Grift Sense (Tony Valentine Series #1)

( 11 )

Overview

Amidst the neon and the big special ugly of Las Vegas, mild-mannered Frank Fontaine is beating the brains out of the Acropolis Casino. The house cops think the dealer, a blonde named Nola, is part of the con, but no one can prove a thing. For Tony Valentine, it’s the first new scam he’s seen in decades—and maybe the best. Three things Tony knows: The blonde is guilty, the grifter has lived a former life, and the biggest scam is the one that hasn’t happened yet.

In a dream world ...

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Overview

Amidst the neon and the big special ugly of Las Vegas, mild-mannered Frank Fontaine is beating the brains out of the Acropolis Casino. The house cops think the dealer, a blonde named Nola, is part of the con, but no one can prove a thing. For Tony Valentine, it’s the first new scam he’s seen in decades—and maybe the best. Three things Tony knows: The blonde is guilty, the grifter has lived a former life, and the biggest scam is the one that hasn’t happened yet.

In a dream world of fake Greek statues, statuesque hostesses, and a casino owner whose sex life might just burn down his own house, Tony Valentine is plying his special trade. While some people have a sixth sense, Tony has a grift sense—and he needs it now to separate a grifter from a scam that’s worse than anyone’s wildest dreams. . . .

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“A WELL–PLOTTED DEBUT MYSTERY THAT PAYS OFF HANDSOMELY. . . . Grift Sense delivers a vivid and credible look at the gaming industry through eccentric yet believable characters.”
Chicago Tribune

“In Tony Valentine, Swain has created a classic detective who will have a long career as a series hero.”
The Flint Journal

“A TERRIFIC COMING-OUT ROLL . . . FEATURING LEAN PROSE . . . AND AN ACTION-FUELED PLOT.”
St. Petersburg Times

The New York Times
A flashy, funny novel about a cool scam … Swain knows how to misdirect the eye during the deal.
The Chicago Tribune
Delivers a vivid and credible look at the gaming industry through eccentric, yet quite believable characters. Valentine is a refreshing departure — a retiree who is even sharper in his golden years &38230; Grift Sense also delivers a slam-bang ending with a touch of dark humor that would be at home in an Elmore Leonard novel.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Billed as one of the best card-handlers in the world, Swain packs this first novel with enough tidbits on the art to back up the claim. Combine that insider's knowledge with clean writing and a reasonable con, and the result is a fun read la Elmore Leonard. A grifter named Frank Fontaine strolls into a faded Las Vegas joint, the Acropolis Resort & Casino, and cleans up at a blackjack table. Though the dealer at the table, Nola Briggs, has a spotless record, it seems impossible that Fontaine could have pulled it off alone. The club's owner, Nick Nicocropolis, calls in consultant Tony Valentine, a retired cop from Atlantic City who's an expert on casino scams. Tony is puzzled by this one: he watches the surveillance tape repeatedly, but he can't figure out how Fontaine is doing it. Even more mysterious to Tony is that Fontaine obviously enjoys the attention he attracts. Good hustlers like to rake in their chips as inconspicuously as possible; it's the only way they can continue to work. Tony heads for Vegas, where he meets up with a group of near-stereotypes who are saved from that fate by some nice details. The plot unfolds, and our hero is properly modest and clever. Quirkiness is occasionally forced and names are singularly unimaginative. The domestic scenes in the book, with Tony's neighbor Mabel or his son Gerry, are a little stilted and unconvincing, but the heart of the book lies in the dubious charms of a second-rate Las Vegas casino, and there the author does a terrific job. Agent, Jennifer Hengen at Sterling Lord. (June 12) Forecast: As Ricky Jay and David Mamet (in House of Games) have shown, this kind of authentic picture of con men and card tricks has wide appeal. Targeted hand-selling could reach beyond the mystery market. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Tony Valentine, a retired cop, works as a consultant to gambling casinos when they need professional cheaters investigated. After the latest hustler hits a second-rate Las Vegas casino three times but escapes, a female dealer is accused of collusion. Called in to identify the hustler, Valentine finally comes up with a name a consummate but recently murdered crook named Sonny Fontana. Can the dead return to hustle again? Is the dealer as innocent as she appears? And will Valentine reconcile with his ne'er-do-well, gambling son? Find out in this well-crafted, dryly humorous, and highly enjoyable series debut. For all collections. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
The high rollers at the Acropolis Casino are supposed to lose money, but Frank Fontaine knows entirely too much about when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. So the powers that be call on Tony Valentine, a widowed Atlantic City cop retired to Florida who makes good money studying surveillance tapes. Tony can't see a thing either Fontaine or his dealer, Nola Briggs, is doing that looks suspicious. But convinced there's a scam going on—and eager at any rate to avoid a threatened visit from his no-goodnik son—he agrees to come out to Las Vegas and help owner Nick Nicocropolis answer some tough questions. Who is this Frank Fontaine, and is Nola helping him bilk her boss (who turns out to be her ex-lover)? Out of all the casinos on the Strip, why has Fontaine picked the faded Acropolis to bilk out of $50,000, and what tricks does he still have up his sleeve? It's hard to concentrate on questions like these, though, when Swain has buried them deep in a knowing, lively plot surrounded by a kidnapping, a return from the dead, a promise of May-December romance, as many curves as a Vegas showgirl, and a shower of what even the hard-bitten gambling professionals in his cast describe as epiphanies. Even though the plot takes Tony to Vegas, its fast pace, zany humor, and genuine warmth recall the South Florida school of Elmore Leonard, Carl Hiaassen, and Laurence Shames. Magician/card-handler Swain beats the odds on his very first spin of the wheel.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345463838
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 4/1/2003
  • Series: Tony Valentine Series, #1
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 336
  • Sales rank: 320,338
  • Product dimensions: 4.26 (w) x 6.85 (h) x 0.82 (d)

