Читать книгу Dead Man’s List - Mike Lawson - Страница 20

The pit boss had been chewing out one of his dealers for showing up late when he saw Eddie. Aw, shit. What was he doing here? He was alone at a five-dollar blackjack table and that’s what he was betting: just five bucks a hand. He obviously wasn’t here to gamble.

Eddie had to be the broadest man the pit boss had ever seen. Not fat, just wide. The damn guy’s shoulders had to be a yard across, and his chest and waist weren’t much smaller. He was like a big, square chunk of concrete on two stubby legs. But it was his hands that were scary: the size of catchers’ mitts, the fingers like mangled sausages, all splayed and bent up funny, crisscrossed with thick, ugly scars. He’d love to know who had been tough enough to fuck up Eddie’s hands that way, but he’d never ask. And he’d also bet—he’d bet every cent he had—that whoever had done it was dead and had died very painfully.

Oh, no. Eddie had just looked at him and moved his head, a little get-your-ass-over-here motion. He wanted to talk. Christ, why’d he have to be on duty tonight?

He walked over to the blackjack table. “Stacy,” he said to the dealer, “go powder your nose. Five minutes, no more.”

Stacy stacked her cards and walked away without a word. She was like most of their female dealers, in her forties, still good-looking enough to turn a few heads but past her prime as a stripper. And like most dealers, the woman was a complete zombie. The cards would fly from her hands, and she’d tell the suckers whether they’d busted or not, and she’d pick up their chips if they lost or pay ‘em if they won, but the whole time her mind was a zillion miles away, thinking about whatever these friggin’ gals thought about while they worked.

“Hey, Eddie,” he said as soon as Stacy was gone, “long time no see. What can I do for you?”

Please, please God, let him say he wants a hooker.

“You see that guy over there?” Eddie said. “At the twenty-five-dollar table, the guy in the green jacket?”

The pit boss turned his head slowly, like he was just casually taking in the room while they talked. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s the doc. He’s in here all the time. Loser.”

“Not tonight,” Eddie said. “I want him to win big.”

Aw, fuck.

“How much?”

“Ten, fifteen grand. That’ll be enough.”

“Okay.” Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.

The pit boss went back to his station in the middle of the blackjack tables, picked up his phone, and made a call. Five minutes later Ray was there, a man in his fifties, white shirt, little black bow tie like all the dealers wore—and fingers like a concert pianist. Ray was the best mechanic they had. Maybe the best mechanic on the boardwalk.

“Take over Dave’s table,” the pit boss said. “I want the guy in the green jacket to win ten grand.”

“You got it,” Ray said, eyes lighting up like a slot machine that had just paid off. Ray lived for this.

The pit boss spent the next two hours wishing he was someplace else. Anyplace else. He was pretty sure that he had just become an accessory to something, he didn’t know what, but whatever it was, he was sure it wasn’t good.

The doc let out another victory yell. The fuckin’ guy, he thought he was magic tonight. If he only knew.

The pit boss looked over at Eddie. He was still sitting alone at Stacy’s table, still betting just five bucks a hand. His eyes were focused on the doc, watching as the doc’s stack of chips grew taller.