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“IMPOSSIBLE TO PUT DOWN . . . ENDLESS FUN . . .
SUCKER BET IS ITS OWN BEST PAYOUT.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“[Swain is] an entertaining writer whose breezy style and flair for wise-guy dialogue make the story zoom by.”
—The Boston Globe
“HITS THE JACKPOT . . . SUCKER BET IS A SURE THING.”
“WOW, WHAT A DISCOVERY!
James Swain is the best new writer I have come across in a long, long time. Sucker Bet is wonderful. It snaps with the gritty feel of the truth. Swain has carefully added all of the ingredients: tragedy, humor, action, and most of all, a cast of characters that would make Elmore Leonard’s mouth water.”
“Realistic, crisp dialogue spoken by three-dimensional characters . . . Swain moves Sucker Bet from the condos and hotels of Miami Beach to the suburbs of West Broward and the Everglades with a keen eye to the area.”
—Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“Sucker Bet is sheer magic. Fast and full or surprises, and rich with fascinating insider knowledge of casinos and gambling and world-class con men and bad guys of every denomination. James Swain is the real thing, a writer of pure, athletic prose, capable of bringing alive characters as original and three-dimensional as our best novelists. . . . Sign me up as a charter member of the Swain fan club.”—JAMES W. HALL
Author of Blackwater Sound
“Swain has come up with a doozy. . . . The gambling details are a treat [and] the banter is worthy of a place at Elmore Leonard’s table. . . . Swain’s ship just JUNE have come in.”
The Turn of a Card
The mark’s name was Nigel Moon. Jack Lightfoot recognized Moon the moment he stepped into the Micanopy Indian reservation casino. Back in the eighties, Moon had played drums for an English rock band called One-Eyed Pig, his ransacking of hotel rooms as well-publicized as his manic solos. Unlike the other band members, who’d fried their brains on drugs and booze, Moon had opened a chain of popular hamburger joints that now stretched across two continents. As Moon crossed the casino, Jack eyed the delicious redhead on his arm. She was a plant, or what his partner Rico called a raggle. “The raggle will convince Moon to come to your casino,” Rico had explained the day before, “and try his luck at blackjack. She’ll bring him to your table. The rest is up to you.” She looked familiar. Jack frequented Fort Lauderdale’s many adult clubs and often picked up free magazines filled with ads of local prostitutes. The raggle was a hooker named Candy Hart. Her ad said she was on call twenty-four hours a day, Visa and MasterCard accepted. “Good evening,” Jack said as they sat down at his empty table. Moon reeked of beer. He was pushing fifty, unshaven, his gray hair pulled back in a pigtail like a matador’s coleta. He removed a monster wad from his pocket and dropped it on the table. All hundreds. “Table limit is ten dollars,” Jack informed him. Moon made a face. Candy touched Moon’s arm. “You can’t bet more than ten dollars a hand,” she said sweetly. “All of the table games have limits.” Moon drew back in his chair. “Ten bloody dollars? What kindof toilet have you brought me to, my dear? I can get a game of dominos with a bunch of old Jews on Miami Beach with higher stakes than that.” Candy dug her fingernails into Moon’s arm. “You promised me, remember?” “I did?” “In the car.” Moon smiled wickedly. “Oh, yes. A moment of weakness, I suppose.” “Shhhh,” she said, glancing Jack’s way. Moon patted her hand reassuringly. “A promise is a promise.” Moon slid five hundred dollars Jack’s way. Jack cut up his chips. During a stretch in prison, Jack heard One-Eyed Pig’s music blasting through the cell block at all hours, and he knew many of the lyrics by heart. Jack slid the chips across the table. Moon put ten dollars into each of the seven betting circles on the felt. Jack played a two-deck game, handheld. He shuffled the cards and offered them to be cut. “Count them,” Moon said. “Excuse me?” Jack said. “I want you to count the cards,” Moon demanded. Jack brought the pit boss over, and Moon repeated himself again. “Okay,” the pit boss said. Jack started to count the cards onto the table. “Faceup,” Moon barked. “Excuse me?” Jack said. “You heard me.” Jack looked to the pit boss for help. “Okay,” the pit boss said. Jack turned the two decks faceup. Then he counted them on the table. “What are you doing?” Candy asked. “Making sure they’re all there,” Moon said, watching intently. “I ran up against a dealer in Puerto Rico playing with a short deck and lost my bloody shirt.” Jack finished counting. One hundred and four cards. Satisfied, Moon leaned back into his chair. “A short dick?” Candy said, giggling. “Short deck. It’s where the dealer purposely removes a number of high-valued cards. It gives the house an unbeatable edge.” “And you figured that out,” she said. “Yes, my dear, I figured it out.” Jack saw Candy’s hand slip beneath the table and into Moon’s lap. Moon’s face lit up like a lantern. “You’re so smart,” she cooed. Jack reshuffled the cards. For Moon to have figured out that a dealer was playing with a short deck meant that Moon was an experienced card-counter. Card-counters were instinctively observant, and Jack realized that he was going to have to be especially careful tonight, or risk blowing their scam before it ever got off the ground. He slid the two decks in front of Moon, who cut them with a plastic cut card. “Good luck,” Jack said. Then he started to deal.
