Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

The limousine carried them away from McCarran, past the Double Down, and into a secret side entrance to the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino.  Balls had replied to Brady with an indifferent ‘Some’ and they had agreed to discuss the matter further over dinner.  Balls was not about to reveal anything about his dealings with Blatter, the Singaporean gambling cartels, and those corrupt African soccer leagues.  The ride was uneventful and Balls retired to his suite to prepare for dinner.

The suite was located on the top floor of the U-shaped hotel building complex and faced the pool area.  It was lit up in purples and blues and was empty.  In a few hours it would be full of drunken college kids, MILFs with fake breasts, and the various sugar daddies that financed their weekends. He despised the scene and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the suite bar to wipe away the thought.  His mind turned to Brady.

He was amused at the change in Mr. Brady.  On the ride over, Brady spent the time talking about his friend, the actor Ben Affleck, and the good times they had spent in this town.  This racy talk – of babysitters, wives, and poker – and the authority of manner he displayed once Mr. Brady thought he had Balls hooked showed a different man from the shy embarrassed suitor who had solicited Balls at the airport bar.  What did Mr. Brady want from Balls?

Balls took the elevator down, made a right, and took a service hallway to the back of the restaurant as Brady instructed. The host graciously greeted him and led him to a private dining room where Mr. Brady was sitting.  ‘Mr. Balls, I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of ordering drinks.’  A blonde veteran of the Vegas grind with dangerously low cleavage appeared with a Pappy Van Winkle for Balls and a Corona for Brady.

Balls smiled a thank you to the waitress and amused himself at the order.  His bottle of Buffalo Trace in his bedroom at home was of similar quality and was made by the same distillery for a pittance of the price, but that was the way of American New Money.  He stayed quiet and enjoyed the drink.

‘Bring two more in ten minutes.’  The waitress went away.  Brady turned to Balls. ‘You ever play Canasta, Mr. Balls?’

‘Yes, it’s a good game.  I like it.’

‘You ever play the two-handed version?’

‘I have, but it’s not as much fun.  With two equal players, it tends to even out.  Law of averages in the cards.  Unless one player is vastly inferior to the other, there is not much difference in the play’

‘Just so.  Over a hundred games or so, two equal players will end up even.  It’s a good pastime.  You handle plenty of cards, you have your ups and downs, and no one gets hurt.’

Balls nodded.  Brady continued, ‘Now, I’m not sure if you remember, but I’m a pretty fair player myself.’  Balls did remember.  Brady was not bad. ‘I know my way around a table.  What I were to say to you that I’ve lost a quarter of a million dollars in four days straight to the same man?’

‘I’d say you’ve been cheated.’

‘EXACTLY.  So, I’ve said to myself, this bastard is cheating me, but I cannot figure out how!  I couldn’t stand it anymore and decided to get out of town on the first plane anywhere tonight and it happened to be Houston.  Imagine that!  Tom Brady throwing in the towel because I couldn’t take a licking any more!’

The fresh drinks arrived.  The waitress dropped a napkin on purpose and bent down to pick it up for Balls’ benefit.

Balls accepted the napkin, tried as best he could to avoid her gaze, and turned to Brady.  ‘Have you noticed any marked cards?  Are there any mirrors in the room?’

‘Heck, no!  We always played outdoors.  He said he wanted to get himself some sun.  Certainly did that.  Red as a lobster.  Same as his hair.  Only plays in the mornings and afternoons.  Said if he played in the evening he couldn’t get to sleep.’

‘Who is this man?’

‘Goodell. Roger Goodell.  He also happens to be the commissioner of the National Football League.  I’m sure you’ve read the papers about how he tried to suspend me for some stupid deflated balls, but I was able to beat him in court.  The matter was over and, when we saw each other in town, I figured these games were a way to let bygones be bygones and move forward.  I just don’t understand it.  He makes tens of millions of dollars a year.  He certainly doesn’t need any more from me.’

Balls hated sports commissioners.  He had never met one he trusted.  The Blatter affair had piqued his interest in knocking these figureheads down a notch or two.  He had missed out on the Bettman inquiry and regretted it since.  He relished the thought of getting another chance.

‘Play your regular game tomorrow.  I may come down or not.  I’ll need a key to get into his room. I can’t promise anything.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Balls.  If you can help me out and catch him in the act, I will give you twenty five thousand dollars as reward.’

The next morning, Balls woke up, took a shower, and got dressed.  He looked out the window at the flesh already on display below him in the pool area.  He saw Brady walking past one of the bars towards a table directly below him.  A grotesque clump of red hair was sitting there waiting for him.  They shook hands and Brady took the open seat facing the pool.  Balls calculated the angles, took the stairs to the second floor, and, as quietly as possible, opened the door to Goodell’s suite.  He walked softly across the carpet towards the open window.  Propped up a few feet behind the window was a chaise lounge on which a gorgeous naked brunette was lying.  In front of her was a small telescope and a microphone.

‘He just drew a two.  He has four wilds, a meld of sixes, sevens, and kings.  He is discarding his single ten.’  With that, the girl clicked the off button.  Balls gathered the whole scene and took a comprehensive picture with his smartphone that included the girl, the equipment, the pigeon, and the hawk.  Ensuring that the mic was off, he said loudly, ‘Good morning.  My name is Balls.’  The girl turned around

to be continued…