Shoot the Moon: A Tony Shane Adventure

By S. P. Perone

Professor Tony Shane is attending a Las Vegas computer conference when he encounters a new university faculty colleague, the beautiful and mysterious Karen Sloan. Unfortunately a mesmerized Shane has no idea that she is about to draw him into the exotic world of high-stakes gambling and transform his life forever.

Soon, gambling losses force Shane to submit to an international boss, Giacomo Corsi, who wants to utilize Shanes access to an ultra-secure government computer. As Shane is plunged into the midst of a chilling plot that threatens to throw the country into a chaotic death spiral, he must call upon his old connectionsan off-and-on lover, a tough CIA deputy director, and a mob bossto help him fight off controlling gambling czars and secretly expose a mysterious madmans diabolical scheme. But as a frantic race begins to avert a catastrophic attack, Shane suddenly becomes aware that nothing is what it seems and that Karen is hiding a very dark secret.

In this compelling crime thriller, a professor suddenly finds himself drawn into a deadly trap amid the high-stakes world of gambling where he must attempt to stop a horrific plot from unfolding across America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491795477

S. P. Perone

Sam Perone has worked in academic and government arenas and as a consultant in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has published numerous technical articles, two textbooks, nine novels and two memoirs. He and his wife live in the Sierra foothills of Northern California. Visit his web site at www.samperone.com.

Book preview

Prologue

The shooting had happened three days earlier in Springtown, Kansas—an unarmed young black man shot dead by local police. For three days and nights now protests had spread throughout the country, beginning with that small, mostly black community with the mostly white police force.

In Berkeley, California, on this hot August night, blacks and whites joined arms for the march down Telegraph Avenue. Like previous nights, they carried lighted candles. And like previous nights, they sang hymns. The destination, as before, was the heart of the UC-Berkeley campus that had witnessed similar protests for many decades. The anti-war and free-speech movements of the sixties and seventies hadn’t been as peaceful as these, but these were no less passionate.

Inside the Upper Grounds Coffee Shop on Telegraph Avenue, two male graduate students, raptly engaged with the lighted screens of their laptops, sat at a small table at the front window. Periodically, one of the two—the tall, lanky one with the scruffy reddish beard and long, stringy dark-blond hair—would look up and utter a few words excitedly to the other. His more stoic partner—shorter, darker, with neatly trimmed black hair and beard—would nod and utter a word or two in response.

But the blondish young man, Dexter Carp, was deep in thought, thoughts far from the computer code he was developing.

One more step, my friend, and I’m taking you down, he thought, with a glance at the preoccupied dark face across from him.

It had taken months of preparation, followed by weeks of undercover activity. But now the special agent, known to his fellow UC-Berkeley students as Dexter Carp, had found the hacker that had been trolling through secret FBI files.

As anticipated, Jamal had been cool to him. Hell, all hackers are basically anti-social, introverted assholes, Carp reminded himself. Jamal’s not the first that I’ve taken down. He allowed a tiny smile. I’ve figured out how to get inside their heads. Let ’em know you’re a bigger, badder, hacker!

Carp could do that—with help from the FBI techies back in Quantico.

Carp let his thoughts return to the coding problem on his laptop. One more step! he repeated.

Neither of these men at the front window paid attention to the now familiar parade of protesters outside.

That is, not until the shouting began.

What the hell? Carp jerked his head toward the street.

His dark-haired companion looked up. Looks like the counter-protestors have arrived.

His words coincided with the sight of a number of bystanders abruptly rushing the front line of marchers. Startled marchers refused to engage the insurgents—a dozen burly, white toughs. Bodies flew to all sides, with candles strewn far and wide. A few of the jostled marchers were tossed onto the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop.

Carp slapped his laptop shut. This is getting ugly, Jamal, he said, pushing his chair back and starting to rise.

Relax, Dexter, said Jamal, motioning him to sit back down. Soon as those rednecks realize no one’s fighting back, they’ll back off.

Just then a shot rang out, followed instantly by the sound of shattering glass.

One of the two men ducked instinctively.

Dexter Carp sat motionless for a few moments, staring ahead blankly. Then, ever so slowly, his chin dropped and his head toppled forward, crashing into the laptop.

His partner looked up without moving his head. A few inches from his face, spread across the laptop, was Carp’s stringy, blood-matted hair.

Also spreading across the laptop was a pool of blood oozing from Carp’s mouth and the gaping hole in the side of his head.

Dexter Carp would never write another line of code.

