Operation Sea Ghost

19

Monte Carlo

BATMAN AND TWITCH returned to the shabby hostel and wearily climbed seven floors up to their room.

It had turned into a sweltering day and the sound of race cars revving their engines and taking practice laps nearby provided constant background noise. Even louder mechanical rumblings were coming from the harbor; their vibrations ran so deep, they shook the hostel to its creaky foundations.

The room’s version of air conditioning was an ancient electric fan stuck on low. Batman and Twitch, sweaty and exhausted, sat down in front of it and relived the strange events of the morning.

“There’s really only one solution to this,” Batman said finally. “If we’re going to find that f*cking box, get our ten million back and get paid, we better hope that gagnant game exists, because one of us has to get into it.”

Twitch wiped his brow. “Well, it’s got to be you,” he said. “Last time I was involved in a card game, I wound up shooting four guys in the head.”

Batman laughed darkly. “You never know,” he replied. “You might have to do it again.”

Twitch tried to get the fan to move faster, but the switch would not budge off low.

“But remember,” he said. “If that a-hole Maurice, or Bobby Murphy or whoever the f*ck he is, is telling the truth and there is a game, the buy-in is fifty million dollars. How can we get that, if we can’t even make a phone call?”

Batman stared out the room’s one window for a long time.

Then he said: “Let me think about that for a while. I might know a way.”

* * *

THEY BOTH COLLAPSED on their rollouts and, despite the racket outside, soon fell into fitful sleeps.

Batman’s dreams were especially upsetting. In a peculiar vision of the Grand Maison Casino, he was sitting on the balcony, but he was in a wheelchair, a broken down invalid. The casino itself was deserted and in disrepair. The penthouse was in shambles; the concourse below was it overgrown and the Olympic pool empty and cracked. On his lap was a newspaper with front-page stories that kept changing before he could read them.

But one headline he could see clearly. In big, bold type, it read: “Opportunity Lost?”

* * *

BATMAN WOKE AROUND 8:00 P.M.

He left Twitch sleeping in front of the fan and climbed up to the hostel’s roof.

He was surprised that this particular part of Monte Carlo had been left to wither. The view from here was spectacular, especially at night.

He looked out over the high-priced penthouses and luxury buildings and the casinos beyond. He wondered how much money was jammed into this half square-mile of seafront property.

A few billion?

A few trillion?

More?

All they needed was a small fraction of that—fifty million dollars. Back in his Wall Street days, before Madoff, before the Crash, he could make someone fifty million during a coffee break.

He thought about this for a long time, then recalled the headline from his dream.

“Opportunity Lost?”

What a strange thing to see.

* * *

THE PETITE JUNQUE was the smallest casino in Monte Carlo.

It was two blocks from the hostel, on a back street where the vendors who worked the waterfront area during the day left their idle carts at night.

It was the only casino in town that was frequented more by locals than tourists; it didn’t appear on any travelogues. Just one large room, with fifty gaming tables and a bar, there were no frills, no tuxedo-clad doormen and certainly no Rolls-Royce taxicabs. Instead, the place smelled of Noisette, cheap brandy and cigarette smoke. This was Monte Carlo’s version of Fulton Street in Las Vegas. Bright, harsh and as far away from the Strip as possible.

Batman arrived just before 9:00 P.M. He was alone; at his request Twitch had stayed behind. What Batman was about to do, he felt he had to do solo. Because if he failed, if he went down in flames, to have a witness present would be unbearable.

He’d sold his pistol to the hostel owner, fifty euros for a $450 weapon, plus ammunition. Batman fought back the sting now as he converted the euros into chips. That gun had been with him since his first day in officer training.

He walked slowly among the tables, hoping instinct would lead him to the right one. But after three times around the floor, he wasn’t getting vibes from any table, any dealer, from anywhere. Finally he selected a table at random, close to the back of the place, almost in the shadows.

He sat down and asked for a glass of mineral water. He accepted a free cigarillo from the waitress. Four other people were at the table. The game was blackjack. It was five Euros a hand.

As the cards were being dealt, Batman took out a piece of tinfoil and unwrapped a small herb inside. It looked like a cross between a garlic clove and a small tulip bulb.

It was a parting gift from Chief Bol Bada of the Ekita, the same magic herb they’d cooked him in. Batman believed this plant had led to everything he’d experienced in the past forty-eight hours. For at least part of that time, absolutely everything had gone his way, as if he’d been in direct contact with the cosmos. But then that connection became a little too close, with troubling, mind-bending side effects.

This was the first time he’d looked at it since that long night in Somalia. Should he try it again? Would it have the same effect on him? The same downside?

He was desperate. If there was a gagnant game, it was to be played at midnight, now only three hours away. Not to try to find it and get in it would be giving up, an opportunity lost. And he just couldn’t stand that.

So, he finally pinched off a little piece of the bulb, put it between his teeth and bit down.

It tasted like vinegar and burned his tongue.

* * *

BATMAN LOST THE next nine hands in a row.

Each time he was but one or two numbers away from beating the dealer, a swarthy Italian with too many earrings and not enough mouthwash; each time he crashed and burned.

Batman questioned everything during the losing streak. Why did he take so little for his beloved pistol—he should have gotten at least a hundred Euros for it. And was this the right casino to start his bizarre quest? Or should he have just gone down to the waterfront and started playing there? And was this place even on the level? How could a dealer win nine close hands in a row?

Had he made a grave mistake, ingesting a bit of the bulb? That was the biggest question of all.

