Pit Bull Peter Geller 03 - Pit and the Pendulum

slowly. “And the third?”
    “That you and your staff are unwitting victims. After all, your club’s reputation will be severely damaged if word gets out that members are being photographed and blackmailed. This is my personal suspicion, of course.”
    “Of course.” He looked off into the distance thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you know who’s behind this blackmail plot.”
    “Possibly.” I reached into my jacket pocket and fished out the clipped picture of mustache-man. “There are at least two people working the setup. One arranges the shots, the other snaps photos with one of those micro spy cameras.”
    Smith took the picture. From the way his eyes widened slightly, I knew he recognized mustache-man. And he was trying hard not to show it.
    “I’ve seen him,” he said slowly. “He comes in once or twice a week, and he drops a couple hundred each time. Not a big spender, but the sort of solid repeat customer we like.”
    He put the clipped picture into his vest pocket instead of returning it. Then he rose.
    “Thank you for coming to me,” he said. “I’ll handle things. You can tell Mr. Hunt that he won’t be bothered again.”
    I nodded and rose. He did not offer to shake hands, nor did he offer to return Davy’s money. Quid pro quo ; he could keep it with my blessing if it got Davy safely off the hook. Davy didn’t need the cash as much as he needed security.
    “Do you gamble, Mr. Geller?” he asked unexpectedly.
    “Now and again, Mr. Tortelli.”
    He didn’t react to my using his real name. Instead, he handed me a small piece of paper.
    “What’s this?” I asked. It had “10K - S” written on it.
    Instead of answering, he pressed a hidden button under his desktop. A second later, the door opened. Goon number two stood there.
    “Sir?”
    “Mr. Geller has a chit for ten thousand dollars. Make sure he has a good time. He’s going to be my guest tonight.” Then he turned back to me. “I suggest you play at table number five. Find a comfortable seat and relax.”
    * * * *
    Smith’s personal invitation opened all the right doors. The goon smiled a perfect shark’s smile as he escorted me through several hallways to a cavernous casino done all in reds and golds. Roulette, baccarat, blackjack, poker, craps, and other table games occupied the center of the room. Jangling slot machines lined the walls. Cashier’s stations at both ends of the room doled out a steady supply of chips, while scantily clad women circulated with trays of drinks. Keep the alcohol flowing and the money will follow: it seemed like a sound business plan. A hundred or so people were already inside, moving from game to game.
    “This is table 5,” said the goon, halting at a low-rent blackjack table. The dealer, a middle-aged woman, was shuffling eight fresh decks in preparation for filling a card shoe. Three of the five seats were already taken.
    “Thanks.” When I settled onto one of the empty stools, I found I had a nice view of the whole room. I put Tortelli’s chit in front of me, and without batting an eye the dealer slid over several tall stacks of red, blue, and black chips. They had values stamped in gold from $5 to $100. I didn’t bother to count them.
    For the next few hours, I played slowly and conservatively, adding more chips than I lost to my stacks. I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut. This was business, I told myself. Tortelli wouldn’t have put me here without cause. With half my attention on the game, I surveyed the crowds and began picking out plainclothes security. I found six of them. And a couple I suspected, but couldn’t quite confirm.
    Then I saw him — mustache-man! He strutted in with a middle-aged woman on his arm. Both of them dressed conservatively, with bland haircuts and dull watches, rings, and jewelry. No one would have looked at them twice.
    The dealer placed a king and a five in front of me.
    “Hit,” I said, tapping the table.
    She dealt me an eight — busted. While she finished out the other players’ hands, I leaned back and watched as a subtle change came over the movements of the crowd. Three people converged on my blackmail suspects.
    A passing woman deliberately spilled her drink on mustache-man and — though I couldn’t hear her voice over the noise of the room — began to apologize profusely, brushing him off with a cocktail napkin. A couple of security guards appeared and, with sympathy, escorted the pair off, I assumed under the pretense of