Meet the Author

James Swain

James Swain, a gambling expert, is the author of Grift Sense, Funny Money, and Sucker Bet. Swain is considered one of the best card handlers in the world. He lives in Odessa, Florida, where he is currently working on his fourth mystery featuring Tony Valentine. Visit his Web site at www.jimswain.com.

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Read an Excerpt

Everybody cheated, at least everybody Tony Valentine had ever known. They cheated on their income taxes, on their spouses, on the phone and cable company, and if they had balls, in a Friday-night poker game or on the golf course. Everybody did it at least once; it was human nature, and a forgivable sin. But those who developed a taste for it, they were the problem.

And there were a lot of them. The number of professional con artists and hustlers working in the United States was at epidemic levels, and legalized gambling was to blame. With thirty-eight states having legalized wagering in one form or another, cheating was as rampant as it was during the early days of the Wild West. There was no lottery that could not be scammed, no slot or video poker machine that couldn't be rigged, no casino dealer who couldn't be compromised. The cheaters made sure of that; they were human scum, lower than any common thief or hoodlum, and Valentine had never regretted putting a single one behind bars until one fateful August day that made him think twice about the work that he did.

The day had started routinely enough. Up at eight, he'd eaten a bowl of Special K while reading the box scores; taken the usual shit, shower, shave; then hit the front porch of his Palm Harbor home with his second cup of joe. Sitting in a rocker beneath the cool breeze of an overhead fan, he supposed he looked like every other retired fart in his neighborhood, the only difference being that he was far from retired.

"You're late," he groused to the FedEx driver at nine-thirty. Taking the clipboard from the driver's outstretched hand, he hastily scribbled his name.

"Got stuck behind a funeral procession," the freckle-faced driver explained, exchanging the clipboard for a padded envelope. "It's that time of year. Got to run. Stay healthy, Mr. Valentine."

Valentine froze in the doorway as the orange, white, and purple van sped away. What was the driver insinuating—that old people died in bunches like leaves falling off a tree? Florida, he'd discovered on retirement, had two things in great abundance: nice weather and lots of mighty stupid people.

The envelope was from the Acropolis Resort & Casino in Las Vegas, and he tore it open, remembering his chat the day before with a moronic pit boss named Wily. A player had taken the Acropolis for fifty grand and Wily had begged Valentine to look at the surveillance tape to see if the guy was cheating. He'd sounded desperate, so Valentine had said yes.

