Funny Money by James Swain Read Free Book Online Page B

explained the scam to him. “You've got three crossroaders at your craps table. One member throws the dice, but palms one in his hand. Another member at the opposite end of the table places a late bet and leaves a duplicate die on the layout with the six up. A third member does the betting and always makes the bets you described to my office manager. The bettor wins money on every outcome except an eight. Which is an 84 percent winning percentage.”
    â€œWhy am I not seeing this?” Beck said belligerently.
    â€œYou will if you tape it and watch it in slow motion,” Valentine said.
    â€œArrest them,”
Beck told someone standing nearby. To Valentine he said, “Thanks for the save.”
    â€œCall me if you need me,” Valentine said.
    Hanging up, he went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. It had been a long day and it wasn't even noon. He was looking forward to getting some lunch, maybe taking a nap later. He heard the phone ring in the other room.
    He waited a minute, then picked up the message. The caller was Liddy Flanagan, and she sounded more distressed than any woman who'd just lost her husband needed to be.
    â€œOh, Tony, I need your help,” she said. “I found a notebook of Doyle's while I was cleaning. It's filled with the strangest entries. I think you should see it.”
    The message ended without her saying good-bye. He stared at the phone while listening to his stomach growl. Lunch would have to wait. Taking his coat off the bed, he headed out the door.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    The ten-minute drive to Doyle's house took twenty on the icy roads. The Mercedes was drawing a lot of stares from schmucks driving beaters, and Valentine was happy for the tinted windows. Himself, he drove a '90 Honda Accord, a good solid car with roll-down windows, the odometer stuck at 160,000 miles.
    Liddy met him at the front door. She wore faded jeans and a fluffy green sweater, her hair done up nice. Only her bloodshot eyes betrayed her true feelings.
    â€œThe boys are here,” she said.
    He followed her into the living room. Sean sat on the couch with a spiral notebook in his lap. He read aloud to Guy, who stood by the fireplace puffing nervously on a cigarette, his eyes fixed on the blue-orange flames.
    â€œIt's not like stealing from a friend, it's a goddamn casino. They expect it. Hell, they even budget for it.” Sean flipped the page. “Here's some more. ‘Nobody got hurt, so nothing really happened. I don't do this all the time, so I'm not really a thief.' ”
    Sean stopped, unable to make something out. Valentine sat on the couch beside him. Sean handed him the notebook.
    â€œYou try.”
    The page was covered with Doyle's infamous chicken scratch. Valentine deciphered the line at the top of the page.
    â€œIt's like a tree falling in a forest. If no one catches you, are you really breaking the law?” He looked up at Liddy. “Where did you find this?”
    â€œI was changing the bed,” she said. “It was stuck between the mattress and box spring. I didn't understand it at first, but the more I read, well, it seems like Doyle is denying something that he's done.”
    â€œHe wasn't denying anything,” Guy spouted angrily, his gaze still fixed on the roaring fire. “My father didn't steal anything from anyone in his life.”
    An uneasy silence filled the living room. Valentine glanced at Sean; Doyle's older son did not seem so sure. Neither did Liddy. Sensing his family's betrayal, Guy crossed the room and ripped the notebook from Valentine's hands. Flipping to the first page, he shoved it in front of Valentine's face.
    â€œLook,” he said.
    On this page, Doyle had drawn a floor plan of The Bombay, with tiny
X
's for banks of slot machines,
O
's for blackjack tables,
R
's for roulette wheels, and so on. In the margins were mathematical calculations, the numbers blurry from repeated