I don’t know all that much about it, Curtis says. To tell you the truth. Gitmo’s a Navy base, but the Army’s responsible for security inside the camp. I was just there to handle the logistics of the transfer. I never had a lot of contact with the detainees.
Well. It’s somebody else’s problem now, right? You’re joining us in the gaming industry.
Yeah. Honest work at last.
Kagami laughs. I see a lot of you ex-military guys in security, he says. Lots of former MPs. Your buddy at the Spectacular—Damon, right? Was he an MP, too?
An MP, then later an MSG. An embassy marine, in Bolivia and Pakistan.
Sounds like serious business.
Damon’s a sharp guy. I’m looking forward to working with him.
That’s good to hear. You know, Kagami says, I don’t think you told me why your friend is trying to get in touch with Stanley Glass.
Kagami is smiling, slowly tearing his frybread; it falls to his plate in nickel-size chunks. His eyes are still hidden by the reflected sunset, but Curtis can tell from the tone of his voice that he already knows the answer to his question, has heard the news from somebody in Atlantic City and figured it out. He’s probably known since they walked into the restaurant. All that stuff about Gitmo was designed to rattle Curtis, to make him sweat a little. A soft spot Kagami knows about somehow. How?
The waiter comes with their entrées, unfolds a stand, sets his tray down. Kagami has ordered braised duck with blackberry sauce; Curtis’s steak is served with a tiny bowl of steaming posole. Everything is very good.
They eat in silence for a moment. Curtis chews slowly, sets his fork on the edge of his plate, looks down into the valley. He opts to stick to the script, see how far it gets him. Damon’s trying to clear up a misunderstanding, he says. Two months ago he wrote Stanley a marker for ten grand, and Stanley hasn’t made any payments on it. On Tuesday night—midnight Eastern—it’s going to be delinquent. That’d be bad for Damon and for Stanley both. Damon just wants to work something out.
And that’s why he asked you to come out here.
Yes sir.
Kagami takes off his glasses, polishes them on the edge of the tablecloth. Curtis, he says, you and I both know that doesn’t make a goddamn bit of sense. Ten grand is not a lot of money, not for a joint like the Spectacular. And there’s a hell of a difference between delinquent and irrecuperable. Your friend won’t take any heat for writing that marker. Sure, it’s cute that he’s worried about Stanley—but at this point Stanley is a celebrity, a goddamn institution. Casino hosts and credit agents from one end of this country to the other will comp him six ways to Sunday just for darkening their door, no matter whose black book he shows up in. Casinos love professional gamblers, Curtis. They’re great for business. They’re like saints. Proof that salvation is really possible.
Curtis looks up, doesn’t say anything. He knows there’s more coming, and he’s just going to wait for it. A raven strides into view from under the tables, disappears again. The wind shifts. From somewhere in the mountains he can hear the engines of a lowflying A-10; he thinks about the Gulf again, but only for a moment.
Kagami eases his glasses back onto his face. I heard an interesting story recently, he says. About two weeks ago, a team of cardcounters hit a string of casinos in Atlantic City. Like you’d expect, the bosses are being pretty tightlipped about how much these guys won, but the rumor mill’s been throwing around some pretty goddamn unbelievable numbers. In any case, the managers could look at their counts at the end of the night and see right away that something bad had happened. Do you know how often cardcounters make hauls like that without getting burned, Curtis?
No idea.
Never. In all my years, I’ve heard of it happening maybe three or four times. Always to a single casino. These guys clobbered four or five places inside of twelve hours. That is unprecedented.
Kagami lifts his wineglass, drains it, refills it from the bottle. I’m bringing this up in the present context, he says, because—funny thing—the joint that got nailed worst of all was the Spectacular. What strikes me as really strange is that the Point was also the last joint to get hit. Hours after the other ones. Is this ringing any bells with you?
You just keep going, Curtis says. You’re doing real good.
I have it on pretty solid authority that security at the Point was tipped off in advance that these guys were coming, and they thought they were ready. All hands were on deck. In AC, of course, you guys aren’t legally permitted to bar counters the way we do out here, but there are other defenses, as I’m sure you know. From what I hear, the Spectacular threw out the whole bag of tricks: lowering table limits, reshuffling decks, the works. Pissed a lot of people off. And they still got massacred. From where I sit—and I’m speaking now from the perspective of a casino manager—that does not look too good.