The envelope held a video cassette, a check, and a note. Most pit bosses had never graduated high school, and Wily's scrawl was barely legible. From what Valentine could decipher, Wily thought the dealer was involved. Pit bosses always thought that, and he tossed the note into the trash.

Popping the video into the VCR, Valentine settled into his La-Z-Boy. Black-and-white images materialized on his thirty-six-inch Sony. A fuzzy young lady was dealing blackjack to an equally fuzzy man. The Acropolis was one of the oldest joints in Las Vegas and needed to get some updated surveillance equipment or risk losing its license. He fiddled with the tint control and the picture gradually took shape.

Watching surveillance videos was a unique experience. The cameras filtered twice as much light as the human eye, and as a result hairpieces looked like rugs, cheap suits took on zebra stripes, and women wearing red dresses became naked. It was like entering the Twilight Zone.

Soon Valentine found himself yawning. Normally, the tapes he viewed were action-packed and filled with plenty of people. That was how most casino scams worked, with someone causing a distraction while three or four members of a "mob" did the dirty work. This tape was different. One guy, playing alone at a blackjack table, was winning hand after hand. Valentine studied his play, then the sweet-looking blonde doing the dealing. Everything looked legit, except how the guy seemed to know exactly when to take a hit and when to stand.

Twenty minutes later, Valentine still had no idea what was going on. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought someone was putting him on. No one on the planet is that good. Stopping the VCR, he retrieved Wily's note from the trash. The pit boss had written Dealer flashing? and underlined it. Valentine knew when a dealer was flashing her hole card to a player, and the blonde on the video wasn't doing it. Wily was dead wrong.

But that didn't mean something crooked wasn't going down. The guy on the video was winning way too much. Grabbing a pad and pencil from his desk, Valentine knelt on the floor so he was a foot from his TV, then hit Start on the VCR.

"Okay, mister," he said as the tape started to roll, "let's see what you've got."

The guy had plenty—so much so that Valentine soon nicknamed him Slick.

For sixty minutes, he kept a record of Slick's play, noting every time he won, lost, or played to a draw with the house. Slick's strategy was erratic, at times plain dumb, yet he won way more than average. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was, how much over average? A few percentage points could be attributed to luck; anything over that meant darker forces were at work.

When Slick had played one hundred hands, Valentine added up the X's beneath his three columns: fifty-eight hands won, thirty lost, twelve tied. Nearly a two-thirds winning percentage. That was unreal.

He went to his desk and booted up his PC. It was time to do the math. A program called Blackjack Master filled the blue screen. Blackjack Master simulated the game of blackjack with any strategy a person chose to play. Once the strategy was entered, the program would play it for one million hands, then spit out the odds. Several updated versions had come out over the years, but Valentine had stayed loyal to the original. So what if it was slow? It got the job done, and that was all he wanted from a computer.

Slick liked to hit on seventeens when the dealer was showing a ten, and Valentine decided to run it as a separate strategy, just to see where it got him.

Blackjack Master Simulation

A. Set number of hands (1,000,000)

B. Clear statistics

C. Fix player total (17)

D. Fix player's first card (10)

E. Fix dealer up card (10)

F. Begin/continue simulation

G. Display statistics by hand type

H. Display statistics by adjusted count

I. Display card deal statistics

J. Print statistics

K. Write statistics to disk

L. Simulation log file

M. Return to first menu

Done, he hit Enter, then listened to his hard drive whir. A minute later, Blackjack Master made its opinion known.

Hands: 1,000,000

Shuffles: 148,400

Wins: 213,600

Losses: 753,330

Net chips: -43,770.0

Expected return: -0.7672

It was a bad strategy, producing worse odds than if Slick had stayed pat, and not drawn a card. His eyes shifted to the numbers on his pad. According to his less-than-scientific calculations, Slick had won seventy percent of his hands in this situation.

Unreal.

The other strategies played out the same. Blackjack Master gave them the thumbs-down, yet Slick managed an impossibly high winning percentage. You had to be smoking something to believe that a player could maintain these percentages over the course of several hours' play. Which meant Wily was right about one thing. Slick was definitely cheating. The question was, how?

