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“
You
can’t.”
“We can’t allow you to cheat either, Mr. Pendergast.”
“Why, Mr. Kemper,” Pendergast responded, his voice full of hurt, “did I say I was going to
cheat
?”
Kemper said nothing.
“A characteristic of card counters is that they stick by their system. A normal player will quit if he’s losing heavily—but not a professional card counter. He knows the odds will eventually come around. That’s to our advantage.” Pendergast looked at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. That leaves three hours of prime play ahead. Mr. Kemper, be so kind as to extend me a half-million line of credit.”
“Did you say half a
million
?” “I’d hate to find myself short just when things got going.”
Kemper thought hard for a minute. “Are you going to get back our money?”
Pendergast smiled. “I shall try.”
Kemper swallowed. “All right.”
“You’ll need to have Mr. Hentoff warn your pit bosses and dealers that my play might be eccentric, even suspicious—although it will always remain within legal bounds. I’ll take my seat at first base—on the dealer’s left—and I’ll be sitting out about fifty percent of the hands played, so please tell your peoplenot to move me if I’m not playing. Hentoff should instruct his dealers to give me the cut at every normal opportunity, particularly when I first sit down. I’ll appear to be drinking heavily, so make sure when I order a gin and tonic I’m brought only tonic water.”
“All right.”
“Would it be possible to lift the maximum wager at one of the high-stakes tables?”
“You mean, no upper limit to a bet?”
“Yes. It will ensure the counters mark that table, and it will make taking the money back much more efficient.”
Kemper felt a bead of sweat trickling down his brow. “We can do that.”
“And finally, please have Mr. Hentoff staff that table with a dealer with small hands and thin fingers. The less experienced, the better. Have him or her place the end-of-play card high up in the shoe.”
“Do I dare ask why?” said Kemper.
“You dare not.”
“Mr. Pendergast, if we catch you cheating, it’s going to be extremely awkward for both of us.”
“I will not cheat—you have my word.”
“How can you possibly influence play when none of the players ever touch the cards?”
Pendergast smiled enigmatically. “There are ways, Mr. Kemper. Oh, and I shall need an assistant, one of your cocktail waitresses, someone invisible, discreet, and intelligent, who will bring me my drinks and be on call for some—how shall it put it?—unusualassignments I may suddenly give her. They are to be performed unquestionably and without hesitation.”
“This had better work.”
Pendergast paused. “Naturally, if successful, I shall expect another favor in return.”
“Naturally,” said Kemper. Pendergast rose, turned, then glided through the office door into the central monitoring room beyond. Just before the door closed, Kemper could hear his honeyed southern voice raised. “My word, now it’s the apadravyas position. And at their age!”
27
THE ELDERLY WOMAN IN STATEROOM 1039 TURNED SLIGHTLY IN HER bed, mumbling in her sleep.
A moment later, she turned again, the mumbling growing fretful. Something was interfering with her slumber: a rapping sound, loud, insistent.
Her eyes opened. “Inge?” she croaked.
The only reply was another rap.
The woman raised one gnarled hand, grasping a steel bar that ran across the length of the headboard. Slowly, painfully, she raised herself to a sitting position. She had been dreaming; a rather lovely dream involving Monty Hall, door number 2, and petroleum jelly. She licked her desiccated lips, trying to recall the details, but they were already fading into a fog of elusive memories.
“Where is that girl?” she mumbled, feeling a twinge of fear.
The rapping continued. It came from somewhere beyond the bedroom.
From beneath countless layers of satin and sea-island cotton, a withered hand emerged. It plucked dentures from a dish on the bedside table, seated them over anemic gums. Then it reached out—flexing, grasping—until it closed over the handle of a cane. With a series of groans and imprecations, she raised herself to her feet. The ship was rolling noticeably and she kept one hand against the wall as she moved toward the bedroom door.
“Inge!” she called.
She felt another wash of fear. She hated being dependent, truly hated it, and she was scared and embarrassed by her frailty. All her life she had been independent, and now this rotten old age, this horrible dependency on others.
She turned on the light and looked around, trying to master her fright. Where was that damn girl? It was outrageous, leaving her alone. What if she fell? Or had a heart attack? Take pity on a girl, bring her into your service, and how did she repay you? With disrespect, disloyalty, disobedience. Inge was probably out carousing with some low element of the ship’s staff. Well, this was the last straw: as soon as the ship was docked in New York, she’d send the vixen packing. No notice, no recommendations. She could use her charms—the tramp—to work her way back to Sweden.
Gaining the doorway, the old woman stopped to rest, leaning heavily on the frame. The rapping was louder here—it came from the main door of the suite: and now she could hear a voice as well.
“Petey! Hey, Pete!” The voice was muffled, coming from the corridor beyond. “What?” the woman cried. “Who is that? What do you want?”
The rapping stopped. “Pete, come
on
!” the slurred voice replied. “We aren’t going to wait all night.”
“Hey, Petey-boy, get your ass out here!” said another drunken voice from beyond the door. “Remember those babes we met in Trafalgar’s tonight? Well, after you left, they came back to the club. And we’ve been sucking down champagne ever since. Now they’re back in my room, shit-faced. Come on, bud, it’s your chance to get laid. And the tall blonde one’s got a rack that—”
The old woman began to tremble with rage and indignation. She took a fresh hold on the doorframe. “Leave me alone!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “Get out of here!”
“What?” came the first voice, a little bewildered now.
“I said, go away!”
A pause. Then a giggle. “Oh,
shit
!” came the second voice. “Rog, we fucked up!”
“No, man, I’m sure he said 1039.”
“I’m calling security!” shrilled the old woman.
From the corridor beyond the door there came an explosion of mirth, then the sound of retreating footsteps.
Breathing heavily, the woman pushed herself away from the doorframe and surveyed the room beyond, leaning on her cane. Sure enough: the couch hadn’t been slept in. The clock above the couch read half past eleven. She had been abandoned. She was alone.