X is for Xmas Read online

  * * * *

  As I lay in bed, thoughts racing, I mentally reviewed the recording Mr. Smith had played for me—and realized I had made a huge mistake.

  Every button on a telephone keypad has a different sound. Since I remembered each tone on Mr. Smith’s recording perfectly, it was a simple matter to match them up to numbers. Two seconds later, I had Janice’s phone number. If I’d thought of it in time, I could have used a reverse directory at the library to look up her name and address.

  Calling myself a drunken idiot, I picked up my phone’s receiver, punched number 4 so the dial tone went away, and said in a low voice: “Please tell Mr. Smith I’m going to the Azteca Casino on the nine o’clock bus tomorrow morning. When I get there, I’d like my bodyguard’s complimentary drink spiked—something that will tie him up in the bathroom for an hour or so. I’m going to win a million dollars at the blackjack tables. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back. If Mr. Smith is willing to help, I’ll owe him another favor. If not—well, I’ll manage on my own.”

  I hung up. Then I opened my night table’s drawer and removed four pens from the neat row inside, along with an unused pocket notebook. In tiny, cribbed lettering, I began making lists of fictional transactions using several different colors of ink and alternating between sloppy and neat handwriting. First came dates, then names of various casinos, and amounts I had won. At the bottom of each page, I noted the anonymous Swiss or Brazilian bank account into which the money had been wired. My fictional net worth climbed rapidly into the millions.

  Of course, I included all the secret pass codes anyone might need to get the money out. I emphasized that part on the inside front cover: Funds not accessible without account numbers and pass codes. Bob would read those words first when he opened the notebook.

  * * * *

  My legs and back ached fiercely the next morning. When I couldn’t take the pain any more, I rose and stumbled into the bathroom. I gulped four aspirins with a glass of tepid tap-water. God, I needed a real drink.

  Someone had lowered the hamper’s lid. I peeked inside. The printout in my shirt pocket had been removed, then put back—but not quite folded properly. Sloppy, sloppy work.

  Returning to my room, chuckling to myself, I dressed in black Dockers and a navy blue shirt—more leftovers from my Wall Street days—then took a small suitcase from my closet and began to pack…underwear, socks, shirts, pants. Everything I’d need for an extended trip. I needed to convince Bob I planned on fleeing the country.

  My bodyguard appeared in the doorway. “Going somewhere?”

  “In case I decide to spend the night.”

  He nodded. “I’ll bring my bag, too.”

  * * * *

  An hour later we were on the bus. The drone of wheels on pavement, the murmur of little old ladies on their weekly gambling junket, the soft hiss of recycled air from the blowers overhead—I found it all curiously soothing. As I let myself relax, I began to open up and chat confidentially with Bob…part two of my plan.

  “My father used to be involved with organized crime,” I confessed in a low voice. Never mind that he had been a plumber. “He hijacked that armored car on the Brooklyn Bridge. The one I read about yesterday.”

  “What happened?” Bob asked. “Was he caught?”

  “Not caught,” I said. “Killed. His body turned up in the New Jersey wetlands near where Giants Stadium stands today. He had a bullet in his head, mob execution-style. I don’t know what happened to the money, but I found out who did the hit a few years ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Well…let’s just say he’s come a long way in the last thirty years. He runs the Azteca Casino. That’s why I gamble there a lot—every dollar I take away is a little piece of my revenge.”

  He looked puzzled. “I thought odds favored the house.”

  “For most games.” I chuckled. “You’d never guess I’m worth nearly as much as Davy Hunt, would you?”

  He gaped at me. “Then why are you stuck in that shabby little apartment? You should live like a king!”

  I lowered my voice confidentially. “Because,” I said, “I don’t want to attract the IRS’s attention. If I started spending hundreds of thousands of dollars, they’d want to know where I got it.”

  “The tax havens,” he said slowly. “That’s why you were researching them!”

  “Bingo.”

  He frowned. “Why are you telling me?”

  “Because,” I said grandly, “this is it. Today is my final day. I’m going to make one last big score and retire to Brazil while I wait for the statute of limitations on income tax evasion to pass. I want you to come with me as my bodyguard and assistant. I’ll need help, and I think you’re the man for the job.”