Valentine ate lunch the same time every day, standing over the kitchen sink wolfing down a sandwich while gazing at his postage stamp of a backyard. Sometimes he listened to the radio, big bands on 106.3, but not often.

Tony, he could hear his wife say, sit down. It's bad for your digestion to stand while you eat.

Old habits die hard, he'd say. You walk a beat, certain things stay with you.

You haven't walked a beat since being promoted to detective, she'd reply, the lines coming out like a Honeymooners skit. That was twenty-five years ago.

Twenty-five years? he'd exclaim, shaking his head in wonder. God, it feels like yesterday.

He sipped a Diet Coke while thinking about his conversation with Wily. The pit boss had called Slick a nut; now he knew why. Slick hadn't just cheated the Acropolis, he'd rubbed everyone's face in it. No hustler with half an ounce of common sense ever did that. It just wasn't healthy.

But there was another dynamic that was equally disturbing. Even if Wily didn't know what Slick was doing, he still should have barred him once his winnings started to mount. Nevada casinos were private clubs that reserved the right to prohibit anyone from playing. It wasn't commonly done, but this would have been a smart time to exercise the option.

Only Wily hadn't. He'd let the casino's losses get out of hand, which meant either he was a total jackass or he thought Slick was on a lucky streak that would eventually run its course, and the Acropolis would win its money back.

Suddenly the soda didn't taste so good. Something was wrong with this picture. Then it hit him like an anvil: Professional hustlers were like nuns when it came to exposing themselves. Slick had broken a cardinal rule of his own profession.

Why?

Mabel Struck materialized on his back stoop, looking tropically resplendent in her orange polyester slacks and high-wattage parrot shirt. Seeing the Tupperware container between her liver-spotted hands, Valentine realized that, bless her heart, she'd brought him dinner.

"Anybody home?" she said, nose pressed to the glass. "Hey, Tony, I can see the TV on. You sleeping on the job again? Wake up, sonny boy."

He unlocked the back door. "Come on in, Mabel."

"Don't tell me you were standing there the whole time," she said, entering his kitchen.

"Afraid I was."

"I can't see a thing without my glasses anymore," she said, jabbing him in the gut with the container. "You know, this old-age thing really sucks."

"It beats the alternative. I was just having lunch. Want a ham-and-Swiss?"

"No thanks. You sound stressed." Fishing her glasses from her pocket, Mabel fitted them on her nose and gave him the once-over. "You look stressed. You feeling okay, young man?"

"Great," he said without enthusiasm. After Lois had passed away, Mabel had started leaving hot meals on his doorstep, country-fried steak and mashed potatoes or fried chicken and cornbread. It was food for the soul, and he'd eaten every bite, even when he'd had no appetite. He took the container and put it on the top shelf of his refrigerator. It was heavy. He said, "Lasagna? You shouldn't have."

"It's no bother, really. What's eating you?"

"I'm having a problem figuring something out."

"Can I help?"

"Sure. Have a seat while I finish lunch."

Mabel took her usual spot at the kitchen table. A sixty-four-year-old retired AT&T operator from Cincinnati, she'd raised two children by herself and had come to Florida when they'd tried to move back in. She despised retirement and had embarked on a new career that brought her a surprising amount of notoriety.

"Know anything about blackjack?" he inquired.

"Not really. But I used to play bridge."

"Competitively?"

"Yes, tournament level."

"Ever catch an opponent signaling cards to a partner?"

"Well, now that you mention it, yes. Back in 1968 in a tournament in Boise, I saw Ethel Bell signal her husband that she had five trump cards. I called the referee immediately."

"That's enough qualification for me," Valentine said. "I'd like you to look at a videotape a casino sent me."

"Sure," Mabel said, "but before we do that, I want you to critique my newest ad. I think it's ready."

From her purse Mabel removed a piece of manila stationery and slid it across the table. Her anonymous classifieds had been running in the St. Petersburg Times for over a year and had turned her into a minor celebrity. Newspaper editorials now quoted her witticisms and local politicos used her jokes in their long-winded speeches. She had become a voice, a responsibility she did not take lightly.

"Be honest," she told him.