He was down to his last five-Euro chip. He thought a moment, then prayed, hard, for the first time in a long time. Then he threw it in and opened his eyes … and saw someone standing behind the dealer.

That person looked at Batman, then smiled and nodded, as if to say: Take a hit.

And Batman nodded back, as if to say: Hello, again old friend.

* * *

ONE HOUR LATER, Batman was tipping the malodorous dealer 1,000 Euros.

He was also signing a register noting him as one of the biggest single winners in the Petite Junque’s history. He was even given a bottle of cheap champagne by the casino’s manager to mark the occasion.

None of this was because the casino liked him. They were just happy to see him go. Because when he stepped out onto Avenue des Beaux-Arts, he had $874,000 in his pocket.

He walked three blocks to the Summer Casino, giving the champagne to some tourists along the way. As planned, Twitch was waiting for him outside the casino’s front door.

Twitch was surprised to see his colleague at exactly 10:00 PM, the agreed-upon time. Batman was rarely on time for anything. But Twitch was even more surprised to see Batman smiling. Until lately, that was a rare sight.

“Are you hungry?” Batman asked him as a greeting.

“Always,” Twitch replied.

They walked into the casino; the Michelin Guide called it “a moderately expensive place to visit.” They were seated at the bar, and with Batman’s urging, Twitch ordered a steak and a double scotch. Batman, meanwhile, wanted only a soda water.

Finally, Twitch couldn’t take it anymore. He was still completely in the dark.

“What’s happened?” he asked Batman.

“My plan is working” was all Batman said.

“You mean that bitch Lady Luck is smiling on you?” Twitch asked.

“Something like that,” Batman replied.

He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. Twitch’s eyes almost fell out of his head.

“Jesus…” he gasped. “Did you play at that casino or rob it?”

“Little bit of both,” Batman replied cryptically.

Twitch’s steak and drink arrived in record time. “OK, then,” he said, diving into his meal. “What’s the next part of the plan?”

Batman drained his water. Twitch saw him bite down on something between his teeth.

Then Batman said: “The plan is, you stay here, enjoy that steak and drink it up.”

“But where are you going?” Twitch asked him.

“I’ve got to find the l’arrière-salle in this place,” Batman told him, meaning: the back room. “I just hope they have one.”

* * *

TWITCH WAS FINISHING his third glass of scotch when Batman reappeared.

His smile was even wider now and he looked like he had an aura glowing around him.

“Ready to go?” he asked Twitch.

Twitch was confused. Batman had been away twenty minutes at the most.

“You mean we’re done here?” Twitch asked. “Already?”

As a reply, Batman pulled out the wad of bills again. It had doubled in size.

Twitch couldn’t believe it.

“Damn…” Twitch said. “What the f*ck are you doing back there?”

Batman paid the bar bill, including a hefty tip. He guided Twitch toward the exit.

“The night awaits” was all Batman said.

* * *

THEY VISITED THREE more casinos in the next hour. The Monte-Carlo Bay, the good old Sun Casino and the so-called Café Casino.

The pattern was the same at all three: Twitch drank at the bar while Batman disappeared for about twenty minutes. When he returned, he’d be happier than ever—and carrying a bankroll that grew so large, they finally had to purchase a travel bag to carry it in.

Twitch had no idea what was going on. Batman was obviously gambling in some way, but he seemed to be doing nothing but winning huge amounts of money in short periods of time. So when they started off toward the fifth casino, the exclusive Casino at Monte Carlo, Twitch drunkenly begged Batman to let him watch. Batman finally agreed.

They walked in and Batman exchanged most of his cash for a tray of gold chips. Each was worth $100,000. They walked through the most prestigious gaming area they could find, where Batman flagged down a floor manager. Slipping him one of the $100,000 chips, they had a brief conversation, and the floor man bid them to follow him.

He led them through an unmarked door that led into a smaller, windowless, previously unseen gaming area. It was ringed by armed plainclothes guards watching over just ten tables. The room was dark and elegant, and hushed. No one was talking over a whisper.

“Every casino in Monte Carlo has one of these places,” Batman told Twitch quietly. “No limits on betting. Anything goes. You just got to know how to get in.”

Twitch watched as Batman scoped out the various gaming tables. It took him a few moments, but he finally found a blackjack game to his liking. Three other players were on hand.

Batman took his seat and played five hands for 100 Euros each, losing each one. The low figure of his wager caused snarls from the other players. Why was this man here if he was just betting mere hundreds?

Then, when the sixth hand was dealt, Batman suddenly threw in all of the gold chips. Twitch almost passed out. His colleague was betting more than five million dollars—on one hand.

Twitch tried to get Batman’s attention, but his friend’s eyes had glazed over. He seemed to be looking at a spot over the dealer’s shoulder.

The dealer was stunned by the bet, but tried not to show it. He dealt the next card. Batman was showing seventeen, a high number and risky to take another hit.

Yet he did—his card was a four.

And he won.

Just like that.

The other players gasped as the dealer, now pale and unwell-looking, pushed a mountain of gold chips in Batman’s direction. A pit boss appeared and offered to help compute Batman’s winnings, but Batman politely declined.

“I know how much I have,” he said.

And so did Twitch.

By his count, Batman had just won ten million dollars.

The dealer took out a new deck of cards and, his face slightly ashen, asked the players to put up again.

Batman pushed his new mountain of chips forward and smiled madly.

“All in,” he said. “And may the best man win.”