The Big Scam Read Online Free PDF Page A

seven and a five. With his left hand, he tapped the table in front of the dog. Rusty extended his nose toward the two cards. “Do we need a hit, boy?” Almost immediately, the dog raised its right paw and placed it across Tatorrio’s left forearm. “We’ll take a hit, Randy.” A murmur of cautious approval shot through the crowd. The dealer turned over a six, totaling eighteen. “Do we need a hit, Rusty?” Tatorrio asked, tapping the table again. The dog sat frozen. “We’ll stand.”
    The dealer, with a ten showing, turned over his hole card, a seven, for a total of seventeen, disqualifying him from taking a hit. “You win, Mr. Waylon.” The huge ring of spectators exploded with cheers.
    The shift supervisor watched Tatorrio carefully during the next four hands, only one of which he won. He called to his bosses upstairs. “Can you see how he’s doing it?”
    â€œNo, but what difference does it make? He’s losing. I wish he was winning, it’d make a better story. Just keep him happy, that photographer should be there by now.” Three more hands were played before the photographer arrived. During that time, Tatorrio did not change his body alignment, presumably so his arm would be within range of Rusty’s paw. But to Parisi, something about his positioning seemed unnatural. For one thing, he had never seen Jimmy sit with his hand in his pocket.
    The photographer arrived. “I’d like to get some pictures of you and your dog, Mr. Waylon, for the casino website, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œIs my hair on straight?” Tatorrio asked, using both hands to smooth the sides.
    The photographer laughed. “You look fine, and so does the dog. I just need you to sign this release.”
    Tatorrio smiled in his direction. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring my reading glasses.” The crowd laughed. “I’m sure it’s perfectly harmless, but I don’t know what I’m signing.”
    Parisi surprised himself when he said, “John, I’m an attorney. I’ll give it a quick once-over if you like.”
    Tatorrio turned toward him, and Parisi could see through the dark lenses that he was surprised, too. “That’s awfully nice of you…I’m sorry, what is your name?”
    â€œMike…Reynolds.”
    â€œMike Reynolds. Good name—you know, for a lawyer. Has that ring of integrity. Thank you.”
    Parisi took the document from the photographer and pretended to read it. “It’s a standard release.”
    â€œThen hand me a pen.” As Tatorrio signed it an inch above the signature line, he said, “And could somebody please get my attorney a drink?”
    The game slowed for the next half hour while the photographer asked Tatorrio to pose in different situations, everything from Rusty pawing for a hit to the dealer pushing a fictitious winning stack of chips in front of the courageous John Waylon. When he finished, Tatorrio said he’d like some copies and gave the mailing address for the Sons of Catania Social Club. A few more hands followed, and then Tatorrio pushed a button on the side of his wristwatch, flipping the crystal up. With his head still looking forward, he fingered the dial. “Ten minutes to one, can that be right? Have I been here an hour already?” Through his sunglasses, he stared at Joe Chianese, who smiled and nodded his defeat. “Randy, could I talk to your supervisor, please.” When the dealer waved him over, Tatorrio said, “I’m a little tired. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go up to that room and take a load off for a few minutes.”
    â€œNo problem, Mr. Waylon. I’ll be glad to take you up.”
    Tatorrio turned in the general direction of the other players. “Gentlemen, I wouldn’t have been able to do this without your patience. I’d be honored if you’d come up to the room for a