Depressed, overweight, domineering older woman, slight drinking problem, hyper, on food stamps and oxygen. Would like to meet a cute young professional man with big abs and a foreign sports car, low mileage. Please send current resume, blood test results, and nude photo for a platonic relationship.

"Haw, haw, haw," Valentine brayed, holding his sides. To think that his sweet-faced neighbor possessed this kind of wit was beyond him.

"You like it," she said.

"You've outdone yourself."

She produced another sheet. "This one, too. Be truthful."

"Two? You're going to run two ads in one day? I don't think the locals are ready for this, Mabel."

"Stop acting retarded. Just read it."

"Yes, ma'am."

Tired of phone sex, sweet boys? Call Grandma Mabel and I will tell you about my arthritis, my bills, how people are better drivers up north, how hard it is to live on a fixed income, my ex-husband, grandkids, last operation for gallstones, and lots more. No crackpots, please.

"You're killing me," he said, swiping at his eyes. "This is a classic."

"You really think so?"

"You're taking practical jokes to a new level."

"I want to leave something behind," she said, deadpan.

"You sure you want to use your real name?"

"I could use some groupies. But enough about me. Tell me all about your problem. Maybe Grandma Mabel can help."

"Maybe you can," he said.

Mabel was one of the best judges of character Valentine had ever known, her instincts honed from years of talking to strangers on the phone. He escorted her into the living room and helped her get settled, then started the VCR and knelt beside her.

"Something unusual's going on here," he explained. "The guy on this tape is cheating, and the people who've hired me think the dealer may be helping him. Tell me what you think."

Mabel pulled her chair up within a few feet of the TV and stared at the screen for several minutes, then cleared her throat. "Well, she's definitely interested in him."

"Define interested."

"You sound just like a cop when you talk like that."

"Excuse me. Please—define interested."

"As in she likes him. Would like to know him better."

Valentine was surprised. If anything, the dealer seemed to be holding back. It was too bad the tapes didn't come with sound; if he could just hear them talking, he might get a better feeling for what had gone down.

"She seems pretty reserved, if you ask me," he remarked.

"Oh, Tony. Sometimes you act like you just crawled out of a cave. Any woman with an ounce of class acts reserved when she's around men. Women show their interest in the opposite sex in little ways. Take this young lady. She's interested; you can see it when she makes eye contact. And when she smiles. You can definitely see it in her smile."

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Table of Contents

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First Chapter

Chapter One: Fifteen Minutes of Fame

It was February, cold, and Al "Little Hands" Scarpi was pumping iron outside his double-wide on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Raising the bar over his head, he watched a ponytailed kid on a Harley roar up in a swirl of dust. Parting his leather jacket, the kid removed an airline ticket and spun it like a Frisbee, nailing Little Hands squarely in the chest.

"How much you bench?" the kid wanted to know.

"Five hundred, sometimes more," Little Hands said, wiping his sweaty face with a stained towel. "You lift?"

The kid laughed and revved his hog, as if that was all the muscle he needed.

"You on 'roids or something?" the kid asked.

"Steroids are for pussies," Little Hands said.

The kid left and Little Hands went inside his trailer. The ticket was for a noon Nevada Air puddle-jumper to Reno, the return for later that night. Printed on the sleeve was the confirmation number of a Hertz rental, a four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee. Printed beneath that were cryptic instructions. Cal-Neva Lodge — ask for Benny.

Inside the sleeve was money, five grand in thousand-dollar bills. Little Hands clutched it while thinking about the flight his employer had booked him on. It would be filled with businessmen. Then he imagined himself standing on line at the Hertz counter. More businessmen. Shredding the plane ticket, he went outside and tossed the pieces into the wind.


The drive to Reno took eight hours, another hour to navigate the treacherous mountain roads to Lake Tahoe. A light snow had dusted the highway, and he did thirty most of the way. It was a different world up here, the air thin and difficult to breathe, and a pounding headache soon filled his skull.

The Cal-Neva Lodge straddled the state line, which was how it got its name. It was dark when Little Hands parked at a casino called Lucky Lil's, then jogged down the road to his destination, his broad muscular back lit up by oncoming headlights.

He entered the Cal-Neva to the happy sounds of a slot machine paying a jackpot. At the front desk, he learned Benny was on break. Going outside, he found his contact having a smoke by the tennis courts. To his surprise, Benny was a she.

