Several times Smith murmured, “Hmm.” Once was when he held my driver’s license—probably in reaction to my address. No one with money lived where I lived. He pulled a small notepad from his back pocket and jotted something down.
Then the metal detector hit my legs and went wild. Everyone jumped. The goons’ grip on my arms became painful.
“I have pins in my bones,” I gasped. “That’s why I need a cane.”
“Kick off your shoes and drop your pants,” the man with the metal detector said in a not-to-be-argued-with voice.
I did so. I could feel the tension go out of the room as their gazes dropped from my gray briefs to the hideously scarred, vaguely fleshy mess of my legs. I looked like something out of a freak show. Pity—oh how well I knew pity. And revulsion. I saw it now in their faces. It had taken six operations to make my lower limbs at all usable after the accident. For a while, every doctor I saw told me I’d need the right one amputated. Stubbornly, I had refused. They had also told me I’d never walk again.
“There are,” I continued to break the sudden and uncomfortable silence, “seventeen steel pins in my right leg and eight in my left. I can point them all out, if it’s helpful.”
“Not necessary.” The man with the metal detector ran it over my shoes. Apparently the nails were too small to register, or he had adjusted his equipment for them. Then he took my pants and searched them before giving them back.
“He’s clean,” he told Smith.
“Check the bag and the cane,” said Smith. He nodded to the goons, who released me. I had to lean against the wall to get my pants up. It hurt enough to make my eyes swim, but I kept my face calm and impassive.
“Mr. Geller,” said Smith. He tossed my billfold to me. “You have a most unusual way of making an entrance.”
“I realize that, sir.”
“You understand, we have to be careful about who we let in.”
“Of course.” I shuffled to the table, leaned on it heavily, and recovered my keys, cufflinks, and belt. Slowly I put everything back.
“His cane is fine,” said the man examining it. “So is his bag. Lots of money in it.”
“How much?” Smith asked.
“Want me to count it, sir?”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “It’s two hundred thousand even.”
Smith raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a lot to carry around. Not that I’m complaining, of course. Games always work in the house’s favor.”
“I didn’t come to gamble,” I said. “I came to meet with the person in charge. I assume that’s you.”
He inclined his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Yes.”
“So—” I smiled. Hopefully he would go for it. “How about a meeting?”
He studied me for a moment, undoubtedly trying to figure out my angle. Apparently he didn’t find me the least bit intimidating. I just wished I could remember where we had met.
Then, suddenly, it came back to me. At the Golden Nugget Casino in Atlantic City, right after they released me from rehab. I had braces on both legs and had to be helped onto my stool at the blackjack table by casino attendants. I was on pain killers, heavy ones, and I seemed to be viewing the world through a haze.
Smith had watched me play for half an hour, winning steadily. I had about forty thousand in chips in front of me when he approached, leaned forward, and whispered in my ear, “The house doesn’t mind regulars who win small amounts. It’s card-counters who try to take them for a fortune that gets the house upset.”
I had glanced at his nametag—“C. Tortelli”—as I nodded. “Thanks,” I said. Even through my painkiller haze, I understood.
Maybe it had been charity for a cripple. Maybe he had just been a good guy. But I took his suggestion.
The hospitals and doctors had sucked my insurance, then my savings dry at that point, and I needed money. A lot of it. And I needed a consistent source for more, too. If the casinos blacklisted me, I realized, I would never get back inside them.
I spent the next ten minutes losing steadily, like I’d had a run of luck that went sour. I left with twenty thousand instead of forty or fifty. And ever since, I kept my winnings to two thousand dollars, more or less, per casino per monthly visit. And so I managed to keep myself both afloat and under their radar.
All thanks to Mr. Smith here. Or “C. Tortelli,” as his nametag once said.
Now Smith/Tortelli said, “Very well. I’m intrigued, Mr. Geller. This way, please.”
* * * *
Two minutes later we sat in an office that might have belonged to any mid-level executive at any big corporation: heavy walnut desk, computer, pictures of wife and kids in silver frames, signed baseball on a little wooden stand. He even had an inbox and an outbox. Who knew organized crime had such amenities.
“Drink?” he asked.
“Water, please.”
He handed me a bottle of Poland Spring water from a tiny refrigerator in the corner, next to a small wet bar. I peeled the plastic wrapper off the spout and took a sip, spilling a little. My hands were shaking again.
“So,” he prompted, settling down behind his desk, “you say you’re not here to gamble.”
“That’s right.” Without preamble, I told him Davy Hunt’s blackmail story. “It occurred to me,” I said in conclusion, “that there are only three possibilities. One is that your little operation here is behind the blackmail scheme, and that you’re using the casino to set up unsuspecting men like David Hunt. In which case, I’ll just cut out the middleman and leave you the money now. Payment in full. Destroy the pictures and we’re done.”
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “What’s the second possibility?” he asked.
“That rogue members of your staff are doing it on the sly. In which case, you need to be informed so you can act to stop it. Or, if you prefer, cut yourself in on the action. Once you remove David Hunt, of course, from the target list.”
He nodded slowly. “And the third?”
“That you and your staff are unwitting victims. After all, your club’s reputation will be severely damaged if word gets out that members are being photographed and blackmailed. This is my personal suspicion, of course.”
“Of course.” He looked off into the distance thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you know who’s behind this blackmail plot.”
“Possibly.” I reached into my jacket pocket and fished out the clipped picture of mustache-man. “There are at least two people working the setup. One arranges the shots, the other snaps photos with one of those micro spy cameras.”
Smith took the picture. From the way his eyes widened slightly, I knew he recognized mustache-man. And he was trying hard not to show it.
“I’ve seen him,” he said slowly. “He comes in once or twice a week, and he drops a couple hundred each time. Not a big spender, but the sort of solid repeat customer we like.”
He put the clipped picture into his vest pocket instead of returning it. Then he rose.
“Thank you for coming to me,” he said. “I’ll handle things. You can tell Mr. Hunt that he won’t be bothered again.”
I nodded and rose. He did not offer to shake hands, nor did he