Stephen Cannell - King Con

"Jeezus, Harry, can't we get outta here?" Beano whined. "You need to take your medicine." But the old man waved him away.

Zigman moved up and whispered to the Floor Manager, "We're gonna Schneider this jerk in less than an hour."

Every employee in the casino knew in minutes there was a major slab of deadwood on table three.

In the Credit Office, the Shift Manager, Arnold Buzini, was waiting for his Credit Manager to confirm the sucker's net worth. Buzini was known around the Sabre Bay Club as the Buzzard, and was leaning over her desk, impatiently tapping his fingers.

"Try and verify him as high as you can," Buzini said; his close-cut hair was steel-gray and he had gray-white skin. He lived indoors and loved to see "leakers" like Harry Stanton Price show up. He lived for dumb bettors with systems.

The Credit Manager was named Angela Hopkins and she had just dialed the Cattlemen's Bank of Fresno, using her new set of McGuire Financial Listings that had been unexpectedly delivered yesterday. After a series of clicks, which she assumed was the island telephone system but was really the rollover call-forwarding mechanism in Fresno, the pay phone at the golf shop, not two hundred yards away, rang.

"Cattlemen's Bank of Fresno, one moment, please," Victoria said in a high sing-songy voice; then she hit one of the numbers on the punch-dial to make a tone sound and held the receiver to her stomach until an island workman's car with a loud muffler passed by. "Yes, how can I help you?" she said, coming back on the line.

"This is the Sabre Bay Club on Grand Bahama and we'd like to get a credit verification," Angela said, while the Buzzard leaned closer to try and overhear.

"That would be Miss Prentiss. One moment, I'll transfer you." And she hit a number on the keypad for a sound effect, then put the phone back up to her ear.

"Louise Prentiss, Personal Accounts Manager," she said, now using her normal voice. She was holding the sheet of paper in front of her with all of the information Beano wanted to impart.

"This is the Sabre Bay Club on Grand Bahama. We're doing a credit check on Mr. Harry Stanton Price. He told us he banks with you."

"That's correct. Let me get his account on screen. Do you have an International Verification Number?" Victoria asked.

"Two-four-five-nine-eight double-zero." Angela gave the number from memory.

"Thank you. How can I help?"

"He's requested a loan from us of two hundred thousand dollars. We need verification up to that amount."

"Is this a casino hotel?" Victoria asked.

"Yes, it is," Angela responded.

"Both Mr. Price's personal account and his Price Is Right Automotive Center bank with us. Mr. Stanton has a net worth in excess of ten million dollars. His cash-on-hand balance is well in excess of the required two hundred thousand. We can reserve it here, but would rather not wire it unless it becomes necessary."

"That's fine. Reserve it and we'll issue the credit and settle with you if need be when he checks out."

Buzini was out of the office before Angela hung up. He made his way across the carpeted casino to where a small crowd had gathered to ooh and aah as Duffy threw his money away with stupid bets on table three.

"New dice," Duffy yelled after each miserable roll. When Buzini got to him, he was down to less than five thousand dollars, and half of that was scraped away two rolls of the dice later.

"Sons-of-bitches," Duffy scowled at the dice. "Losing's worse than a Communist dictator." He looked up at the casino Shift Manager through bloodshot eyes; his head lolling badly to the right side, he had let a fine line of spit drool down his chin.

"It's a pleasure to have you at the Sabre Bay Club," Buzini said, smiling at the horrible-looking cripple, praising his good fortune and thinking the old man would be better off in some vegetable ward at a mainland hospital.

"Goddamn dice, can't buy a fucking winning number," Duffy complained.

"Sir, I'm sorry you're experiencing a run of bad luck," Buzini purred, "but Sabre Bay would like to extend you the courtesy of one of our priority suites. Everything that's here, dinner, the shows, all of the resort amenities, will be complimentary."

"How's my credit check coming? Need more cash," Duffy wheezed.

"I've checked that, sir, and your credit has been approved to two hundred thousand dollars." He smiled, hoping the old leaker didn't croak before he had a chance to lose it all.

"Harry, can we get out of this casino for a while? You've lost enough for one sitting," Beano moaned. "Let's go before you lose the whole car business."

"Goddamned whining and complaining. All you do is groan an' moan an' ruin everybody else's fun."

"Sir, would both you gentlemen honor us by being our complimentary guests for as long as you'd like to stay?" the Buzzard said, exposing his carrion smile.

"Damn right I'll stay, bet yer ass I'll stay. I gotta get even here. Luck's bound ta' change. Bound ta' change."

"Can we at least get something to eat?" Beano whined.

"Our Pelican Room is excellent; the dinner menu is exquisite. I'll bring your room key over to your table. Allow me to make the reservation," Buzini said, wringing his hands and reminding Beano of the manager who ran Rings 'n' Things in Atlantic City.

Tommy finally agreed with his brother, Joe, that Calliope Love was a head-splitting pain in the ass. They were sitting in the bar at the Sabre Bay Club. Tommy had the gunfighter seat, with his back to the wall so he could scope out the hot-looking talent coming up from the pool. His eye had locked onto a brunette in a yellow silk dress the minute she arrived… He could barely pull his gaze away. The dress was little more than a nightgown and his sexual imagination was filling his loins with lust while Calliope's flat Boston vowels were filling his ears with complaints.

"All them little kids down by the pool, screamin', throwin' their Frisbees," she complained, while Tommy was studying the beauty sitting alone at the bar. Several men offered to buy her drinks or to dance to the music of the small calypso band that was set up next to the dance floor. The brunette spurned them all. "You should make it an adults-only hotel, Tommy, I swear," Calliope continued. "It's a casino. Them little brats can't gamble. Why they gotta be here? You just know them little shits is pissing in the pool."

"This was your idea, comin' down here," Tommy growled. "Why don't ya shut yer yap for a while? All you fuckin' do is gimme a fuckin' list a'things that piss you off; I ain't the fuckin' complaint department, okay?" His gaze was focused past Calliope as the brunette at the bar crossed her legs and the slit dress fell away, almost exposing her. Tommy's expert eye had already determined she wasn't wearing anything under the silk dress… no outline of underwear, nothing. She was naked as an egg under there. The only thing keeping his pecker down was Calliope's constant braying.

"The hamburger was absolutely ruined," she observed. "You should talk to the guys that cook at the grill. Tell 'em we don't need our meat burned to charcoal, for Christ sake."

"Why don't you give it a rest?" Tommy sighed, hoping to shut her up.

"I'm only trying to help improve this joint. They overcook everything," she said, pouting slightly, "but maybe the only meat you give a shit about is that tube steak between your legs."

"Stop talkin' like a whore. Joe says you talk like a street hooker and he's right." Tommy moved slightly to his right, so he could see better over Calliope's shoulder. A red-haired man came into the bar, walked up, and started talking to Tommy's almost-naked fantasy Goddess. She made no move to pull her dress back over her legs or to cover her exposed thighs. She also didn't wave the guy off like she had the others. He was too handsome and too tall and Tommy hated him on sight. Then the redheaded man committed the ultimate sin: He put his hand on the Goddess's shoulder and leaned down and whispered in her ear. Tommy dug into his pocket and put five hundred dollars on the table.