"My mother wanted a boy," Benny explained, blowing a smoke ring that hung eerily in the frigid air. "Ain't you cold?"

Little Hands shook his head no.

"Guess all that muscle keeps you real toasty, huh?"

Benny winked, coming on to him, and Little Hands got up close and breathed in her face. She swallowed hard. "Hey, I was just kidding, okay? Don't act so crazy. If you don't know it, this job is going to make you famous."

"Quit blowing me," he said.

"The guy in Bungalow ten — the guy you're going to whack. You know who he is?"

When Little Hands said no, Benny smartly said, "It's Sonny Fontana, that's who, big boy."

Little Hands didn't believe her. Sonny Fontana was the poster boy of professional hustlers and forever banned from stepping foot in Nevada. He'd ripped off every major casino and never done time. The notion that he'd be hiding out in this crummy dump was too much for Little Hands to swallow. Sonny Fontana, his ass.

Sensing his doubts, Benny said, "Don't you get it? The bungalows are technically in California. Nobody can touch Fontana as long as he doesn't cross the state line." Producing a newspaper from her pocket, she said, "See for yourself."

Little Hands held the paper up to the moonlight. It was a photograph of Sonny Fontana taken outside a federal courthouse in Carson City several years ago. Jet-black hair, bushy eyebrows, big Roman nose. A real street guinea.

"You positive this guy's in Bungalow ten?"

"Sure am." Benny stamped out her butt. "Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame."

"Right," he grunted.

Beneath a smiling half-moon, Little Hands crossed the grounds. Bungalow ten was surrounded by fir trees. He stuck his face in a side window. A guy in his birthday suit stood inside a tiny kitchenette. Loud music was playing on the radio and an open pizza box sat on the kitchen table. In profile, the guy looked like Fontana, but so did a lot of guys. He took a bottle of vodka from the freezer and left the room.

Circling the bungalow, Little Hands found a rear window with light streaming out and resumed watching. Inside, a woman with a shaved crotch sat upright on a four-poster bed while the naked guy refilled her tumbler. Licking her lips, the woman said, "Okay Sonny, let's see if you've got any more bullets in that thing."

Little Hands gripped the windowsill. So it really was him. He'd always dreamed of whacking a big shot and making a name for himself. He watched Fontana mount the woman from behind. They went at it like a couple of porno stars. Just as he was about to climax, Fontana grabbed a cream-colored Stetson off a poster and stuck it on his head. Slapping the woman's buttocks, he said, "Let's cross the finish line together, honey!"

Little Hands backed away from the window. Standing in the lonely gathering of trees, he fought back the urge to cry. At the tender age of six, he'd caught his mother screwing a fireman wearing a red helmet. His mother had picked the fireman up in a bar where he'd come after battling a four-alarm blaze. Seeing her son's stricken face, his mother had burst into tears; the fireman just kept screwing. With his little hands, Little Hands had beaten on the fireman, to no avail.

Little Hands went around to the front of the bungalow. He'd thought about the fireman every day since. And his red hat. Like his mother wasn't worth hanging around for. The anger had been building inside of him for a long time.

He knocked on the front door. From within, he heard feet shuffling. A light on the porch came on. He could feel someone watching him through the peephole.

"Hotel security," he said.

The door opened and Fontana stuck his head out. He still wore the Stetson, only now it was perched rakishly to one side. Reeking of vodka, he said, "Yeah, what's the problem?"

Little Hands stared at him, just to be sure. It was the

same guy from the newspaper article; there was no doubt in his mind. He'd killed many men in his life, but this one was going to be special. Grabbing Fontana by the throat, Little Hands closed the door on his head.

"This is for Mom," he said.

Copyright © 2001 by James Swain

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Interviews & Essays

Exclusive Author Essay
Like many young boys, I became interested in magic at an early age. Card tricks particularly fascinated me. I read dozens of books on sleight-of-hand and practiced diligently every day.

For my 14th birthday, my brother Tom gave me a present that changed my life -- lessons with Derek Dingle, a famous magician. In the basement of the Lambs Club in New York -- a hangout for Broadway actors and entertainers -- there were several card tables, and it was here that Derek taught me how to manipulate playing cards.

