The compilation of Hooks began with the cameras first picking him up strutting across the parking lot and entering the revolving doors, then, approximately an hour later, showed him exiting doors to the parking garage at the opposite end of the complex and hailing a taxicab.
“Hooks,” O’Sullivan said, “bragged to the bartender that he was some hot-shit hip-hopper going by the name King Two-One-Five, and tried to make himself sound like he was something of a regular big-time gambler. When he flashed that gold Rolex President, the bartender felt obligated to ask about it, and Hooks was quick to pull the wrinkled bill of sale from his pocket to authenticate it was in fact his and that he had paid for it with his winnings . . . and probably flashing how much he had paid for it.
“Clearly he thought,” O’Sullivan went on, “that everything he’d done would give him a pretty solid alibi. We know that he knows the casino cameras capture everything, because we have record of him taking our beginner’s intro tour, and that’s one major point we make to all the newbies. We show them the cameras.”
He gestured at the monitors. Tony’s eyes went to them.
“We’re not actually watching every table in live time,” O’Sullivan went on, “but the cameras certainly are, and when someone starts really winning a shitload of money, we say, ‘Whoa,’ and go to check the forensic recordings.”
“How often does that happen?”
“Every damn week. This week we caught this guy—a really bright numbers guy who just graduated from Wharton—counting cards at the blackjack tables. He denied he was doing it. So we showed him the video, then escorted him from the building. We were nice about it. Didn’t kick him in the ass on the way out. But a lifetime ban, he got. And we shared his name with other casinos. Now he’ll have to figure out some other way to come up with the funds to pay off that massive MBA student loan he probably has.”
“Lifetime ban? That’s pretty harsh, isn’t it? It’s not like he was cheating, he’s playing smart.”
“We’re not in this business to go broke, Tony. Look, we make the rules, and one of those is that the odds are in the casino’s favor. And we tell people exactly that, especially during that beginner’s intro tour—right before we then tell them, ‘You don’t like it, then start your own damn casino.’”
Harris caught himself chuckling.
“Valid point,” he said.
“This ain’t a charity nonprofit. We keep track of everything. Which is why this ghetto punk may or may not be aware that we know his real history, how much he’s won and lost, what he paid for that Rolex, everything.”
“Because he has one of those customer loyalty cards that he put that two hundred bucks on?”
“That’s exactly right. The Lucky Stars More Money! Rewards Program,” O’Sullivan said. “For taking the intro tour, he got a debit card with twenty bucks preloaded on it. It’s a loss leader—”
“C’mon, that’s not really a loss,” Harris interrupted. “You’re going to get that twenty—and lots more—back because, as you like to say, the odds are in the casino’s favor.”
“It’s not like we make it a secret,” O’Sullivan said. “And not everyone who gambles has to join the program and get the card that comes with it. But the ones who like thinking they’re getting something for nothing—it’s a point for every dollar bet or spent, and the points can be used for booze, rooms, cash back—they’re all in. There’re even people who don’t gamble but want to use just the debit card function and earn points that they can cash in. Almost all gamble, though, either in one of our thirty-two casinos worldwide or on our Internet site. More than fifty million users, and growing.”
“And those are prepaid cards, too, right? Meaning the casino gets to sit on all that cash interest-free.”
O’Sullivan smiled. “You’re right. But that’s another point we make on the beginner’s intro tour and in the fine print of the user agreement everyone signs to get the card. Remember, ‘You don’t like it . . .’”
Harris chuckled again. “Right.”
“So, anyway, we checked out this punk’s account.” O’Sullivan looked at his notes. “We know he lost a hundred bucks at the video poker game while he drank a five-dollar Philly Pale Ale.”
Harris grunted. “A hipster craft brew? I would’ve guessed he was more a Pabst Blue Ribbon in the can drinker.”
“He probably was, but I bet it was the card. If I researched further back, I could find out from day one all he’s ordered—booze, food—and which games he’s played, how much he wagers, even which shows, if any, he’s seen.”
“Remarkable.”
“All that data gives our marketing people details that they can use to target customers’ likes—then offer them more of that, or even carefully get them to move up to a more expensive level. So he could’ve started out drinking two-buck PBRs, but at some point the system made him an offer that moved him into the five-buck craft microbrews. I’ve heard the value of that program—just the user information, the spending habits of those fifty million, not counting the money in the accounts—has been pegged at more than a billion dollars.”
Harris shook his head.
“No offense,” he said, “but I’m suddenly reminded why I hate these places. People pissing away money they can’t afford to. Then pissing away even more trying to win it back.”
“To each his own. Nobody has a gun to their head, making them do it.” He paused, gestured toward what would be the office at the end of the hallway, then went on: “Which is why Mr. Antonov is not pleased.”
“A robbery and a murder in your casino isn’t exactly good for business, huh? Not to mention the two hundred grand in jewelry they stole. I wouldn’t want to be the one reporting it to Tikhonov.”
“No shit, Tony. That’s the understatement of the day. And you’re getting ahead of me.”
Harris knew that Nikoli Antonov worked for Yuri Tikhonov, the forty-eight-year-old international investor who had made his first billion dollars more than a dozen years earlier. In addition to owning almost half of Lucky Stars and a large interest in an entertainment complex being built on just the other side of the I-95 Delaware Expressway, Tikhonov had significant investments around the world.