Jack Lightfoot was not your typical card mechanic. Born on the Navajo Indian reservation in New Mexico, he’d been in trouble almost from the time he’d started walking. At seventeen, he’d gone to federal prison for a string of convenience store robberies and spent the next six years doing hard time. The prison was filled with gangs. Jack had gravitated to a Mexican gang and hung out in their cell block. The Mexicans were heavy gamblers and often played cards all day long. They liked different games—seven-card stud, Omaha, razzle-dazzle, Texas hold ’em. Each game had its subtleties, but the game Jack fell in love with was blackjack. And whenever it was Jack’s turn to deal, blackjack was the game he chose. Dealing blackjack gave Jack an edge over the other players. He’d worked it out and figured it was slightly less than 2 percent. It was offset by the fact that if he lost a round, he had to pay off the other players, and that could be devastating to his bankroll. But if he won, the other players had to pay him. Blackjack was the game with the greatest risk but also the greatest reward. One night, Jack had lain on his cot, thinking. He’d seen a lot of cheating among the Mexicans. They marked cards with shoe polish or palmed out a pair before a hand began. It occurred to him that if he was going to cheat, wouldn’t blackjack be the game to do it in? He thought about it for months. The Mexicans were suspicious guys, and manipulating the cards was out of the question. But instead of manipulating the cards, why not manipulate the other players into making bad decisions? Guys did it in poker all the time. It was called bluffing. Why not blackjack? One night, one of the Mexicans gave Jack a magic mushroom. Jack ate it, then went to bed. When he woke up a few hours later, he was screaming, his body temperature a hundred and six. While Jack was strapped to a bed in the prison infirmary for two days, his brain turned itself inside out. When he finally came out of it, a single thought filled his head. With the turn of a single card, he could change the odds at blackjack. With the turn of a single card, he could force other players into making bad decisions. With the turn of a single card, he could master a game that had no masters. One card, that was all it took. And all Jack had to do was turn it over. He howled so hard, they kept him strapped to the bed for an extra day.
Nigel Moon’s stack of chips soon resembled a small castle. A crowd of gaping tourists had assembled behind the table to watch the carnage. The Brit cast a disparaging look over his shoulder, like he was pissed off by all the attention. “You’ve got groupies,” Candy said. Moon’s eyes danced behind his sour expression. He sipped his martini, trying to act nonchalant. Candy stared at him dreamily. “Congratulations, sir,” Jack said, his lines committed to memory. “You just broke the house record.” Moon fished the olive out of his martini glass. “And what record is that, my good man?” “No one has ever won eighty-four hands before,” Jack informed him. The Brit sat up stiffly, basking in the moment. “Is that how many I’ve won?” “Eighty-four, yes, sir.” “And no one’s ever done that before.” “Not in a row, no, sir.” “So I’m the champ?” “Yes, sir, you’re the champ.” Moon snapped his fingers, and a cocktail waitress came scurrying over. “Drinks for everyone,” he said benevolently. The crowd gave him a round of applause. Candy brought her mouth up to Moon’s ear and whispered something dirty. Moon’s eyes danced with possibilities. Jack gathered up the cards. He’d dealt winning hands to players before, and the transformation was always fun to watch. Weak men turned brave, the shy outspoken. It changed them, and it changed how others saw them. And all because of the turn of a single card. “A question,” Moon said. Jack waited expectantly. “Is there a limit on tipping?” “Sir?” “I know there’s a limit on betting,” Moon said. “Is there a limit on tipping?” “Not that I’m aware of,” Jack said. Moon shoved half his winnings Jack’s way. Standing, he leaned over the table and breathed his martini onto Jack’s face. “Do something wicked tonight. On me.” “Yes, sir,” Jack replied. * * * Jack’s shift ended at midnight. He changed out of his dealer’s clothes into jeans and a sports shirt and drifted outside through the back door. Standing in the parking lot were his other dealer buddies. They were planning an excursion to the Cheetah in Fort Lauderdale to gape at naked college girls. Jack told them he had plans and begged off. His buddies got into their cars and left. Jack lit a cigarette. A full moon had cast a creamy patina across the macadam. The casino backed onto a lake, and across its surface floated a dozen pairs of greenish eyes. The Micanopy reservation was in the Everglades, and alligators were always hanging around, eyeing you like a meal. He smoked his cigarette down to a stub while thinking about the raggle. She had melted when Moon had started winning, and Jack had watched her leave the casino draped to his side. Was she falling for him? He sure hoped not. A black limo pulled into the lot. Behind the wheel sat Rico’s driver, a spooky Cuban guy named Splinters. The limo pulled up and the back door popped open. Rico