More Twisted

stay out of jail and keep playing that they never complained.
    As for Stanton, the gaff like this had always suited him better than gambling.
    I play all right but the odds’re still against you. Anything serious I do with money? I make sure the odds’re on my side.
    “Hey, Larry,” one of the cops called to Stanton. “Didn’t mean to be an asshole when I collared you. Just thought it’d be more, you know, realistic.”
    “Handled it just right, Moscawitz. You’re a born actor.”
    Stanton and the detective walked past the unmarked squad car and continued down the dirty sidewalk. They’d known each other for years, ever since Stanton had worked as head of security at Midwest Metal Products.
    “You okay?” Fanelli glanced down at Stanton’s limp.
    “I was racing somebody on a Jet Ski up at Lake Geneva. Hit a wake. It’s nothing.”
    “So when’re you going back to Tampa?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “You flying down?”
    “Nope. Driving.” He pulled keys out of his pocket and opened the door of a new BMW sports car.
    Fanelli looked it over admiringly. “Sold the Lexus?”
    “Decided to keep it.” A nod toward the sleek silver wheels. “I just wanted something sexier, you know. The ladies in my golf club love a man in a sports car. Even if he’s got knobby knees.”
    Fanelli shook his head. “Felt bad about that kid. Where’d he get the money to sit in on a high-stakes game?”
    “Tuition money or something. He inherited it from his folks.”
    “You mean we just dipped an orphan? I’ll be in confession for a month.”
    “He’s an orphan who cheated the pants off Keller and everybody else.”
    “What?”
    Stanton laughed. “Took me a while to tip to it. Finally figured it out. He must’ve had some kind of electronic shiner or camera or something in his coffee cup lid. He was always playing with it on the table, moving it close to the cards when he dealt—and the only time he won big was on the deal. Then after the bust I checked out his car—there was a computer and some kind of antenna in the backseat.”
    “Damn,” Fanelli said. “That was stupid. He’ll end up dead, he’s not careful. I’m surprised Keller didn’t spot it.”
    “Keller was too busy running his own scam, trying to take the kid.” Stanton told him about the pro’s setup of Tony.
    The detective laughed. “He tried to take the boy, the boy tried to take the table, and it was us old guys who took ’em both. There’s a lesson there someplace.” The men shook hands in farewell. “See you next spring, my friend. Let’s try Greenpoint. I hear they’ve got some good high-stakes games over there.”
    “We’ll do that.” Stanton nodded and fired up the sports car. He drove to the intersection, carefully checked for cross traffic and turned onto the main street that would take him to the expressway.

N INETY-EIGHT P OINT S IX

    S uit jacket slung over his shoulder, the man trudged up the long walk to the bungalow, his lungs aching, breathless in the astonishing heat, which had persisted well after sundown.
    Pausing on the sidewalk in front of the house, trying to catch his breath, he believed he heard troubled voices from inside. Still, he’d had no choice but to come here. This was the only house he’d seen along the highway.
    He climbed the stairs to the unwelcomingly dark porch and rang the bell.
    The voices ceased immediately.
    There was a shuffle. Two or three words spoken.
    He rang the bell again and finally the door opened.
    Sloan observed that the three people inside gazed at him with different expressions on their faces.
    The woman on the couch, in her fifties, wearing an overwashed sleeveless house dress, appeared relieved. The man sitting beside her—about the same age, rounding and bald—was wary.
    And the man who’d opened the door and stood closest to Sloan had a grin on his face—a thick-lipped grin that really meant, What the hell do you want? He was aboutSloan’s own age—late thirties—and his tattooed arms were long. He gripped the side of the door defensively with a massive hand. His clothes were gray, stained dungarees and a torn work shirt. His shaved scalp glistened.
    “Help you?” the tattooed man asked.
    “I’m sorry to bother you,” Sloan said. “My car broke down—it overheated. I need to call Triple A. You mind if I use your phone?”
    “Phone company’s having problems, I heard,” the tattooed man replied. Nodding toward the dense, still night sky. “With the