Monte Carlo? Listen! I’ll tell you about Monte Carlo.
I’d set it up good. Everything seemed just right; the timing, the punters; the setting. How could it fail? The casino was full and the croupiers on duty. The Cote d’Azur never looked brighter.
I planned this for over a year. Finding the right player is always the difficult part. I need glamour and skill; star quality and good knowledge of casino games. After months searching the gaming houses of South America, I found Mario in a flophouse in Buenos Aires. He was thin and dirty but I could see his style had not deserted him. He still possessed that spark he had as a first class gigolo. He smiled when I outlined the game to him and I’d found the man.
Alexia was never a problem. Her auburn hair and full breasted figure had been a feature of six or seven magazine covers before she fell out with Harvey Weinstein and lost her contract in Hollywood. When I rang her she was ‘resting’ in a motel in downtown San Diego, a long way from the bright lights.She had been ‘resting ‘for quite a few years.
“You sweet man! Of course I can make it to Monte! I’m having a break from filming and would be happy to help. What’s the gig?”
I outlined the plot and she jumped at the idea; two days later she was in Nice looking at dress shops at my expense.
As they sauntered along the boulevard leading to the Grand Casino, I knew they looked the part. Mario wore his tuxedo with elan, his long black hair pulled back into a shiny knot like a bull-fighting torero and his slim figure completed the image. He smoked a cheroot in a jade holder and strolled with the studied ease of a rich sportsman. Alexia took his arm and they made the picture of a celebrity couple as they walked up the long flight of steps to the main entrance. I was their chauffeur in black cap and dark suit, carrying an aluminium briefcase.
“Good evening,” The major domo bowed and presented an orchid to the beautiful Alexia, “May I ask you to sign in and I will take you to a table.”
His smile was warm but his eyes were like flints. I warned Mario that the staff would check on them and I provided him with the name of a Spanish bull fighter who was fighting in Mexico at that time.
A dark suited clerk took me aside and examined the briefcase; it contained one hundred thousand US dollars. His fingers flickered over the notes like the touch of a butterfly, then he nodded to me and I closed the lid. We were in.
The money belonged to me. If you think I have a hundred thousand dollars -think again! It was made for me by Luigi Macron in Lille. Of course it would not fool a Treasury Official but good enough for a quick show at the guichet of a casino and it worked perfectly. The clerk issued a chitty for chips to that figure and I drew them from the counter and handed them ostentatiously to ‘my Boss.’ They made a pretty pile as he sat at the big roulette table. I positioned Alexia at the far end of the same table with a few chips so that when she leant forward to play, she accidentally showed her cleavage . When she did, no man could watch Mario and no woman would take her steely eyes off her.
My role was to spend time in the basement like a good servant, chatting and gossiping with the others. I held the briefcase tightly since the Company would not accept responsibility for punter’s assets. I sat apart and no one watched me as I pinpointed the fusebox for the lighting system. The plan was to switch off the interior lighting and ‘top hat’ the winning numbers at the best table.
Give me a moment and I’ll explain.
If you can quickly add extra chips to the winning counters, then you can make thirty five times the stake on each coup. It takes quick hands and good timing but two working together make it easy. How do you make the switch? Kill the lights for a second and it’s done.
We had set it up for midnight plus five minutes and I watched the clock.
Just before I moved to the switch I felt something was wrong.
The staff around me began to gather round the screens showing the gaming tables. Then one screen zoomed in on the table where Mario sat. His hands filled the screen; in his fingers you could see three 100 dollars chips ready to flick onto winning numbers as soon as the lights went out.
What could I do? What would anyone do? I pulled the switch.
There was uproar in the basement and I slipped upstairs to the Gaming Salon. Within a a few seconds, the emergency lighting came on and I confronted bedlam.What had been the sophisticated social scene , was a madhouse. At every table glamorous women old and young were grappling with each other or stretched across the green baize to reach any chips still lying on the table. A man in a wheelchair barged through the crowd to reach one of the Baccarat tables, scooping up chips on his way.
Alexia? I found her under the gaming table, half naked, struggling with an ancient crone who managed to snatch the chips Alexia had pinched from the croupier.
There was no sign of Mario. His chair was empty and his pile of chips had disappeared. The Casino staff were struggling through the swarming mass to reach the tables and rushing to close the doors to the Gaming rooms. I squeezed out just before they closed and ran downstairs to get my briefcase. It had gone.
Before I got my head together, a burly Gendarme grabbed me by the arm and shoved me out into the street.
“What’s up Monsewer?” Says I,
He gave me a sickly smile, “About five years, I reckon.” He pointed to the briefcase and the fake dollars.
“But I can explain,” I said. He shoved me into a van and we drove off.
As we passed through the square, I peered out of the window. There, at a café, sat Mario with a large plastic bag; it bulged with what I knew to be casino chips. He looked content.
It all depends on the staff you pick. I struck out this time but in a few years I’ll be out and give it another go. You’ve got to keep playing the game, haven’t you?
