Authors: James Swain
18
S
uckers made the gambling world go round.
They came from all walks of life. Some were smart, while others had not graduated high school. Some were wealthy, some poor. What they shared in common was a complete misunderstanding of the law of averages, and an unflappable belief in the laws of chance. Chance, suckers believed, was the god of gambling, and if they were in the right place at the right time, Chance would smile down on them, and they’d win.
Suckers made up 99 percent of the people who gambled. Each year, they invested billions of dollars in the lottery and at casinos, and had nothing to show for it. They also kept dog and horse tracks alive, and paid for thousands of bookies to run their businesses. They were the bottom line of every gambling operation’s financial success.
And suckers were dependable. Even though they rarely won, they never stopped gambling, spurned on by the manufactured thrill that came from placing a wager. When they
did
win, they poured their winnings back into the game, convinced they’d finally hit a lucky streak, only to see their money and their dreams vanish like a puff of smoke.
Valentine followed Rufus into Celebrity’s poker room to find the suckers crowded around the Ping-Pong table, eagerly awaiting the match. Nearly a hundred strong, they wore the disheveled look of men who weren’t sleeping regularly. Rufus doffed his Stetson and gave them a big Texas wave.
“Good morning! How’s everyone doing this fine morning?”
“Is it morning?” someone yelled back.
“Last time I checked,” Rufus said. “Ready to see me play Ping-Pong?”
Several in the crowd guffawed. Rufus pulled off his running jacket to reveal his trademark Skivvies T-shirt. He began doing windmills while hacking violently.
“You okay?” Valentine asked.
“Never better.” Rufus pounded his chest. “My lungs could use some help, though.”
“Want me to get you something?”
“Shot of whiskey would hit the spot.”
“That’s going to help your lungs?”
“Who said it was going to help my lungs? I just like whiskey.”
They were talking loud enough for the suckers to overhear. A handful had their wallets out, and were debating whether to get in on the action.
“Make that a double,” Rufus said.
Valentine lowered his voice. “You want me to make that apple juice instead?”
“Apple juice is for old folks,” Rufus said.
“A double it is.”
Valentine crossed the poker room in search of alcohol. There was a cash bar beside the registration table, and he caught the eye of the female bartender. She was young enough to be his granddaughter, and shot him a disapproving look when he ordered Rufus’s drink.
“It’s a little early in the morning, don’t you think?” she asked.
“And a Coke for me,” he added.
She handed him the drinks with a grin on her face.
“You’re not in the tournament, are you?” she asked.
“No. How could you tell?”
“You look normal,” she said.
He crossed the room with the drinks. A mob was gathered around Rufus, who continued to flail his arms like Indian clubs while giving his snake oil salesman spiel.
“Come on, boys, I’m about to play some Japanese world champion at Ping-Pong for a half million bucks, winner take all. If that ain’t a safe bet, I don’t know what is. Place your wagers now, or forever hold your peace.”
“What kind of odds you offering?” one of the suckers asked.
“Ten to one,” Rufus said.
“I’ll bet you even money,” the sucker said.
Rufus shot the sucker a murderous look. “You want even money, son? I’ve got one foot in the grave, and my opponent’s a former champ. Ten to one, take it or leave it.”
“Which foot?” the sucker asked.
“The one I’m not standing on,” Rufus said.
The sucker took his money out. “You’re on.”
The doors to the poker room banged open, and the Greek and Takarama came in. A shade over six feet, Takarama wore black gym shorts and a matching polo shirt. He did not have an ounce of fat on his perfectly proportioned body. His shoulder-length hair was tied in a ponytail, giving his face a hawkish quality. His eyes scanned the room in search of his prey.
“Sure you want to go through with this?” Valentine asked.
“That pipsqueak can’t lick me,” Rufus said loudly.
The Greek sauntered over. He hadn’t changed his clothes since the night before and looked like a bum’s unmade bed. He fancied himself a professional gambler, but with every loss to Rufus, his true colors were increasingly clear. He was a sucker. What still made him special was his huge bankroll.
“Thanks for dressing up,” Rufus said.
The Greek scowled. Curly black hair popped out of every part of his head. “You ready to play Takarama?” he asked.
“Of course,” Rufus said. “The question is, is
he
ready to play
me
?”
“He sure is. A half million dollars to the first player to reach twenty-one?”
“Correct,” Rufus said. “The only stipulation is, I supply the paddles. Your man gets to choose his weapon, and if he wants to switch at any time in the match, he can.”
“Agreed,” the Greek said.
Rufus and the Greek shook hands. Then Rufus turned to Valentine.
“Tony, I need to you to do me a little favor,” Rufus said. “Go to the casino’s main restaurant, ask for Chef Robert, and get the bag he’s holding for me.”
Valentine was nobody’s caddy, but was willing to make an exception for Rufus.
“Sure,” he said.
To reach the restaurant, Valentine had to walk through the casino. It was packed, the noise deafening. One of the great urban myths was that casinos pumped oxygen onto the floor to make people gamble. The truth was, they kept the air-conditioning down and made their cocktail waitresses wear tiny outfits, which accomplished the same thing.