Chapter 1

A Meeting in Vegas

The young male blackjack dealer—in starched shirt, cuff studs, black vest and bow tie—flipped a jack of spades in Tony Shane’s direction.

Shane groaned and tossed his two original cards face up on the green felt blackjack table. Swiftly, the dealer swept away Shane’s eighty-dollar bet and busted hand.

Seated to Shane’s left—in a dazzling green sequined cocktail dress that complemented her creamy skin and long auburn hair—Sarah Stenstrom offered him a sympathetic sigh. Then she tucked a pair of kings under her ten-dollar bet. The dealer moved past her engaging each of the other players before flipping up his hole card—a four of hearts—and laying it next to his exposed face card. Quickly the dealer flipped out his third card—a ten of spades. The dealer’s bust was met with cheers to Shane’s left and another pathetic groan from Shane.

Shane slid off his stool and stood behind Sarah, whispering in her ear. I’m done. You want to keep playing?

She nodded without answering, already engrossed in her next hand.

OK, he whispered, I’m looking for a better table.

Shane walked away, scanning the large gaming area for brighter prospects. He loved the Montecito. Of all the Vegas casinos, only this one seemed to offer old-world charm. Not that he was all that experienced, but he had once played roulette in a Paris casino, and the Montecito was in that class. It was adult and dignified, not gaudy and crass like many of the others.

As he passed by other crowded blackjack tables, Shane recognized several computer science colleagues from other universities who were also in town for the annual meeting. This computer technology conference typically attracted over thirty thousand attendees from all over the world.

Shane reminded himself that he was not here to gamble. He was here to deliver two technical papers. That thought brought a wry smile to his face. His recent papers were on gaming theory! You’d think he could at least win a few bucks at blackjack.

Shane eventually circled around to the same table he had recently left. Sarah was still there. Another gambler had taken his seat and was sharing some small private joke with Sarah. Shane quickly sized him up. Young, attired in expensive slacks, shirt, and loafers, he had short-cropped dark hair and a chiseled face, sporting carefully manicured stubble. Shane noted that he was playing with a large pile of green and black chips—twenty-five- and hundred-dollar tokens.

Pulling up behind, Shane gently placed a hand on Sarah’s bare shoulder. She turned away from her cards and smiled at his touch. Hi, Tony. Look! she said excitedly, nodding at the pile of red and green chips in front of her. I’m winning!

Shane grabbed her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. Great! Can I get a loan?

She laughed. Here, take these. She gave him two stacks of green chips.

The young man on her right turned to Shane. She’s hot! he remarked.

Shane peered at the man’s dark eyes and plastic smile. Yes, I know, Shane replied.

Sarah jumped in. Tony, this is Keith. He’s from San Francisco.

Pleased to meet you, Shane lied. Are you here for the computer conference?

Keith shook his head. No, just for fun. Fake smile to Shane and a wink to Sarah.

Keith and Sarah had their attention drawn back to the table, as the dealer finished dealing a new round. Taking the cue to leave, Shane patted Sarah on the shoulder. Good luck. I’ll see what I can do with your loan.

She patted his hand absently with her left hand while using her right to scratch the felt with her cards.

Shane walked away.

Well aware that his Irish-Italian heritage had dealt him a short fuse, Shane struggled mightily with this long distance love affair. Biting his tongue and walking away had become his forte. And he didn’t want tonight—of all nights—to end on a sour note.

Distractedly, Shane continued circling the gaming areas. But his thoughts wandered far from the nearby action. He reminisced about the preceding twelve months—a sabbatical leave he had spent at Georgetown University. With Sarah working nearby at the Langley CIA complex, the sabbatical had provided them an opportunity to play house, resuming the torrid affair that had erupted when she had been a postdoctoral associate with Shane at Daniels University.

This trip to the computer conference in Las Vegas was the last fling of his sabbatical leave. Sarah would return to Washington tomorrow; two days later Shane would return to Rockville, Illinois—to get ready for the fall semester at Daniels.

The thought of ending his unfettered research activities to resume lecture preparations and faculty meetings only served to push Shane deeper into a funk. He shoved the thoughts away and turned his focus back to the gaming tables.

Looking around, Shane realized he had wandered near the high-stakes blackjack arena—set off from the main casino by an archway over which was a big sign declaring it a High Limit zone. It was an unknown and mysterious high-roller sanctum sanctorum that was forbidden to hack players like Shane. But he was curious. He paused for a moment and peered into the restricted area.

Elevated slightly above the main casino floor were half-a-dozen comfortably spaced tables. A wet bar and table of finger food were at one side, with a cocktail waitress standing by. At this moment, only three tables were active, but dealers stood ready behind the others. A pit boss backed up the active tables.

