More Twisted

into his pocket and extracted the Starbucks cup lid. He lifted off the false plastic disk on the bottom and shut off a tiny switch. He then wrapped it carefully in a bubble-wrap envelope and replaced it in his pocket. The device was his own invention. A miniature camera in the sipping hole of the lid had scanned each card whenever Tony’d been dealing and the tiny processor had sent the suit and rank to the computer in Tony’s car. All he had to do was tap the lid in a certain place to tell the computer how many people were in the game, so the program he’d written would know everyone’s hand. It determined how many cards he should draw and whether to bet or fold on each round. The computer then broadcast its instructions to the earpiece of his glasses, which vibrated according to a code, and Tony acted accordingly.
    “Cheating for Dummies,” he called the program.
    A perfect plan, perfectly executed—the only flaw being that he hadn’t thought about the goddamn police stealing his winnings.
    Tony looked at his watch. Nearly one a.m. No hurry to get back; his uncle was out of town on another one of his business trips. What to do? he wondered. Marconi Pizza was still open and he decided he’d stop by and see his buddy, the one who’d tipped him to Keller’s game. Have a slice and a Coke.
    Gritting footsteps sounded behind him and he turned, seeing Larry Stanton walking stiffly down the alley, heading for the bus stop.
    “Hey,” the old guy called, noticing him and walking over. “Licking your wounds? Or thinking of jumping?” He nodded toward the train tracks.
    Tony gave a sour laugh. “Can you believe that? Fucking bad luck.”
    “Ah, raids’re a part of the game, if you’re playing illegal,” Stanton said. “You got to build ’em into the equation.”
    “A half-million-dollar part of the equation?” Tony muttered.
    “That part’s gotta sting, true,” Stanton said, nodding. “But it’s better than a year in jail.”
    “I suppose.”
    The old man yawned. “Better get on home and pack. I’m going back to Florida tomorrow. Who’d spend the winter in Ellridge if they didn’t have to?”
    “You have anything left?” Tony asked.
    “Money? . . . A little.” A scowl. “But a hell of a lot less than I did, thanks to you and Keller.”
    “Hold on.” The boy took out his wallet and handed the man a hundred dollars.
    “I don’t take charity.”
    “Call it a loan.”
    Stanton debated for a moment. Then, embarrassed, he took the bill and pocketed it.
    “Thanks . . . .” He shoved the cash away fast. “Better get going. Buses stop running soon. Well, good playing with you, son. You’ve got potential. You’ll go places.”
    Yeah, the boy thought, I sure as hell will go places. The smart ones, the innovators, the young . . . we’ll always beat people like you and Keller in the end. It’s the way of the world. He watched Grandpa limp away, old and broke. Pathetic, the boy thought. Shoot me before I become him.
    Tony pulled his stocking cap on, stepped away from the railing and walked toward his car, his mind already thinking of who the next mark should be.

    Twenty minutes later the gassy municipal bus vehicle eased to the curb and Larry Stanton climbed off.
    He walked down the street until he came to a dark intersection, the yellow caution light blinking for traffic on the main street, the red blinking for that on the cross. He turned the corner and stopped. In front of him was a navy-blue Crown Victoria. On the trunk were the words: Police Interceptor .
    And leaning against that trunk was the lean figure of Detective George Fanelli.
    The cop pushed away from the car and walked up to Stanton. The two other officers from the bust early thatnight were standing nearby. Both Fanelli and Stanton looked around and then shook hands. The detective took an envelope out of his pocket. Handed it to Stanton. “Your half—two hundred and twenty-two thousand.”
    Stanton didn’t bother to count it. He put the cash away.
    “This was a good one,” the cop said.
    “That it was,” Stanton agreed.
    He and the vice cop ran one of these scams every year when Stanton was up from Florida. Stanton’d work his way into somebody’s confidence, losing money in a couple of private games and then, on high-stakes night, tip the cops off ahead of time. Fanelli’d blame the bust on some anonymous snitch, take the bank as a bribe and release everybody; poker players were so happy to be able to