing to the end, Swain throws yet another curve." -Canadian Press "A knowing, lively plot surrounded by a kidnapping, a return from the dead, a promise of May-December romance, as many curves as a Vegas showgirl, and a shower of what even the hard-bitten gambling professionals in [the] cast describe as epiphanies." -Kirkus Reviews (starred review) "Billed as one of the best card-handlers in the world, Swain packs this first novel with enough tidbits on the art to back up the claim. Combine that insider's knowledge with clean writing and a reasonable con, and the result is a fun read a la Elmore Leonard." -Publishers Weekly "Well-crafted, dryly humorous, and highly enjoyable." -Library Journal Read on for an exciting look at James Swain's next novel,

Available in hardcover wherever books are sold. Published by Ballantine Books.

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."