Stephen Cannell - King Con

– ANONYMOUS GYPSY PROVERB

BAHAMIAN LAW INSISTED THEY GET ROGER-THE-Dodger a rabies shot and a veterinary certificate at the Freeport International Airport. Now, as they pulled out of the palm-lined airport drive, he sat on the front seat of their rented, air-conditioned English Ford, very unhappy about the shot he had just received. Roger had a new green plastic tag on his collar that said he had been inspected by the Grand Bahamian Ministry of Agriculture and Trade.

Once out of the airport, they turned right and took the Grand Bahama Highway east toward the Sabre Bay Club, which was located on the easternmost tip of the island. The road led them past Pelican Point and through a dusty village named McLean's Town, which was dotted with remnants of fifteenth-century architecture from the time of Columbus. Brightly painted wood-frame buildings from the intervening years were shaded by huge cypress trees. There were narrow tin shacks with wood-supported awnings that seemed to lean like old men on canes in the withering tropical sunlight.

Whoever had designed the Sabre Bay Club knew a lot about tropical luxury. It was situated on the tip of the island so it could take advantage of the Atlantic winds, as well as the Channel Trades that blew down the inland Providence Cut.

Beano turned into the resort under a huge European arch guarded by statues of both Columbus and Magellan. The white ground-shell road wound past a magnificent Arnold Palmer- designed golf course and finally brought the club building into view. It was a mixture of architectural styles that somehow miraculously blended together. The brochure Victoria had bought at the airport said that the entrance and porte cochere were constructed from the remnants of a fourteenth-century Gothic monastery. The pamphlet said William Randolph Hearst had discovered the already dismantled structure at a warehouse in Lourdes, France. Still stored in crates, it had been sold to Huntington Hartford, who then shipped the remnants to Grand Bahama Island. The artifacts had somehow found their way to the drive-up entry of the Sabre Bay Club. The effect was startling. A piece of old-world feudal grandeur mixed with the windy indifference of the Bahamas. Completing the display of colorful ambiance were a flock of pink flamingos that wandered freely on the grounds. Moving in graceful awkwardness, they thrust their long necks forward as they walked on stilted legs.

The porte cochere was open, and from the drive-up, they could see all the way through the lobby to the emerald-green Atlantic beyond.

"They sure didn't spare any expense, did they?" Victoria said, breaking the silence.

"Drug money. This whole thing came out of the end of a needle," he said.

She looked over at him. There was a bubbling anger in his voice she'd never heard before.

There was a sign near the entrance that said that the Hemingway Bar was at the east end of the hotel and that the Billfishing Club was down by the dock. The golf clubhouse was standing elegantly under a crop of wind-bent palm trees that swayed constantly in the sea breeze. From somewhere nearby they could hear the whomp of tennis balls.

"Let's get outta here before I decide to drive this little Ford through the lobby and park it in the pool," he said.

Victoria looked over and, without asking, she knew he was thinking of Carol.

Beano drove out past the flamingos, past the two famous stone explorers, and back out onto the highway.

They had booked rooms in the Xanadu Beach Hotel and Marina in Freeport. It was on a wide ocean strand of beach that was backed up by a small inland harbor. One side of the hotel faced the white sandy beach and rolling Atlantic; the other looked back at the quaint marina. Once they had registered, Beano helped get their bags in their rooms, then said he would hunt up Dakota and Duffy and they'd all meet in the Wicker bar in an hour. He took Roger with him as he headed off to look for his "cousins."

Victoria went to her room and unpacked. Then she stepped out on her narrow balcony and took in the beautiful aqua-green sea. The brisk ocean wind snapped her short hair. She closed her eyes and felt a little dizzy… She knew she was desperately out of her depth in a game that had at worst no rules, or at best ones she didn't understand. She wondered how it would end, or if she would even survive to witness its conclusion. She found it both troubling and exhilarating that she was embarking on an adventure with people that, just two weeks ago, she would have had an urge to indict and prosecute. She changed her clothes and an hour later went downstairs to the appropriately named Wicker Room.

The bar was small but faced the ocean. A cooling, tropical wind blew across the rattan furniture and slow-turning ceiling fans. When Victoria entered, she looked toward the window and saw Beano and Dakota sitting at a table with an old man who looked like he had recently died, then had abruptly decided to get out of his coffin and come back for one last drink. His wiry white hair hung off his head in Einstein unruliness, and his blue veins shone through white, papery skin, like winding highways on a road map. Like Beano, he had that charming Bates smile, and the old man flashed it as she sat down.

"Hi," she said, looking over at Dakota, who had gotten some sun since Victoria last saw her. It only served to make her more radiantly beautiful.

Dakota had on a white shirt, tied at the midriff, and pink shorts. Her black hair hung in glossy luxury around her shoulders. She was sipping some sort of island drink through a long straw. She didn't nod or acknowledge the greeting. It was obvious from her manner that Dakota thought Victoria was a loose wheel threatening to come off and spill the load.

"Victoria, I'd like you to meet my uncle, Duffy Bates," Beano said, somewhat formally.

"Fit-Throwing Duffy?" she said, remembering what Beano had called him.

"A moniker I can do without," Duffy said, exposing his beautiful smile again.

"They checked the casino out last night," Beano went on. "Duffy stole a pair of table dice and sent them to Miami to his brother. The Sabre Bay Club is using expensive 'true cubes' called 'casino perfects.' They roll true because they're milled to a tolerance of one five-thousandth of an inch. Duffy's brother is going to get two dozen sets of counterfeits made that are close enough to fool the Pit Boss at first glance. They won't check too close because, to begin with, we'll be losing and they never check the dice on a loser. We've got to get at least twelve sets of real casino dice off the table to drill and load. Besides various letter 'imperfections,' the Sabre Bay casino perfects probably also have black-light marks or some other identifying device."

"Black light?" Victoria asked.

"There's a dye you can put in the plastic that shows up when you put the dice under an ultraviolet light. According to what Duffy can tell, they change dice once a day, starting at nine P.M. Each new set probably has different identifying markers. We've gotta get the dice off the table, drill and load 'em, then go back and hit the place during the same twenty-four-hour period, before they change dice and put in ones with different identifiers. Duffy estimates the A.M. shift will have over two million in the Cage Room. As soon as we get in the casino, Dakota has to split off and pick up Tommy. She's gotta rope and steer him. He's at the Sabre Bay Club now, staying in his brother's private villa on the beach. The tickets we sent Calliope worked. If everything goes right, Duffy and I are gonna run the tat tonight at around three A.M. We score the two mil and then we run like hell, 'cause this is planned for Tommy to come off hot. Dakota has to remain behind after we run so she can tell the tale to Tommy and control the 'come-through.'"