  He chewed his lip thoughtfully. This was a lot for him to consider. Would he go for it?

  “If you’re worried about salary,” I added, “I’ll pay you a lot better than Davy—starting with a $20,000 signing bonus as soon as our plane lands. That buys a lot in South America. When we come back, we’ll both be set for life. What do you say?”

  “It’s a deal!” He offered his hand, and we shook on it.

  Bait taken—hook, line, and sinker.

  * * * *

  Our bus rolled into Atlantic City on schedule and stopped at Bally’s. We filed off with the old people, collecting vouchers for $20 in quarters, redeemable inside at the information booth. I shivered in the brisk wind while Bob collected our luggage. I should have worn a heavier coat.

  “What next?” he asked, setting the bags down on the sideway.

  “Go in and get our quarters, then we’ll walk over to the Azteca.”

  He then ran inside with our vouchers. A few minutes later he came back carrying two rolls of quarters. Then, carrying our bags, we ambled toward the Azteca.

  Shaped like a South American pyramid, the hotel-casino offered three hundred and thirty luxury hotel rooms, most with views of the Boardwalk and the Atlantic Ocean. The entire ground floor consisted of slot machines, gaming tables, bars, restaurants, shops, and two theaters for concerts and stage shows.

  I surveyed the elbow-to-elbow holiday crowds. Too loud, too bright, too busy…your typical Atlantic City gambling hall. From experience, I knew I would need several stiff drinks to make it through the day. Adrenaline would keep me going for now, though.

  “Where do we start?” Bob asked.

  “Check our coats and bags,” I said, “then take the quarters and play the slots slowly. Pretend you don’t know me, but watch my back. Things will get crazy when I start winning big.”

  “How did you deal with it in the past?”

  “I always kept my winnings under ten thousand per casino so they wouldn’t catch on and blacklist me. Today, though, I’m going for broke. A million or more, all from the Azteca.”

  He whistled. “You can do that?”

  “Trick brain, remember?” I tapped my forehead with an index finger. “Don’t worry, I’ll win. Just keep your eyes open and watch my back.”

  Without another word, I limped to the line of blackjack tables. I kept going until I found one where a cute Asian lady was shuffling fresh decks, and I took the chair farthest to the left. I’d see everyone else’s cards before mine. With 416 cards in play, knowing how many of each denomination remained in the shoe gave me a decided advantage, especially as we got toward the end.

  I removed two hundred dollars from my billfold—gambling seed money, normally kept under my mattress—and bought a stack of chips. A man slid into the empty seat next to mine. I recognized Mr. Smith from the faint lavender scent.

  “Good morning,” I said without looking in his direction.

  “That was quite a boast you made,” he said. “A million dollars at blackjack?”

  “I can do it, as you know.”

  He said, “That’s why I’m here. I have t
o protect the casino’s interests. You are a very dangerous man, Mr. Geller.”

  He set a tray of chips on the table before him—all bright pink and all stamped $100. He anted one. I risked $5. The three others at our table bet between $5 and $20.

  The dealer began to draw cards from the shoe. A smattering of face cards and numbers for the others, a pair of jacks for Mr. Smith, a king and a four for me. Smith split his jacks, then hit for a twenty and a nineteen. I hit and drew an eight—busted. The house held at seventeen.

  Nineteen cards gone. Four percent of the deck. A couple more hands and the odds would tilt in my favor.

  Mr. Smith collected $200. The dealer swept away my $5 chip. We repeated. Mr. Smith won another $100, and I lost another $5. Repeat. I had a push, Smith lost. Repeat, and we both won.

  A blonde in a skimpy mock-Aztec costume and too much eye-shadow approached. She had drinks on a tray.

  “Compliments of the house,” she said, setting them in the blackjack table’s built-in cup holders. Ginger ale for Mr. Smith, watery scotch-and-soda for me.

  “Thanks.” I gulped mine in three swallows. “Bring me two more,” I said before she disappeared.