The restaurant was called Auditions, and he walked past the empty hostess stand and looked around. It was decorated like a Hollywood sound stage, with fake movie sets and glossies of stars hanging on the walls. The kitchen was in back, and he cautiously pushed open a swinging door. A man wearing a chef’s hat stood at an island.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Chef Robert,” Valentine said.
“I’m Chef Robert. Are you with the health department?”
Once a cop, always a cop. “Rufus Steele sent me.”
“Oh yes.”
From beneath the island Chef Robert produced a canvas bag with Celebrity’s logo splashed across the front. Valentine took the bag from his hands, and nearly dropped it on the floor.
“What’s in it, bricks?”
“Cooking utensils, per Mr. Steele’s request,” Chef Robert said.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Mr. Steele has already compensated me.”
Valentine tipped him anyway, then walked out of the kitchen, the bag pulling at his arm like a little kid. His curiosity was killing him, and he opened the bag and looked inside. It contained two cast-iron skillets. He thought Chef Robert had made a mistake. Then it dawned on him what Rufus was up to.
Pulling out his cell phone, he called Gloria Curtis.
“This is
bullshit,
” the Greek said. “You can’t play Ping-Pong with those!”
“Who says I can’t?” Rufus replied, holding a cast-iron skillet in both hands. “I said I’d supply the paddles. Well, these are the paddles.”
“I won’t stand for this,” the Greek replied.
“Are you welching on our bet?”
“You’re damn right I am,” the Greek said.
In a huff, the Greek started to walk out. Valentine was standing next to the Ping-Pong table, and as the Greek neared the doors, saw Gloria and Zack come in. She cornered the Greek, sticking a mike in his face. Zack started to film them.
“I hear you and Rufus Steele have an interesting wager going,” she said.
The Greek raised his arms as if to strangle an imaginary victim. He quickly lowered them. “The bet’s off,” he said.
“Oh no,” she said. “It sounded like it would make a wonderful piece.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” The Greek raised his voice. “The bet’s off.”
Gloria stepped back, unsure of what was happening. Takarama, who’d been leaning against the wall with a stoic look on his face, tapped the Greek on the shoulder.
“What?” the Greek said.
“You are dishonoring me,” Takarama said.
“But he’s trying to trick us,” the Greek said.
“A man’s word is his bond.”
“But—”
“No exceptions,” Takarama declared. He crossed the room to where Rufus was standing. “May I see one?”
Rufus handed him a skillet. Takarama pulled a Ping-Pong ball out of the pocket of his shorts, and bounced it on the flat side. The ball went up and down with the precision of a metronome. Takarama’s eyes glanced into the Greek’s unshaven face.
“I can beat him,” he said.
The Greek’s expression changed.
“Are you sure?”
Takarama nodded solemnly, the ball still going up and down.
“But you’ve never played with a skillet,” the Greek said.
“It does not matter,” Takarama said.
“Rufus
has,
” the Greek said.
“He is not Takarama,” the former world champion said.
19
V
alentine’s son knew a lot about sports. When it came to exceptionally gifted athletes, Gerry had a theory that he claimed most bookies shared: Great athletes were not normal. They were freaks.
His son’s definition of a freak didn’t match
Webster’s.
According to Gerry, freaks could run faster, jump higher, and recuperate more quickly than the rest of us. They’d also been blessed with quick reflexes. Put simply, their bodies were more physically gifted, a fact that became apparent simply by looking at them.
Takarama was the perfect example of a freak. He had muscular calves, tree-trunk thighs, a girlish waist, and shoulders befitting a running back. There did not appear to be an ounce of wasted tissue on his body, and probably never had been. Walking over to the Ping-Pong table with the skillet in hand, he took several practice serves.
“Are you sure you can beat him?” the Greek asked, standing beside him.
“Yes,” Takarama said confidently.
The Greek was sweating, the bright light of Zack’s camera centered squarely on his face. Embarrassed by his decision to renege, the suckers had moved away from him. The Greek looked lost. In the poker world, your reputation was all you had.
The Greek turned to Rufus. “You’re on,” he said.
Gloria Curtis produced a shiny coin from her purse, tossed it into the air.
“Call it,” she said to Rufus.
“Heads,” Rufus said.
The coin landed on the floor. It was heads.
“Yee-haw,” the old cowboy said.
Rufus and Takarama took their positions at opposite ends of the Ping-Pong table. As Rufus bent his knees and prepared to serve, Takarama went into a crouch and held the skillet in front of his body defensively. His eyes narrowed, seeing only the table.
Rufus held his skillet a foot from his head, the ball resting on the palm of his other hand. “Good luck, son,” he said.
“I do not need luck,” Takarama replied.
Rufus tossed the ball into the air and banged it with the skillet. It wasn’t the kind of stroke that Valentine had thought would produce a deadly spin, but that was exactly what happened. The ball hopped over the net, then leaped a few feet into the air, hitting Takarama’s skillet and flying behind him.
“My point,” Rufus declared. “One-zip.”
Rufus served four more unreturnable serves. With each lost point, Takarama shifted his grip on his skillet, and tried another method of stroking. Each change produced the same result. A wayward shot and a lost point.
