Stephen Cannell - King Con

"Fuck it. Fuck the medicine," Duffy wheezed. "These ass wipes was perfectly willing to take my money when I was losing with no limit. Now… I'm winning, all of a sudden we gotta new set of rules." The people standing around murmured their assent. They agreed it didn't seem fair. Duffy was shaking badly now, his chest heaving torturously.

Luke called for Arnold Buzini, who now hurried out onto the floor and was witnessing the disturbance. Some of the other players were now siding loudly with Duffy.

Luke looked up at Buzini questioningly, and the Shift Manager nodded his approval.

"Okay, we'll accept the bet," Luke said.

Duffy grinned and shook and drooled slightly as he picked up the casino dice and rolled them.

"Seven, a winner," the Stick-man said, and Duffy's bet was matched. A hundred thousand dollars was now out on the green felt.

"Let the fucker ride," Duffy wheezed. "Let 'er ride."

"Take the medicine, Uncle Harry," Beano said. "You'll have a convulsion."

"Shut the fuck up," Duffy croaked, his arm now started convulsing as he reached for the dice. He dropped them once, had trouble regaining them, and finally rolled them feebly. They barely hit the rail at the end of the table.

"Point is eight."

"Eighter from Decatur." Duffy shook and wheezed.

"What the hell's wrong with him?" Buzini said.

"He's epileptic. He won't take his medicine. Says it jinxes him."

"Sir, you should take your medicine," Buzini said.

"Go fuck a duck," Duffy replied. "Eighter from Decatur. Come to Papa," he drooled and switched the dice again. Now, with the doctored eights in his hand, he warmed them… holding them in his palm while Beano shoved the bet out. Duffy rolled the loaded dice and won.

"Winner. Pay the line," the Stick-man said.

There was now over half-a-million dollars in chips on the table.

"Float 'em," Buzini demanded again, and Luke grabbed the dice off the table, first checking them under an ultraviolet light for the stripe of color, and then dropped them in a glass of water. Buzini leaned in and watched closely. They didn't roll.

"The Price Is Right," Duffy trumpeted. "My lucky dice. Harry wants them bones." Duffy now started to shake slightly in the seat of the chair. He looked very sick. His head was lolling, he was losing control of his convulsing arm.

"Sir, I think you should see a doctor," Buzini said.

"I'm winnin', so I'm grinnin'. Gotta go. Gotta go. Luck's on my side. Let 'er ride."

Buzini was looking at the pile of gold chips on the table. He knew that one house roll would bring the casino back to even. He also knew this was loser's logic, but he didn't know what to do. "Get Tommy on the phone," he said to Luke. Buzini didn't want a million-dollar loss on his shift report. He wanted to be taken off point. He'd get Tommy Rina to approve the action.

Luke looked at his watch. "It's three-forty-five A.M.," he said.

"There's half-a-million bucks on the table. Call him. He'll wanna know."

Luke started to dial while they all waited.

"Gotta go, gotta go. What's the problem? Gotta go," Duffy complained, stirring the crowd, most of whom were also now betting and winning with him.

"Who the fuck is this?" Calliope's sleep-filled voice said over the phone. She was in the bed in the large private villa Joe owned, adjacent to the hotel.

"This is Luke, in the casino. Gotta talk to Tommy. Put him on."

"Tommy ain't here, the little prick. God knows where the fuck Tommy is," she said, and slammed down the receiver.

Luke looked at Buzini and shook his head.

"Gotta go, gotta go. Let's do it… gotta go," Duffy started shouting. Buzini didn't know what to do.

"For God's sake, let him shoot. He's getting so excited he's gonna have a grand mal. You haven't seen anything till you've seen one of those fuckers," Beano warned.

"Okay. New dice. Let's roll 'em," Buzini said, as two Pit Bosses from ajoining tables wandered over to watch.

They brought out a new set of casino perfects. Buzini checked them, then dropped them on the table. They were pushed over to Duffy.

Duffy tapped them on the green felt then rolled a six.

"Point is six. Good point for the shooter," the Stick-man droned.

And now, under the careful scrutiny of three sets of eyes, Duffy went to the arm of the wheelchair and performed his short hand magic, switching the dice as the trained Pit Bosses stared directly at his hands. They never saw the switch, never saw it happen. He put the loaded dice in his palm, held them, heated them and rolled them.

"Six, a hard-way winner," the Stick-man said, and now Duffy had a million dollars in chips. There were so many, they couldn't lie in front of him on the green felt and still leave the table clear for play.

"Let 'er ride," Duffy wheezed and the twenty or so spectators cheered.

"Get Joe in New Jersey," Buzini said, sweat starting to form on his forehead.

Luke grabbed his phone and called the emergency number for Joe Rina.

"Let 'er ride."

"No, sir, you can't bet a million until I get an approval."

"Whatta buncha ass wipes," Duffy growled. He wheezed, his arm quivering on the table rail where it was resting.

Joe came awake instantly when the phone rang. It was almost four A.M. He knew this call had to be important. Nobody would call him at four in the morning unless it was a wrong number, a disaster, or somebody looking to get his face rearranged.

"What is it?" he said.

"Just a minute, sir," Luke said. "I have Arnold Buzini from the Sabre Bay casino."

He handed the phone to Buzini, who cleared his throat and watched as Duffy and Beano argued about his medicine. "Sir, we have a little situation here," he said softly. "We have a big winner on the number three crap table. He's hit us for over a million dollars… in less than an hour. This guy is white-hot. And a buncha other players are slip-streaming with him."

"You check the dice?"

"Yes, sir. They're okay… least they seem to be."

"Tommy's down there. Get Tommy."

"We can't find Tommy, sir. He's not in your villa. We don't know where he is."

Joe sat up in bed. Sometimes Tommy's lack of responsibility was startling. He was great when it came to wet-work, great at clipping somebody you wanted to put down, but when it came to just common-sense business, he was lame. Joe stifled a flash of anger at his brother and tried to clear his head of sleep and concentrate. "Okay, this guy on any of our sheets?"

"No, sir. His name is Harry Price. Old guy in a wheelchair. He owns a car lot in Fresno. His nephew is named Douglas. Says on his credit-ap he's an unemployed oil company geologist. The Eye-in-the-Sky was watching them. They're either very good or they're not cheating."

"Okay, here's what you do," Joe said. "Put the table limit at fifty thousand. You let them roll once more to buy some time. While they're doing that, go through their room. If it's clean, plant something… dope, anything. Call the Bahamian Patrol. If your player gets angry or starts an incident, close the table for an accounting. Pay them slowly to stall them, but don't let them out of the hotel with the money. We'll bust 'em for drugs and then take their winnings. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And tell my brother I wanna talk to him soon as you find him."

"Yes, sir." Buzini hung up the phone. "Okay, table limit is fifty thousand, you can roll," he said to Duffy, who started to bitch that the no-limit was off. Buzini didn't stick around to listen. He moved to another pit area, picked up the phone, and ordered Security to come to table three and to notify the Bahamian Patrol they had a possible drug problem. Then he called his assistant and told him what to plant in Duffy's High-roller suite on the tenth floor.

"Same shooter, new point," the Stick-man said. Beano bet the new lower table limit of fifty thousand dollars, grumbling at the casino Manager as he did. As they pushed the dice over to Duffy, he was quivering with anger.