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Authors: Chuck Hogan
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SOUTH THROUGH Rhode Island into Connecticut in Gloansy's tricked-out '84 Monte SS, black with orange trim. With three convicted felons on board and riding with a lot of cash, Gloansy couldn't be trusted to keep his Halloween-mobile under the speed limit, so Dez had the wheel. Doug sat up front with him, working the radio and using his side mirror now and then, idly checking for tails, while Jem and Gloansy split a six in back.
Two hours to Foxwoods, door to door. Careful as they were on the job, even a circulated bill could be marked, and washing the money was one of Doug's rituals. Insisting on it had the added benefit of slowing Jem's and Gloansy's spending.
Jem liked the roulette wheel and usually ended up dropping half of what he came to wash, drinking Seven and Sevens on the house and overtipping like a fifteen-year-old out on a date.
Gloansy bought a $12 cigar and set out to lose at high-min poker.
Dez floated back and forth between rooms, paranoid about pit bosses and floor managers with their cop eyes.
Doug worked steadily at the blackjack tables. He started by laying out sixty twenties on the felt of a $50 table and watched the dirty bills get dunked, forty-eight $25 chips pushed over to him. He drank Cokes without ice and played not to win but to not lose, which is different. Not losing means staying in every hand as long as possible, sitting on fifteens and sixteens and letting the dealer do all the busting. When he cashed in thirty minutes later, he was down only six chips. He folded the clean $1,050 into his zippered pocket and moved on to a $100 table, washing another quick $1,300 there before cashing out and rotating again.
It took him less than three hours to roll over the entire eight grand, ending hot, dropping a total of $320 in play and tips, a minuscule 4 percent commission to what the papers said was the most profitable casino in the country.
He met up with Dez again by a revolving red Infiniti. They made two complete circuits of the floor before an Indian war cry brought them to Jem, finding him doing a rain dance around the $50 roulette table, having finally scored on double zero. They cashed him in and steered him away.
Jem wanted to stop for a quarter-hour massage at one of the jack shacks near the casino, but Gloansy refused. "The red man just jerked me off for nineteen hundred dollars, I'm not going to pay some greasy geisha half a yard to do the same."
Instead, Doug drove them a few exits north to a steak house, where they filled a booth by the window in sight of the back-finned Monte. Soon the table was cluttered with steaks, High Lifes, and Doug's large no-ice Mountain Dew.
"So what's next, Duggy?" asked Gloansy.
"Strip club," chewed Jem.
"I mean, for us. For the team."
"I don't know," said Doug. "Think we need to mix it up a bit. I'm looking at a few things."
Jem said, "You talked about hitting a can."
"Maybe. Might be looking at something softer first."
Jem waved that off. "Fuck softer."
"Hitting a can means daylight. Armed guards, crowds, traffic. Going in strong like that, I don't know. We need a win."
Jem pointed his steak knife. "You're losing your edge, DigDug. Startin' to worry about you. Used to be you were the first one to throw down gloves and go."
"Used to be I got a hard-on every morning, homeroom. But now it's 1996 and I'm thirty-two, and I got that shit together."
Gloansy said, "Whatever it is, I'm ready. Anytime you say, Duggy."
Jem speared one of Gloansy's pinkest morsels and pushed it into his own mouth. "Anytime I say, corn hole."
Gloansy watched his steak get swallowed, poured ketchup on more. "I'm sure that's what I meant."
They ate and drank and got loud and stupid as usual. Doug tried to hustle them along like children, like he was running a fucking field trip outside the Town.
Gloansy
Two hours to Foxwoods, door to door. Careful as they were on the job, even a circulated bill could be marked, and washing the money was one of Doug's rituals. Insisting on it had the added benefit of slowing Jem's and Gloansy's spending.
Jem liked the roulette wheel and usually ended up dropping half of what he came to wash, drinking Seven and Sevens on the house and overtipping like a fifteen-year-old out on a date.
Gloansy bought a $12 cigar and set out to lose at high-min poker.
Dez floated back and forth between rooms, paranoid about pit bosses and floor managers with their cop eyes.
Doug worked steadily at the blackjack tables. He started by laying out sixty twenties on the felt of a $50 table and watched the dirty bills get dunked, forty-eight $25 chips pushed over to him. He drank Cokes without ice and played not to win but to not lose, which is different. Not losing means staying in every hand as long as possible, sitting on fifteens and sixteens and letting the dealer do all the busting. When he cashed in thirty minutes later, he was down only six chips. He folded the clean $1,050 into his zippered pocket and moved on to a $100 table, washing another quick $1,300 there before cashing out and rotating again.
It took him less than three hours to roll over the entire eight grand, ending hot, dropping a total of $320 in play and tips, a minuscule 4 percent commission to what the papers said was the most profitable casino in the country.
He met up with Dez again by a revolving red Infiniti. They made two complete circuits of the floor before an Indian war cry brought them to Jem, finding him doing a rain dance around the $50 roulette table, having finally scored on double zero. They cashed him in and steered him away.
Jem wanted to stop for a quarter-hour massage at one of the jack shacks near the casino, but Gloansy refused. "The red man just jerked me off for nineteen hundred dollars, I'm not going to pay some greasy geisha half a yard to do the same."
Instead, Doug drove them a few exits north to a steak house, where they filled a booth by the window in sight of the back-finned Monte. Soon the table was cluttered with steaks, High Lifes, and Doug's large no-ice Mountain Dew.
"So what's next, Duggy?" asked Gloansy.
"Strip club," chewed Jem.
"I mean, for us. For the team."
"I don't know," said Doug. "Think we need to mix it up a bit. I'm looking at a few things."
Jem said, "You talked about hitting a can."
"Maybe. Might be looking at something softer first."
Jem waved that off. "Fuck softer."
"Hitting a can means daylight. Armed guards, crowds, traffic. Going in strong like that, I don't know. We need a win."
Jem pointed his steak knife. "You're losing your edge, DigDug. Startin' to worry about you. Used to be you were the first one to throw down gloves and go."
"Used to be I got a hard-on every morning, homeroom. But now it's 1996 and I'm thirty-two, and I got that shit together."
Gloansy said, "Whatever it is, I'm ready. Anytime you say, Duggy."
Jem speared one of Gloansy's pinkest morsels and pushed it into his own mouth. "Anytime I say, corn hole."
Gloansy watched his steak get swallowed, poured ketchup on more. "I'm sure that's what I meant."
They ate and drank and got loud and stupid as usual. Doug tried to hustle them along like children, like he was running a fucking field trip outside the Town.
Gloansy
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