Blanco sat in back, jabbering on his cell phone. Jack got in. “South Beach,” Rico told his driver. The limo glided out of the lot. Rico was a New Yorker and liked to boast that he was the only member of John Gotti’s crime family currently not in jail. Tonight he wore a designer tux with a red bow tie and looked like a million bucks. Rico put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “I hear you were a star tonight.” “Who told you that?” “Candy,” Rico said. “She called me a little while ago.” “It went great.” “Let me ask you something. You think she’s in love with him?” Jack nodded. “Damn hookers,” Rico said. “They smell money, their brains melt. Every time I use one, know what I tell them?” Jack had no idea what Rico told them. But Rico had a line for everybody, and if you hung around him long enough, you got to hear it. Jack opened the minibar and helped himself to a beer. “No, what do you tell them?” “I tell them, honey, you know it’s time to quit the business when you start coming with the customers. Think any of them listen?” “No,” Jack said. “Fucking-a they don’t,” Rico said. Taking his hand away from the mouthpiece, he said, “Yeah, Victor, I’m still here. No, Victor, I’m not driving while I’m talking on the phone; I’ve got someone to drive for me.” Rico looked at Jack and rolled his eyes. Victor was the senior partner in the operation and often treated Rico like a kid. “Yeah, Victor. I’ll see you tomorrow. Nine sharp. Brunch at the Breakers. Bye.” He killed the power. “So where were we?” “Hookers,” Jack said. “Speaking of which, I’ve got some girls lined up you’re going to love.” “They like Indians?” “They like who I tell them to like,” Rico said. He took a Heineken out of a holder and clinked it against Jack’s bottle. “To the best blackjack cheat in the world.” Only one road led back to civilization, and it was long and very dark. The limo jumped into the air as it hit a bump in the road, then bounced hard on the macadam. “What the hell you doing?” Rico yelled. “Sorry,” Splinters said, not sounding sorry at all. Jack looked at his shirt. Beer had jumped out of the bottle and soaked it. He swore under his breath. Rico laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. “Jack’s all wet,” Rico said with mock indignation. “Apologize.” “Sorry,” Splinters said. Jack swallowed hard. “No problem.” “You got a towel up there?” Rico said. “I got some on me, too, for Christ’s sake.” A handkerchief flew into the backseat. Rico plucked it out of the air and balled it up. He pressed it against the wet spot on his knee, then leaned forward and pressed the handkerchief against Jack’s shirt. Jack pulled back, and Rico’s eyes grew wide. Then his hand turned into a rock-hard fist. “You fucking bastard!” Rico roared.
At seven the next morning, Chief Running Bear, leader of the Micanopy nation, sat in his double-wide trailer a hundred yards behind the casino, staring at a pair of identical TV sets. Two hours earlier, a phone call had awoken him from a deep sleep, and now he rubbed his eyes tiredly while staring at the dueling images. On one TV, a casino surveillance film showed an employee named Jack Lightfoot dealing blackjack. A player at Lightfoot’s table had won eighty-four hands in a row, a feat that Running Bear knew was statistically impossible. The player had never touched the cards, ruling out sleight of hand. There was only one logical explanation: Lightfoot had rigged the game. On the other TV, a second surveillance film showed Lightfoot standing in the casino parking lot, smoking a cigarette. Before running the tapes, Running Bear had gone through Lightfoot’s personnel file. He was a Navajo and had come to work for the Micanopys with a glowing reference from Bill Higgins, another Navajo, who happened to run the Nevada Gaming Control Board. Indians did not lie to other Indians, and Running Bear could remember Higgins’s words as if it were yesterday. “Jack won’t let you down,” Higgins had said. Running Bear shook his head. Jack Lightfoot had let him down. He was a cheat, and a damn good one. Bill Higgins had once bragged to Running Bear that he knew every goddamned cheater in the country. So why hadn’t he known about this one? On the second TV a stretch limo appeared. Running Bear leaned forward to stare. The passenger door opened. Sitting in back was an Italian with wavy hair and a mustache. Running Bear found most white men identical, their faces as bland as pudding. Italians were particularly annoying. The men all wore mustaches, or snot-catchers as Indians called them. This one looked like a gangster. Running Bear stopped the tapes. Sipping his coffee, he listened to the air conditioner outside his window. His casino had been ripped off by a dealer recommended by the most respected gaming official in the country. And that dealer was working with a mobster. It doesn’t get any worse than this, he thought. The door opened. The casino’s head of security, Harry Smooth Stone, stepped in. He was out of breath. “More problems,” Smooth Stone said. Running Bear pushed himself out of his chair. Thirty years wrestling alligators had put arthritis in every joint in his body, and he grimaced as his bones sang their painful song. Had he disgraced a