Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

“Oh, yeah, grandma, take it

all

!” one cried.

“To the

root

!”

“It’s the little old lady from Pasadena!”

A

Whoo-eeeh!

came from the group, mingled with catcalls and laughter. One officer swayed his hips lasciviously. “Attaboy! Ride ’em, cowboy!”

Kemper strode over. “What the hell’s going on?”

The men jumped away from the closed-circuit security screen, revealing two overweight passengers in a dim, remote hallway having vigorous sex.

“Jesus Christ.” Kemper turned. “Mr. Wadle, aren’t you supposed to be the supervisor this shift?” He looked around at all the officers, standing ridiculously at attention.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ve got a missing passenger, a suicide on the crew, we’re losing thousands in the casino, and you’re busy watching the Viagra Show. You think that’s funny?”

“No, sir.”

Kemper shook his head.

“Shall I—?” And Wadle indicated the switch to turn off the monitor.

“No. Anytime a camera is shut off it’s logged, and that’ll raise questions. Just . . .

avert

your eyes.”

At this, someone stifled a laugh, and Kemper, despite himself, couldn’t help but join in. “All right, all right. You’ve had your fun. Now get back to your stations.”

He walked through the monitoring station to his tiny back office. A moment later his intercom buzzed.

“A Mr. Pendergast here to see you.”

Kemper felt his mood sour. A moment later the private investigator entered.

“You here for the show, too?” Kemper asked.

“The gentleman in question has studied the Kama Sutra. I believe that position is called ‘the Churning of the Cream.’ ”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Kemper replied. “We’re down another two hundred thousand in Covent Garden so far tonight. I thought you were going to help us.”

Pendergast took a seat, throwing one leg over the other. “And that is why I’m here. May I have photographs of tonight’s winners?”

Kemper handed him a sheaf of blurry photographs. Pendergast flipped through them. “Interesting—a different group from last night. Just as I thought.”

“And what’s that?”

“This is a large, sophisticated team. The players change every night. The spotters are the key.”

“Spotters?”

“Mr. Kemper, your naïveté surprises me. While the system is complex, the principles are simple. The spotters mingle in the crowd, keeping track of the play at the high-stakes tables.”

“Who the hell are these spotters?”

“They could be anyone: an elderly woman at a strategically placed slot machine, a tipsy businessman talking loudly on a cell phone, even a pimply teenager gaping at the action. The spotters are highly trained and quite often masters of creating an artificial persona to cover their activities. They count the cards—they don’t play.”

“And the players?”

“One spotter might have two to four players in his string. The spotters keep track of all the cards played at a table and ‘count’ them, which usually involves assigning negative numbers to low cards and positive numbers to tens and aces. All they have to remember is a single number—the running count. When the ratio of high cards to low cards remaining in the deck grows beyond a certain point, the odds shift temporarily in favor of the players; high cards in blackjack disfavor the dealer. A spotter who sees a table shift in this way sends a prearranged signal to one of his players, who then sits down at that table and starts betting heavily. Or, if the player is already at the table, he will suddenly up his bets. When the ratio slips back to normal or below, another signal from the spotter tells the player it’s time to leave, or to drop back to smaller bets.”

Kemper shifted uneasily. “How can we stop it?”

“The only foolproof countermeasure is to identify the spotters and give them the, ah, bum’s rush.”

“Can’t do that.”

“No doubt that’s why they’re here and not Las Vegas.”

“What else?”

“Combine the cards into eight-deck shoes and then deal only a third of the shoe before reshuffling.”

“We deal out of a four-deck shoe.”

“Another reason you’ve attracted counters. You could stop them cold by instructing your dealers to shuffle up every time a new player sits down or when a player suddenly ups his wager.”

“No way. That would slow play and reduce profits. Besides, the more experienced players would object.”

“No doubt.” Pendergast shrugged. “Of course, none of these countermeasures solve the problem of how to get

back

your money.”

Kemper looked at him, eyes red-rimmed. “There’s a way to get back the money?”

“Perhaps.”

“We can’t do anything that would involve cheating.”

“

You

can’t.”

“We can’t allow you to cheat either, Mr. Pendergast.”

“Why, Mr. Kemper,” Pendergast responded, his voice full of hurt, “did I say I was going to

cheat

?”

Kemper said nothing.

“A characteristic of card counters is that they stick by their system. A normal player will quit if he’s losing heavily—but not a professional card counter. He knows the odds will eventually come around. That’s to our advantage.” Pendergast looked at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. That leaves three hours of prime play ahead. Mr. Kemper, be so kind as to extend me a half-million line of credit.”

“Did you say half a

million

?” “I’d hate to find myself short just when things got going.”

Kemper thought hard for a minute. “Are you going to get back our money?”

Pendergast smiled. “I shall try.”

Kemper swallowed. “All right.”

“You’ll need to have Mr. Hentoff warn your pit bosses and dealers that my play might be eccentric, even suspicious—although it will always remain within legal bounds. I’ll take my seat at first base—on the dealer’s left—and I’ll be sitting out about fifty percent of the hands played, so please tell your people not to move me if I’m not playing. Hentoff should instruct his dealers to give me the cut at every normal opportunity, particularly when I first sit down. I’ll appear to be drinking heavily, so make sure when I order a gin and tonic I’m brought only tonic water.”

“All right.”

“Would it be possible to lift the maximum wager at one of the high-stakes tables?”

“You mean, no upper limit to a bet?”

“Yes. It will ensure the counters mark that table, and it will make taking the money back much more efficient.”

Kemper felt a bead of sweat trickling down his brow. “We can do that.”

“And finally, please have Mr. Hentoff staff that table with a dealer with small hands and thin fingers. The less experienced, the better. Have him or her place the end-of-play card high up in the shoe.”

“Do I dare ask why?” said Kemper.

“You dare not.”

“Mr. Pendergast, if we catch you cheating, it’s going to be extremely awkward for both of us.”

“I will not cheat—you have my word.”

“How can you possibly influence play when none of the players ever touch the cards?”

Pendergast smiled enigmatically. “There are ways, Mr. Kemper. Oh, and I shall need an assistant, one of your cocktail waitresses, someone invisible, discreet, and intelligent, who will bring me my drinks and be on call for some—how shall it put it?— unusual assignments I may suddenly give her. They are to be performed unquestionably and without hesitation.”

“This had better work.”

Pendergast paused. “Naturally, if successful, I shall expect another favor in return.”