Jack took a hesitant step forward, then stopped.

Another tall black, bareheaded and grinning, moved aside to make room for Jack. "Right here, man."

Okay. Jack knew the sticks now. And from the size and number of the gold rings on their hands, business must be good lately.

"Winnin' ain't sinnin'," said the shaker at the center of the semicircle, a black ferret in a dark blue hoodie, hunched behind the makeshift cardboard table. In his mid-twenties, he was the old man of the crew, and its leader. "I repeat, I never cheat, I'm just the one you gotta beat."

Jack shrugged. Might as well join the crowd. This would be a good dose of reality to help banish the rakoshi remnants from last night.

He moved into the opening, bringing the number of marks up to three. To his right stood a Hispanic couple looking about thirty; the guy had a mullet haircut and wore a diamond earring; the woman had a round face and shiny black hair pulled back into a tight bun.

"Awright!" said Knitcap with a welcoming grin. "Keep your eyes open now, yo."

Jack smiled, accepting the welcome. Sure, they were glad to see him: fresh meat. Knitcap didn't want him as an extra pair of eyes watching the shaker; he wanted another sucker at the table. Jack slipped Vicky's book inside his shirt and watched the action.

He figured monte had to be five thousand years old, much older than its more common cousin, three-card monte. Somebody using three walnut shells and a dried pea probably had ripped off the pharaoh's workers during breaks between hauling stone blocks to the pyramids. The modern day version substituted white plastic Evian caps and a little handmade ball of rouge, but the object was the same: find a sucker and fleece him.

The shaker leaned over a piece of cardboard supported on two cardboard boxes. He clutched a thin stack of tens and twenties in his left hand, secured by his middle, ring and little fingers, leaving his thumb and index finger free to manipulate the caps and ball. His hands flew back and forth, crisscrossing over and under as his nimble fingers lifted and dropped the caps, skedaddling the little ball back and forth, a flash of red appearing and vanishing, but not so quickly you couldn't see where it came to rest.

That was the whole point, of course. Let the marks think they had a lock on the ball's location.

Jack ignored the ball and listened to the shaker's patter. That was where the real action was. That was how he communicated with his sticks.

"Watch till you're blind, no tricks will you find. I pay forty if you put down twenny. Forty down earns a hunnert, and believe me that's plenty. The ball goes around, it hides and it shows. It goes in, it goes out, till nobody knows. Forty's come to play, now cop me the money. You cry when I win, I laugh 'cause it's funny."

Hidden in the chatter was a set of precise instructions to Knitcap.

Jack never played monte, but out of curiosity he'd made a practice of eavesdropping on shaker patter whenever he had the chance. They all used a similar code, and by careful watching and listening he'd managed to break it.

"Cop" told the stick to win, "blow" to lose. "Money" signaled the cap near his left hand where the shaker held his money, although Jack had heard other shakers call it "rich."

"See" was the middle cap, "switch" was the one on the other end from the money hand.

By loading his riff with "forty's come to play, now cop me the money," the shaker was telling Knitcap to bet forty bucks and win by picking the cap near the shaker's left hand.

Sure enough, Knitcap bet forty bucks, found the rouge ball under the cap next to the money hand, and collected a hundred dollars.

"I'm no sinner," the shaker announced. "We have a winner!"

Knitcap was all smiles. "I'm up!" He pointed his money at Jack. "You my good luck, yo. You wanna play, I'll watch for you."

Before Jack could decline, the Hispanic guy jumped in. "Hey, no. It's me this time. I'm down."

"Santo, you've lost enough," said his wife. At least Jack assumed it was his wife. Both wore wedding rings.

"Hey, how about me?" said Nocap, close on Jack's left.

"Let's not fight, I'll make things right," said the shaker as he started the skedaddle again. "Everybody gets a turn, I'm a man with time to burn."

Santo dropped two twenties onto the cardboard. The shaker kept up his chatter but no instructions now since neither stick was in the game. He shuffled the caps, skittering the ball between them, demonstrating absolute control. But just before he stopped he let the rouge ball slow so that everyone could see it come to rest under the middle cap.

"Didja see it?" whispered Nocap.

"Yep," Jack said.

Doing your damnedest to lure me in, aren't you.

Jack watched closely as the shaker slid the three caps forward and arranged them along the front of the cardboard. Jack knew that was when the ball would be moved from under the cap to the web between the shaker's thumb and forefinger. He was expecting the transfer, looking for it, but still didn't spot it. This guy was slick.

The shaker said, "There they are, lined up tight. Forty pay a hunnert if you pick it right."

Santo didn't hesitate. He pointed to the center cap.

The shaker lifted it—nothing. He lifted the other two and…out rolled the little red ball from under the one in his right hand.

Santo pounded his fist against his thigh and cursed in Spanish.

"Okay," said his wife, tugging on his arm. "That's it. That's a hundred twenty dollars you lost now."

Knitcap stepped around, blocking their retreat, and started yelling at the shaker. "Hey, yo, you gotta give this guy another chance!"

Nocap chimed in. "Yeah, man. Give him a double or nothing so he can get even at least!"

Knitcap added. "What he said. Help this guy out or I'm walking!"

Let the sucker go, Jack thought. You've soaked him enough.

Apparently they didn't think so.

The shaker shrugged. "Awright, awright. He puts down fifty he can win back his one-twenty."

What, no rhymes? Jack thought.

"No, Santo," said the wife.

But Santo had the fever. He popped his diamond earring into his hand and held it out.

"I got no more cash. How 'bout this?"

"No!" his wife gasped. "I bought you that!"

The shaker took the earring, held the tiny diamond up, twisting it this way and that in the light.

Say no, Jack thought, sending the shaker a mental message. Let him go.

The shaker shrugged. "Awright," he said with almost believable reluctance. "I'll make an exception this once."

"Mah man!" Knitcap said, slapping Santo on the back. "You gonna win! I can smell winnin' in the air!"

Jack ground his teeth. Sons of bitches.

The woman wailed. "Santo!"

"Don't worry," Santo told her. "I won't lose it."

Oh, yes you will, Jack thought, but could say nothing.

He fumed as he watched the shaker put the earring on the cardboard and begin the skedaddle. One thing to fleece a sucker. Rules of the street were, someone stupid enough to bet on a game like this deserved to lose, and Jack had no quarrel with that. Sort of a tax on the street impaired. But there were limits. You collected the tax and moved the guy along. It was stone cold to suck him dry, especially in front of his woman.

Jack usually ran his Annual Park-a-thon for the Little League at night, but he was incensed enough now to make an exception for this monte crew.

He studied the sticks, then turned and checked out the slides. Most likely they were all carrying knives; none of them looked to be packing heat, but damn near impossible to tell under those bulky coats.

He made a decision as he turned back to the game: He would accept a donation from these generous fellows, allowing them the honor of being the first contributors to this year's Little League fund.