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another player was throwing the dice. And he always won.
    Valentine rewound the tape and hit play. This time, he watched how the Japanese gambler placed his bets. Instead of using chips, he was using cold hard cash. As the dice were in the air, he leaned forward over the table to make a Field Bet. This meant if the shooter tossed a 2, 3, 4, 9, 10, 11, or 12, the Japanese gambler won. But the shooter threw the dice too fast and yelled for the Japanese gambler to watch out. The Japanese gambler pulled back, never letting go of his cash. Instead, he looked at the craps dealer running the game. The banker nodded, accepting his bet. Valentine felt a smile cross his face. The scam was as old as the hills. The Japanese gambler had a hidden fold in the bills. The big money was folded in half, giving him two bets. If the shooter won the Field Bet, the Japanese gambler would drop all of his money on the layout. If the shooter lost, the big money was palmed in the Japanese gambler’s left hand, while the visible bills were dropped to the table with his right hand. When Bill came out of the study, Valentine killed the tape.
    “That your granddaughter in those pictures on your desk?” Bill asked.
    “That’s her. Her name’s Lois.”
    “She’s a real beauty.” Bill parked himself on the couch and cleared his throat. “I just had a conference call with the Strip’s major owners. They want to offer you a deal.”
    “I hope you told them to go to hell.”
    “It’s a good deal.”
    “Not interested.”
    Bill frowned. It was rare for him to show emotion, and Valentine guessed it hadn’t been a pleasant conversation. “Let me guess. They threatened to fire you if I didn’t play ball.”
    Bill nodded solemnly.
    “Think they’ll do it?”
    “Of course they’ll do it.”
    “When you up for retirement?” Valentine asked.
    “Next year.”
    “Getting fired would kind of spoil that, huh?”
    “Just a little.”
    Valentine tossed the remote on the table beside his recliner. He missed, and it hit the floor and shattered, the batteries rolling under the couch. It was a well-known fact that the Mafia had been run out of Las Vegas years ago. What wasn’t well known was that the men who’d replaced them were just as ruthless; only, they had MBAs from Harvard Business School.
    “Let’s hear their deal,” Valentine said.

5
    W
atch out!”
    Valentine jammed the brake pedal to avoid a barefoot man in ragged jeans picking his way between cars. It was late afternoon, and the single lane of traffic crawling along Key West’s famous Duval Street had halted. The tops of cars gleamed with bright, shadowless light as a storm rumbled in the distance. Newsboys danced in the road along with women hawking flowers and an enterprising guy with lottery tickets trailing from a roll like toilet paper.
    The barefoot man stopped in front of Valentine’s rental. Clenched in his fist was a soda bottle. Valentine tensed, guessing it was about to come through his windshield. Instead the man took a swig and, holding his body erect, ignited his breath with a lighter. An orange balloon of flame burst from his mouth. As he started to do it again, Valentine pulled his wallet out and motioned the man over to his window.
    “Here,” he exclaimed, stuffing five dollars into the man’s hands. “Now, get out of here before you blow us all up!”
    The man sauntered away, barely avoiding a motorcycle weaving in and out of traffic. Valentine shifted into drive and the rental rolled forward a few yards, and then traffic stopped again. He’d killed an entire day traveling from Palm Harbor to Key West, and now watched the sun balance on a cluster of palm trees.
    A flower seller tapped on his window. She was Cuban, and in broken English hawked flowers for any occasion: birthdays, young mistresses, even suspicious wives. He smiled for the first time that day. “I’m looking for the Coral House. It’s supposed to be right off Duval.”
    She pointed to the next