He was surprised to see only a single player at each of the three active tables. Two of the players were very ordinary looking middle-aged males that no one would have guessed were playing with big bankrolls. The third player was a young female—a long-haired blonde attired in a chic silver cocktail dress.

Shane was intrigued. Not wanting to appear too curious, he continued his walk, sneaking glances into the high-roller pit. It wasn’t possible to discern the cards being dealt, but he could see that the lowest denomination chip was black—a hundred dollars!

Shane’s curiosity overtook him. He altered his route so that he could continue his surveillance. He wondered if any of these players were attending the computer conference. He didn’t recognize anyone, but that meant nothing. The woman intrigued him, not only because she was quite attractive, but mainly—he told himself—because it seemed so unlikely to see a young female playing high-stakes blackjack.

Was she a celebrity? Some young starlet or pop singer with money to burn, Shane mused. Perhaps she was a young millionaire executive of one of the high-tech companies exhibiting at the conference. Was she a good player? Winning not losing? Shane chuckled to himself. The Montecito hadn’t been built on winners.

As he continued circling, Shane sneaked glances at the high-stakes gambling lady in the silver dress. One time he was surprised to discover the blonde staring back at him. She gave him a quick smile and turned back to her cards. Embarrassed, Shane had simply walked on.

After several minutes wandering through aisles of gaming machines, his curiosity drew him back to the high-limit tables. The blonde was still playing. Even from his vantage outside the high-limit area, he saw that her stack of chips had grown considerably. She caught his eye briefly once again. This time he didn’t turn away. Instead, he took an open seat at one of the video poker machines. He didn’t pretend to play; his eyes remained riveted on the action at the high-limit table and the player in the silver dress.

Shane was surprised when she abruptly shoved her chips toward the dealer. She twisted around and slid off her chair. Straightening her dress and grabbing the silver evening bag from the next chair, she began walking away from the table. The pit boss rushed around and presented her with a sheet of printout. He stood at attention as she looked it over, folded it, and opened her purse to tuck it away.

Shane was surprised to see the white plastic card pinned to the purse’s inside cover. It was just like the one he had in his jacket pocket—a badge required by all meeting attendees at events in the convention center. He was surprised again when he saw her shake the pit boss’s hand, turn, and walk toward the arched portal of the arena—apparently heading right for him!

Shane made a snap decision. He turned around, stuck a twenty into the video poker machine, and began playing.

Through the corner of his eye he saw her getting closer. Oh Shit! he thought. She’s pissed.

Then he heard her voice behind him. Professor Shane? she asked.

He turned around, surprised to hear his name. The face was smiling. Yes? he answered.

I’m sorry, she said. I saw you watching. I thought I should introduce myself.

Shane stood. Forgive me, he said quickly. I hope I didn’t bother you.

Not at all, she said. I wish you could have had a better view.

He laughed. "They don’t let hacks like me in there."

She smiled and looked past him at the video poker machine. Is this your game of choice?

He looked back and waved at the machine. "No, not usually. I try to win at blackjack when I can. He paused and eyed the lady in front of him—noting that she wasn’t as tall as he had thought, but shapely and long legged. I believe you were about to introduce yourself," he said.

She flashed a toothy smile and opened her purse, showing Shane the conference badge. I’m Karen Sloan, she said. I’m here for the computer conference, just like you.

She said her name as if Shane should know it. And then, as he glanced closer at her badge, he realized why. You … you’re from Daniels University? Computer Science department?

Yup, she replied, closing her purse, just started. She regarded Shane’s puzzled look and continued. I interviewed last spring. They told me you were on sabbatical leave.

It came back to him. He had learned that the department was hiring a young, talented assistant professor away from one of the East Coast schools and making her a tenured associate professor at Daniels. Shane had given the matter little attention—being too engaged with his research and a full schedule of extra-curriculars with Sarah. Of course, said Shane. I … I’m pleased to meet you … and … uh … well … welcome to Daniels! He grinned.

Thank you, pleased to meet you, too. She smiled and averted her eyes for an instant before looking back at Shane. I’m sure you wouldn’t remember, but we have met before.

Shane frowned back at her.

At the New York meeting, last fall, I was at your talk. Asked you a question afterward.

Shane’s frown deepened. I … I don’t—

She laughed and touched his arm. I was just one of many admirers that day. Your ideas about skewed probabilities for gaming theory are going to revolutionize the field. I look forward to hearing about your latest work.

