She had looked directly at Tony when she added, “This is the real deal, Tony. No screwups.”

“I’m covered. I swear,” he’d declared.

• • •

Leo and Annabelle rode in a cab to the Pompeii and immediately took up their vigils. Annabelle watched a crew that she’d been observing running a past–posting scam at the roulette tables in casinos up and down the Boardwalk. There were various incarnations of past–posting, which had taken its name from a horse–racing scam where bets were laid down after the results of the race were known by the bettor. With roulette it involved surreptitiously sliding big dollar chips on winning numbers after the ball had dropped and then collecting. Some teams used a different technique. The bettor would hide the big chips under the cheaper ones before the ball dropped. Then the bettor would either “drag” or pull the big chips off the table if the number lost or do nothing except scream for joy if the number won, all right under the dealer’s nose. The latter technique had the distinct advantage of taking the powerful eye–in–the–sky out of the equation because it would only be called into play if the bet won. Then the tape would show that the bettor had done nothing with the chips, since he would only pull the chip if the bet lost. Past–posting at the roulette table involved enormous amounts of practice, timing, teamwork, patience, natural skill and, most of all, nerve.

Annabelle and Leo had once been masters at this game. However, the surveillance technology in use today by the casinos drastically reduced the chances of anyone except the very best cheats being able to conduct the scam successfully over time. And the nature of the con meant that you could only work it a limited number of times at a casino before you were taken down, so the bet and the odds had better be large enough to justify the risk.

Leo kept his eye on a blackjack table and a gent who’d been playing and winning for a nice stretch. Not big enough to arouse suspicion, but cumulatively Leo figured the guy was making a lot more than the minimum wage for sitting on his butt and sipping free drinks. He used his cell phone to call Annabelle.

“You ready to do this?” he asked.

“Looks like my past–posters are just about ready to hit it, so let’s go.”

Annabelle walked over to a thickset man she’d easily sized up as a pit boss and whispered into his ear, inclining her head toward the roulette table where the scam was happening.

“There’s a third–section–straight–up drag going down at table number six. The two women seated on the right side are the check–bettors. The mechanic’s in the chair near the bottom of the table. The claimer’s the skinny guy with glasses hanging back behind the dealer’s left shoulder. Call up to the eye–in–the–sky and tell the layout camera to zoom in on the action and hold until the drag’s executed.”

Roulette tables were so large they were routinely covered by two ceiling cameras, one aimed on the wheel, the other on the table. The problem was the surveillance tech could only look at one camera at a time. The pit boss stared at her for a second, but Annabelle’s authoritative description couldn’t be ignored. He quickly spoke into his headset, relaying this order.

Meanwhile, Leo sidled up to the pit boss in his section and whispered, “At blackjack table number five you got a bad dealer doing the zero–shuffle. The player in seat number three has a card counter analyzer strapped to his right thigh. If you get close enough, you can see the impression through his pant leg. He’s also got an intracranial in his right ear where he receives the call from the computer. The eye–in–the–sky won’t pick up the deck cut because the dealer’s movements obscure the slice, but if you get a handheld down here, you can record it easy enough from floor level.”

As with Annabelle’s warning, the pit boss only took a few seconds to call upstairs, and the handheld came down to take pictures.

Five minutes later the stunned cons were led away and the cops called.

Ten minutes after that, Annabelle and Leo found themselves in a part of the casino where no grandma with a Social Security check to blow would ever be invited.

Jerry Bagger rose from behind the huge desk in his lavish office, his hands in his pockets and several nice pieces of bling around his wrists and his muscular, tanned neck.

“Excuse me for not thanking you for saving me a few lousy grand,” he said in a bark of a voice that revealed his Brooklyn background. “Fact is I’m not used to people doing me favors. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t like the hair on my neck standing up. The only thing I like erect on my body is what’s behind my zipper.”

The six other men in the room, all in high–dollar suits with big shoulders that were not the result of padding, stared at Leo and Annabelle, their hands clasped in front of them.

Annabelle stepped forward. “We didn’t do it as a favor. We did it so we’d end up here to see you.”

Bagger spread his hands. “So you’re here. You’ve seen me. Now what?”

“A proposition.”

Bagger rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go.” He sat down on a leather couch, picked out a walnut from a bowl on the table there and cracked it open using only his right hand. “Is this the part where you say you’re going to make me a ton of money, even though I already got a ton of money?” He ate the bits of nut.

“Yes. And you can serve your country at the same time.”

Bagger snarled, “My country? Is that the same country that keeps looking to lock my ass up for doing something that’s perfectly legal?”

“We can help with that,” Annabelle said.

“Oh, so now you’re feds?” He looked at his men. “Hey, guys, we got feds in the casino. Call the fucking Orkin man.”

The muscle all laughed on cue.

Annabelle sat down on the couch next to Bagger and handed him a card. He looked at it. “Pamela Young, International Management, Inc.,” he read. “Means shit to me.” He tossed it back to her. “My guys tell me you two really know your casino scams. They teaching that in fed school now? Not that I believe you’re feds.”

Leo said in a gruff tone, “You run what in a day, thirty, forty mil? You have to keep a certain level of reserves to comply with state gaming regs, but that leaves a lot of cash to float. So what do you do with the excess? Come on, tell us.”

The casino owner looked at him in amazement. “I wallpaper my fucking house with it, asshole.” He looked at his muscle. “Get this jerk–off outta my face.”

His men moved forward, and two of them actually lifted Leo off the floor before Annabelle said, “What would you say to a ten percent return on that money?”

“I’d say that sucks.” Bagger rose and went toward his desk.

“I meant ten percent every two days.” He stopped, turned and looked at her. “What do you think of that?” she said.

“Too good to be true, so it is.” He took a steel–gray $5,000 casino chip from a desk drawer and tossed it to her. “Go have some fun. No need to thank me. Consider it a gift from God. Don’t let the door hit that nice ass on the way out.” He signaled his men to let Leo go.

She said, “Just think about it, Mr. Bagger. We’ll be back tomorrow to ask again. In accordance with my orders, we’re required to ask twice. If you don’t want in then, Uncle Sam will just go down the Boardwalk and give the deal to one of your competitors.”

“Good luck on that.”

She said confidently, “It worked in Vegas, it’ll work here.”

“Yeah, right. I wish I was smoking whatever it is you are.”

“Gambling revenue topped out five years ago, Mr. Bagger. So how can the Vegas crowd keep putting up billion–dollar properties? It’s like they’re printing money.” She paused. “And they are. And helping their country at the same time.”

He sat down behind his desk and stared at her with, for the first time, just a hint of interest. That was all Annabelle needed at this point.