  Three more hands, sixty-seven cards burned. I increased my bet to $25. I split aces, then doubled down—easy wins. Three hands later, I increased my bets to $50. By that point, my initial investment had swelled to eight hundred dollars. Then twelve hundred. Then sixteen hundred.

  Our dealer trashed the cards and began shuffling fresh decks together. My drinks arrived.

  “You’re good,” said Mr. Smith, nodding.

  “Yes,” I agreed. I swallowed scotch-and-soda and felt myself relaxing, falling into the groove.

  Suddenly Smith asked, “Would you like to play at a high-stakes table with the house’s money? Management uses shills to keep the action hopping. There’s nothing like a big spender on a winning streak to stir up the crowd.”

  “What about my bodyguard?”

  “He’s having that special drink you ordered right now.”

  Casually, I glanced over at the slots. Bob was chatting with a different waitress in a mock-Aztec outfit. She held out a little plastic glass of what looked like cola, and he took it. As he sipped, he casually glanced in my direction, but showed no sign of recognizing me. Good boy.

  “Ten minutes,” said Mr. Smith, “and you’ll be on your own.”

  Ten minutes. Eight to ten hands.

  “I can wait that long.”

  * * * *

  It took almost fifteen minutes for Bob’s drink to take effect. But when it hit, he hightailed it for the men’s room at warp speed, leaving me alone.

  I finished my hand—a $240 win—and tossed the dealer a $20 chip. Mr. Smith gathered up his winnings. By my count, I now had $7,600 in front of me.

  “Follow me,” Smith said.

  He threaded his way through the blackjack and craps and roulette tables to a small door marked PRIVATE: EMPLOYEES ONLY. Inside, the noise and bustle of the casino gave way to fluorescent lights, cheap blue carpeting, and stark white walls broken only by glass doors showing tiny offices.

  At the office marked CASINO MANAGER, Smith went in. I followed.

  “Harvey,” he said to the pudgy-faced man at the desk, “this is Mr. Geller, the guest I told you about.”

  “Hiya, Mr. Geller.” Harvey wiped a sweaty hand on his pants before offering it to me. We shook. He went on, “I have your paperwork ready.”

  “Paperwork?” I asked.

  “Legal forms you have to sign.”

  “Lawyers run everything now,” said Mr. Smith half apologetically. “In the old days, Harvey would have broken your legs if you tried to skip with the casino’s money. Now he’ll have you arrested.”

  “What a kidder!” Harvey said, laughing. “Can you imagine me breaking anyone’s legs?”

  Actually, I couldn’t. But since Mr. Smith seemed serious, I gave a shrug and a smile.

  Harvey held out a clipboard. I skimmed the one-page form—I, Peter Geller, acknowledge that I am playing with the Azteca Casino Corporation’s money, yada yada yada. I hereby warrant that all monies won or lost remain the sole and exclusive property of the Azteca Casino Corporation and will be surrendered before I leave the premises.

  Harmless enough. I signed, pressing hard for three carbonless copies.

  As soon as I finished, Harvey handed me the yellow copy from the bottom. Then he pushed a chip caddy loaded with gold chips stamped $1,000 across his desk. Ten stacks of ten chips each—one hundred thousand dollars. My hands began to tremble, and it wasn’t from alcohol this time. I had never had this much money before…even if it wasn’t mine to keep.

  “What about my earlier winnings?” I asked.

  “Give me your chips,” said Harvey.

  I did so. Harvey counted them quickly, took a lockbox from his drawer, opened it, and peeled seven crisp thousand-dollar bills and six hundreds from a roll. Without comment, he passed them to me.

  “Thanks.” I tucked them into my billfold.

  “Come, Pit,” said Mr. Smith with a smile. “A fortune awaits!”

  * * * *

  My bodyguard still hadn’t returned. Uneasy and suddenly self-conscious, I settled down in the well-padded leather highboy seat at the left side of a high-stakes table in the center of the casino. Velvet ropes cordoned the players off from the general public, and floodlights bathed our seats in a warm yellow glow. Overhead, a blue neon sign blinked HIGH STAKES PLAYERS ONLY—$100,000 MINIMUM. I was the only player.

