James Swain - Gift sense

"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 lot. Rico was a New Yorker and liked to boast that he was the only member of John Gotti's crime family currently not in jail. Tonight he wore a designer tux with a red bow tie and looked like a million bucks. Rico put his hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "I hear you were a star tonight."