“Five-zip,” Rufus said, tossing him the ball.
Takarama went to the sideline and wiped his hands with a towel. When he returned to the table, Rufus was sipping whiskey.
“Not funny,” Takarama said.
“You ought to try some.” Rufus grinned.
Takarama prepared to serve. He tossed the ball into the air, and hit it with his skillet. As he did, the index finger on his serving hand struck the table edge. He yelped and dropped his skillet.
“Hope you didn’t break it,” Rufus said.
“Time out,” the Greek called.
Takarama clutched his damaged finger and left the room to walk off the pain. When he returned, he’d regained his composure, and banged the table with the palm of his good hand.
“I get you now,” he said.
It took Takarama a few points to figure out how to serve. When he finally did get the ball over the table, Rufus batted it back for a winner. Rufus had an unusual technique, and relied solely on his wrist to stroke the ball, his arm hardly coming into play.
Takarama copied the motion, and on Rufus’s next service game, managed to win two points. The score was now thirteen to two, but a significant shift had occurred. Like all great athletes, Takarama had adjusted his game, and was forcing Rufus to work to win a point, making the old cowboy lunge from side to side. The toll on Rufus was immediate. His chest sagged, a hound-dog look appeared on his face, and after every point he stopped to catch his breath.
On his next serve, Rufus lost five points in a row, making the score thirteen to seven. The whiskey had risen to his face and sprouted a thousand red blossoms. He looked like a dying man. Taking his Stetson off, he tossed it to the floor.
It was Takarama’s turn to serve. Rufus made a motion to throw him the ball, only to drop it on the floor instead. There was a loud crunching sound.
“Shit! I stepped on it,” Rufus said.
The Greek pulled a Ping-Pong ball from his pocket, and tossed it to Takarama.
“Here you go. Whip his ass.”
Takarama won the next five points. He was effortlessly moving the ball around the table, making Rufus swing at air. What had started as a one-sided contest was still one, only the person getting the beating had changed. With the score thirteen to twelve, both sides decided to take a break.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Rufus said, sucking on a bottle of water.
Valentine did not know what to say. Rufus had met his match, and everyone in the room knew it. Gloria stepped forward with an encouraging look on her face.
“I have an idea,” she offered.
Rufus brightened. “Yes, Ms. Curtis.”
“Moon-ball him.”
“You want me to moon him?” Rufus said.
“No, I mean throw up some moon balls,” she said.
“What are those?”
“Lobs, like they do in tennis. It’s a great way to throw off your opponent’s rhythm. I saw Tracy Austin lob Martina Navratilova in the final of the U.S. Open Tennis Championship. Martina won the first set and was rolling. Then Austin started throwing up moon balls. It threw Martina off, and she lost the match.”
Rufus tossed away his empty water bottle. Then he retrieved his skillet from the floor, and pointed the flat side straight at the ceiling, visualizing the shot.
“I don’t know,” he said skeptically.
“What do you have to lose?” she asked.
It was Rufus’s turn to serve. He sent the ball over the net, and Takarama shot it back. Rufus lunged to his right, and hit the ball straight into the air like he was sending up a missile. The ball went so high it nearly touched a chandelier, then fell back to earth and landed on Takarama’s side of the table. It bounced so high that Takarama had to tap it back, giving Rufus a perfect kill shot.
Only Rufus didn’t kill it. Instead, he lofted the ball into the air, then paused to watch its flight. He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Take that,” the old cowboy said.
Takarama made a face that was part anger, part disgust. He had a lot of pride, and Valentine was not surprised when he took a step back from the table and changed his grip on the skillet. As the ball bounced on his side, he leaped into the air.
“Aieeee!” he screamed.
Takarama hit the ball on the rise, and sent it screaming past Rufus at a hundred miles an hour. His swing, loaded with top spin, finished with his arm coming up by the right side of his forehead. With a normal Ping-Pong paddle it wouldn’t have been a problem. With a skillet, it caused him to smack himself in the face.
The sound of the impact was awful. Takarama dropped the skillet on the floor, then brought his hands to his eyes, and staggered around the room muttering in Japanese. The Greek rushed to his aid.
“You okay?”
Takarama said something that sounded like a curse.
“Time out!” the Greek announced.
“For how long?” Rufus asked.
“How the hell should I know?” the Greek said.
Takarama walked in a serpentine pattern around the room, and Valentine guessed he’d given himself a concussion. Reaching the doors, Takarama pushed them open and staggered into the lobby. The Greek hurried after, followed by Rufus, Valentine, Gloria, and Zack, with the suckers bringing up the rear.
Takarama walked on rubber legs across the lobby and into the busy casino. He approached a roulette table surrounded by people. He pushed his way through to the table, and plucked the little white ball as it spun around the wheel.
“My serve,” he said.
Then he fell face-first to the floor, taking a tray of colored chips with him. The crowd parted, and the croupier came around the table, looking down at Takarama in disgust.
The Greek stood several feet away, crying his eyes out. Rufus threw his arms triumphantly into the air.
“I win,” Rufus said.