  A young guy with his blond hair in a crew cut nodded to me, then began unsealing fresh packs of cards. As he shuffled, an elderly man with a string tie and cowboy hat settled into the highboy next to me. A girl brought him a tray with a quarter million dollars in chips. A few seconds later, an Arab—complete with robes and bodyguards—took the seat farthest right. I noted how the casino staff called him “your highness” and brought him drinks and bowls of green and red Christmas M&Ms without being asked. He had to be a regular.

  I definitely felt out of my league.

  Cowboy-hat seemed to sense my uneasiness. He jabbed me in the ribs with an elbow and said, “First time here in the spotlight, huh, son?” He had a slight drawl. I noticed the heavy silver ring on his left index finger said A&M—probably Texas A&M University.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Internet money?” he asked.

  “Mob money.”

  Cowboy-hat got real quiet after that. I shifted uneasily in my chair. Then Smith returned and patted me on the shoulder.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “Thanks. You’re not playing?”

  “I’ll check back later. I have other duties.”

  “Of course.”

  Our dealer cleared his throat. “Ready, gentlemen?”

  I threw out a $1,000 chip. Time to get the ball rolling.

  * * * *

  If only it had been my money. Never had I seen such a lucky streak.

  I won my first six opening hands as I began to count cards. I won most of the middle hands where I knew enough to guess what might turn up. I won all the late hands, where the odds had shifted in my favor. Weird, wacky, wonderful luck—where were you when I needed you, when that taxi ran me down?

  My winning streak continued throughout the first hour. Shoe after shoe, I beat the house consistently. The dealer began paying me in $10,000 chips. I hadn’t even known that denomination existed. My money grew…half a million, then nearly a million. Mr. Smith would never doubt me again.

  And Smith had been right about the buzz a big winner created. Behind the velvet rope, a crowd gathered to cheer me on. I started to sweat; the whispers and bursts of applause pushed my senses toward overload. Those three watery scotch-and-sodas helped, but not nearly enough.

  Suddenly I noticed Bob Charles
at the front of the gawkers. He looked pale and shaky. He must have recovered from his sudden “stomach ailment.”

  “Mr. Smith says you need a drink,” a voice said at my elbow. It was the same girl who had drugged Bob. She held out a tray. “Compliments of the house, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Since everything in front of me belonged to the casino, I had no worries about being drugged.

  It was another scotch-and-soda; I gulped it down. Strong this time, the way I liked.

  “Bring me another?” I asked.

  “Of course, sir.” She vanished.

  Tex leaned in close and said, “Better watch that stuff, if you expect to keep winning. Gotta stay sharp, son!”

  “Drink or die,” I said unhappily. “I can’t function sober.”

  He laughed. “Then maybe I should take up drinking, the way my luck’s running!”

  His stack of chips had been cut in half over the last two hours. Further down the table, the prince barely held his own.

  I bet $50,000—and got a blackjack. Cowboy-hat drew to a 12 and busted. Too many face-cards still in play…with the dealer showing a five, I would have stayed.

  My new drink came, and I downed it fast. The rising tide of voices began to grow muted; my hands stopped shaking. My world narrowed down to the cards.

  But first, I reminded myself, I had to take care of Bob.

  “I have to take a bathroom break,” I said to the dealer. “May I leave my chips here?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Don’t worry, son,” said Cowboy-hat. “I’ll keep an eye on ’em for ya!”

  “Thanks.” I smiled wanly at him.

  I rose, leaning heavily on my walking stick, and gave Bob a glance and a subtle follow-me jerk of my head. Then I limped to the men’s room.

  It was moderately busy inside. We stood side by side at the urinals, waiting until we were alone. Then I handed him my billfold with the $7,600 still inside.

  “I have my million,” I said. “There’s a travel agency across the street. Buy two one-way tickets to Rio de Janeiro. I doubt if there’s a direct flight from Atlantic City, but we should be able to make it with a couple of connections. Cut it as close as possible. When it’s time to go, signal me. I’ll cash out and we’ll run for the plane. As fast as a cripple like me can run, anyway.”