my casinos, Ms Martinez,’ the woman had said. ‘And I want to know who it is.’
Harry had kept pace with her, studying her profile. She looked to be in her forties, maybe ten or twelve years older than Harry. Her features were fox-like, small and pointed, and her blonde hair was threaded with grey.
‘His name is Chavez,’ Riva continued. Chips snapped and clattered on the tables below the balcony. ‘Franco Chavez.’
‘Then you’ve already identified him?’
The woman threw her a stony glance. ‘I know his name. That doesn’t mean I know who he is.’
Riva swept ahead and Harry followed in silence, resisting a childish urge to pull a face behind her back. She’d done some digging before the meeting and had to admit, the woman’s history was a little intimidating. Raised by her mother in a trailer in Ohio, Riva had left school on her fourteenth birthday and hitch-hiked her way to Wisconsin. She’d lied about her age and got a job as a bunny girl, then lied again to become a casino dealer in Nevada. She’d bought her first casino at the age of twenty-one. Over the next twenty years, she’d built a powerful casino empire, expanding it across the States and into parts of Europe.
Harry eyed the uncompromising set of Riva’s back. She guessed you didn’t succeed in the corporate gaming world by being all soft and nurturing.
Riva came to a halt at the short side of the mezzanine and leaned her elbows on the railing.
‘This Franco Chavez clown is cheating his way across Europe, and my casinos are next.’ She glared at the floor below. ‘Maybe he’s already here.’
Harry moved beside her. Up close, she could see how age had loosened Riva’s skin, blurring a jawline that had probably once been heart-shaped. She tried to picture the underage bunny girl, but her brain shut the image down.
She cleared her throat. ‘Can I ask where you got your information?’
‘My Chief of Security, Victor Toledo. He’s got sources out in the field, and one of them tipped him off. It’s my guess this Chavez is using a computer. Some kind of gadget.’
‘Is that what your informant said?’
‘No, but that’s what all the new cheaters try these days. That’s why I want you.’ She turned a pair of flinty-grey eyes on Harry. ‘It’s what you do, isn’t it? Technology investigations?’
‘That’s putting it broadly, but yes, in a way.’
‘Like I said on the phone, you come highly recommended.’ Riva drilled her with an assessing look. ‘You’ve got the technology, plus you’re half-Spanish, so I guess you speak the lingo.’
‘A quarter Spanish, actually.’
Harry’s father had been born here in San Sebastián. She blamed him for her sooty eyes and dark tangle of curls. The rest of her was mostly Irish. Riva went on as though Harry hadn’t spoken.
‘And if what I’ve heard is true, you’re no stranger to casinos, either.’
Something else Harry could blame her father for. She’d been apprenticed to his gambling career since she was six years old, and there wasn’t much she didn’t know about casinos. She shrugged in acknowledgement, a sense of misgiving chafing at her insides.
‘What about your own surveillance team?’ she said. ‘Surely the cameras can catch Chavez?’
Riva clicked her tongue and whirled away, heels snip-snapping against the floor. If shoes could be bad-tempered, then hers were in quite a snit. Harry trotted to keep up.
Riva spoke over her shoulder. ‘Cameras only record the action. Someone on the floor needs to spot the move first before knowing what tape to re-wind. Those bozos in the eye don’t turn up much on their own.’
‘I thought they were supposed to be experts.’
Riva snorted. ‘In the old days, maybe. Vegas used to hire ex-cheaters to do their spying. They knew stuff, those old guys. But nowadays, it’s greenhorns fresh out of school with a six-week training course under their belt. They couldn’t spot a slick move if the cheater was sitting in their lap.’
‘But their equipment’s pretty sophisticated, isn’t it?’
‘Yep. That’s half the problem. Shuffle machines, smart card shoes, self-activating cameras. Technology has dulled their edge. I don’t need goddamn automated robots, I need proactive surveillance.’ Riva wheeled around to face Harry. ‘What’s the matter, are you afraid?’
Harry stopped in her tracks. ‘Afraid of what?’
‘The cheaters. You should be. They can be dangerous.’
Harry blinked, and Riva waved a dismissive hand.
‘Oh, not the small-time hustlers, they’re usually harmless. I’m talking about organized crews. Colluding professionals. You think you’re watching them, but half the time they’re watching you.’ She must have read the unease in Harry’s face, for she went on: ‘Just stay in the casino. Nothing can happen in front of the cameras.’
A small shiver scampered down Harry’s spine. Riva glanced at her watch and frowned.
‘Look, do you want the damn job or don’t you?’
Harry hesitated. Good question. She pondered it for a moment, then came to a decision.
‘Yes, I want the damn job.’
After that, they’d retired to Riva’s office to agree terms, and Harry had started billing hours to her new client the following day.
‘No más apuestas.’ No more bets.
Harry whipped her gaze back to the table. The American had gone, his place taken by a blond guy with an easy smile. She watched him flirt with a redhead beside him, then noticed that the fat punter had joined them from the other game. He was standing next to her, still playing castanets with his chips. Harry glanced up at the balcony. Riva had disappeared.
Harry puffed out a breath. She shouldn’t have taken the job, but she’d had her reasons, none of which she cared to examine now. She glanced at the players. Privately, she wasn’t convinced Chavez would use an electronic device. Sure, people tried them: laser scanners predicting where the ball would land; radio transmitters designed to control the spins. But that didn’t mean any of them worked. And what the hell did Riva expect her to do? Scan the room for electronic equipment? Triangulate in on radio emissions? With everyone carrying mobile phones, there wasn’t a lot of point.
‘Treinta y cuatro, rojo, par.’
The dealer placed his marker on number thirty-four. The fat guy rubbed his eyes, then went back to clacking his chips.
Harry’s brain lurched.
The fat guy rubbed his eyes.
Her mind groped with the fuzzy déjà vu, but couldn’t slot it into place.
‘Well, hey! Looky-here!’
Harry stared.