dead ancestor recently and not realized it? There had to be some reason for this sudden spate of bad luck. They drove Smooth Stone’s Jeep across the casino parking lot. Jumping a concrete median, they went down a narrow dirt road through thick mangroves that led into the heart of the Everglades. For centuries, the Micanopys had lived in harmony with the alligators, panthers, and bears that called this land home, and had been rewarded in ways that few humans could appreciate. Ten minutes later, Smooth Stone pulled into a clearing and parked beside a large pool of water. Running Bear knew the spot well; in the spring, alligators came here to mate and, later, raise their young. A half-dozen tribe members with fishing poles stood by the water’s edge, looking scared. Running Bear got out of the Jeep. The men stepped aside, revealing a body lying facedown in the water. It was a man, and he’d been shot once in the head. His left forearm had been chewed off, as had both his feet. Someone had hooked him by the collar. Running Bear said, “Flip him over.” The men obeyed. The dead man was covered with mud, and one of the men filled a bucket out of the lake and dumped it on his face. Running Bear knelt down, just to be sure.
Back in his trailer, Running Bear thumbed through the stack of business cards he kept in his desk. He had decided to dump Jack Lightfoot’s body in nearby Broward County—the men in the limo had been white, so let white men deal with the crime—and Smooth Stone was on the phone making arrangements. “Done,” his head of security said, hanging up. Running Bear found the card he was looking for and handed it to Smooth Stone. “Call this guy and hire him. Tell him everything, except our finding the body.” Smooth Stone stared at the card in his hand. Grift Sense International Gaming Consultant Tony Valentine, President (727) 591-5115 “He catches people who cheat casinos,” Running Bear explained. “You think he can help us?” Running Bear heard the suspicion in Smooth Stone’s voice. Bringing in an outsider was a risk, but it was a chance he had to take. Jack Lightfoot had cheated them. If word got out that his dealers were crooked, their business would dry up overnight. The casino was the reservation’s main revenue source: It paid for health care, education, and a three-thousand-dollar monthly stipend to every adult. If it fell, so did his people. “I heard him lecture at a gambling seminar,” Running Bear said. “Any good?” Running Bear nodded. He’d learned more about cheating listening to Tony Valentine for a few hours than he’d learned running a casino for ten years. “The best,” he said.
From the Hardcover edition.
Posted July 27, 2012
Posted April 4, 2004
It is hard to believe how unremitingly bad this book is. The author gets it all wrong from the start with cartoonish characters, a thin plot and one silly situation after another. Every minor detail is wrong from the college basketball game having four quarters to the incorrect discussion of blackjack - hard to believe with the ease of researching over the webt. This thrown together book must not have had an editor. The injected quirkiness always rings falsely and makes it clear the author is attempting to rip-off Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiiasen to pick up their fans. A suggest Mr Swain try writing with his own voice as that could not possibly be worse than what he did here.
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Posted December 9, 2008
On the Micanopy Indian Reservation in the Florida Everglades, Nigel Moon, a former drummer for an English rock band, won eighty-four hands of blackjack in a row. The dealer, Jack Lightfoot, did it on purpose at the instructions of his partner Rico Blanco who intends to run a scam using Moon¿s money. The chief of the tribe Running Bear is watching the security tapes but can¿t see how this scam went down so in desperation he calls in a consultant. Tony Valentine, founder and president of Grift Sense, finds the cheaters who try to rip off the casinos. He has a lot of experience doing that because he used to work as a police officer in Atlantic City when gambling was first legalized there. When he arrives on the reservation he figures out how the scam was run but a quick job soon gets very complicated as he becomes involved in tribunal justice and stopping Rico¿s scam. Along the way, he wrestles alligators, gets shot at and is almost killed by an out-of-control Rico, owing his life to a super intelligent monkey. If this book sounds a bit crazy, that is because it is a typical James Swain gritty yet humorous wild tale that also educates the readers in the ways a con artist can rip off a casino. The protagonist is a sixty-something year old honorable man who always stays true to his principles and values even if it makes him seem rigid to all the lesser mortals. SUCKER BET is a sure bet. Harriet KlausnerWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 4, 2011
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Posted November 24, 2008
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Posted May 14, 2010
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Posted July 25, 2011
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