I continued to perform magic throughout college, and after graduating I had to make a decision. Should I become a professional magician or take a real job? Technically, I chose the latter -- I entered magazine publishing -- but I kept my hand in magic by publishing card tricks in magic journals. I now have more than 100 of these in print, plus three books of magic and an instructional three-part video series.

The experience that led to Grift Sense happened 14 years ago. While playing blackjack at the Golden Nugget casino in Las Vegas, I saw another player -- who was holding a handful of bills -- pick up his hand, then throw it down, switching his cards for a pair secretly held beneath the bills. This switch netted him $1,000. What astonished me most was that neither the dealer nor the pit boss spotted it.

Later, I discussed the incident with the Golden Nugget's resident magician, Mike Skinner. "That's nothing," he said. "Only last week the Nugget lost $175,000 to a gang of cheaters!"

Skinner then explained how the gang had boldly switched a six-deck blackjack shoe off a table during a dealer shift change. Upon uncovering the scam, the Nugget proceeded to chain all the blackjack shoes to the tables.

I immediately became obsessed with casino cheating. A casino hustler (or "cross-roader") must have technique so perfect that it not only fools casino security but also the eye-in-the-sky. Through my contacts in the magic world, I met and became friends with as many security people, gamblers, and ex-hustlers as I could.

Over time, I became something of an expert on cross-roaders. Their profile is different from other criminals: They tend to hold down normal jobs, they're educated, and they rarely have criminal records. Even more fascinating to me were the law enforcement and security people who catch cross-roaders. These folks -- whom I have labeled "grifter-catchers" -- can see through any hustle and are impossible to fool. Tony Valentine, my main character, is the ultimate grifter-catcher. He is introduced in Grift Sense, which is the first of three Valentine novels so far contracted for by Pocket Books. It is Valentine's innate ability to smell a scam that makes him the best at what he does. Through his eyes, readers will be exposed to a world that fascinates many but is truly known by only a few. (James Swain)

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Sort by: Showing all of 11 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 28, 2012

    excellent read!

    I love James Swain style. The setting is in a casino in Vegas and I am not even a gambler he weaves a mystery anyone could enjoy.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 4, 2012

    Good Read

    For a first book this was good, but have read some of his later books and more impressed with those.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 3, 2001

    Excellant Book

    This is one of the best books that I have had the opportunity to read this summer. Hope the author makes it into a series. Keep up the good work. but please leave Mabel and Gerry out of your next book !

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    exciting, very entertaining, and quite unique mystery

    In 1998, Acropolis Resort and Casino pit boss Wily hires former cop Tony Valentine to review the tape of a man winning $50,000 at black jack. Wily is positive the man cheated perhaps with the help of his dealer Nola Briggs. While watching the tape, Tony calculates that Frank wins 65-70% of the time regardless of what is dealt. Using the Blackjack Master Program to find trends, Tony learns that a high amount of the winnings defy the odds which are typically less than twenty-five percent with the hands Fran consistently wins with. Though Tony sees Nola enjoys Frank¿s flirting, he cannot figure out how he or they are cheating. <P>Frank seemingly vanishes, but hotel security boss Sammy had Nola arrested for cheating with a player. Since the Gaming Control Board believes the casino has no case, Wily pleads with Tony to come to Vegas to help them convict Nola. Selecting the lesser of two evils, Tony agrees to come to Vegas in August when he learns his estrange son is flying from New York to reconcile with him in his home in Palm Harbor, Florida. However, once on site investigating the case, Tony will learn that even his slimy son would have been a better choice. <P> GRIFT SENSE is an exciting, very entertaining, and quite unique mystery. The story line is fun as a different side of Las Vegas surfaces. Tony is a great sleuth and the support cast namely his neighbor and those at the casino augment the tale with depth. The odds are very heavy that those readers who enjoy a different type of mystery will want to read James Swain¿s interesting novel. <P>Harriet Klausner

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    Posted March 14, 2009

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    Posted November 12, 2008

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    Posted June 23, 2013

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    Posted January 9, 2011

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    Posted September 26, 2010

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