Shane gave her a curious look. Don’t tell me you’re putting these principles into practice? He nodded at the high-roller arena.

Another laugh—a soft, melodious, disarming sound—before she replied, No, no, not a chance.

Shane eyed her uncertainly for a moment, but then his curiosity boiled up once again. Look, he began, gaming theory aside, I’m not much of a gambler. A little blackjack, poker with my grad students, but I have always been fascinated by high-rollers at casinos. He cleared his throat. I’m just dying to ask you some questions. Do you mind?

She smiled. Of course not. What do you want to know?

Shane looked around. How about you let me buy you a drink?

Chapter 2

On the House

The Monte Carlo lounge was tucked away in a far corner. It was a quiet refuge from the sounds and action of the casino floor. Dark wood, brass trim, soft lighting—and uncharacteristically, for Las Vegas, serviced only by formally attired male attendants. It reminded Shane of one of those London men’s clubs—complete with plush leather furniture—which he had visited once as a guest while on a lecture tour.

Karen had picked the place. Shane couldn’t have gotten in without her. It was another of those restricted areas.

Seated next to her at the bar, Shane raised his glass of scotch-rocks toward Karen, and she raised the goblet of California old vine zinfandel that Shane had suggested. Here’s to your new job, he declared.

Thanks. I’m excited to get started. She took a sip and made a soft moaning sound. Uhmm … that’s very nice. Good choice.

Ordinarily, a lady’s appreciation of his wine selection would stroke Shane’s ego. But Shane’s fragile spirit had been punctured when he learned that these pricey selections were complimentary for the elite clientele of the Monte Carlo lounge. Astonished, Shane had dropped a twenty-dollar tip on the bar.

Glad you like it, said Shane. It’s from a boutique winery near Placerville—in the Sierra foothills. Best zinfandel grapes in the world.

Do you spend much time in California?

Shane nodded, experiencing brief flashbacks of trips to Livermore Lab and San Francisco. He recalled that first trip with Sarah—working on the classified StarSight Project, uncovering a horrific terrorist plot that might have instantly downed thousands of commercial airliners, had they not intervened at the last moment. I used to, he replied, a few years back.

She gave him a curious look, and Shane continued. "It’s a long story. And I’m much more interested in asking you some questions."

Ask away, Professor Shane.

First of all, he began, what in the world is a college professor doing in the high-roller lounge? I mean, are you independently wealthy or something?

She gave him that infectious laugh once again. Not hardly. My family’s good, solid, middle-class, not rich by any stretch.

I guess that begs the question.… he prompted.

It’s simple. I won big one time on the casino floor, and then used the winnings to get to the high-limit tables. As you can see.… She gestured at their surroundings. There are benefits.

Shane shook his head. Does that mean you’ve been winning? I mean, how can you keep this up?

She raised an eyebrow. What do you think it takes?

I have no idea.

The high-limit tables here take a fifty thousand dollar buy-in.

Shane gave a low whistle. How does that work?

Very efficiently. They assign you a personal casino host.

Was that your host at the table?

No. The casino hosts work with individual clients. They arrange everything—lodging, transportation, restaurants, whatever. They work with the casino’s credit office to set up your line.

Sounds like applying for a loan.

"Not really. You don’t tell them what you’re worth. They tell you."

Shane offered her a puzzled frown.

You think the FBI dug deep for your security clearance? They’re bloody amateurs compared to the casinos.

Doesn’t that concern you?

I don’t play on credit … strictly cash. I transfer funds into my personal casino account. My table markers are fully funded. When I win, the account is credited.

And when you lose? They break your legs?

She chuckled. You’ve been watching too many bad movies.

What if you lose more than you have in your account?

If you’re at the limit, they ask very politely if you’d like to make another money transfer.

So you have to quit or put up more money?

Exactly.

Shane thought for a moment. Have you ever … you know … lost it all?

She shook her head. I’ve been very lucky.

What does that mean? He saw her twist slightly on the barstool. If I’m not getting too nosey, that is.

If you don’t mind … Tony … can I call you that?

He nodded. Of course … Karen.

Well, Tony, I’d rather not get into the wins and losses.

Shane shrugged. I understand. He thought for a moment, examining the last sip of scotch remaining in his glass.

As if reading his mind, the bartender appeared and asked, Would you care for another, sir?

Shane drained the glass and pushed it away. Sure, he replied, "Chivas, on the rocks."

Yes sir, responded the bartender. He picked up the glass and paused. Would you prefer a single-malt this time, sir?

Single malt?

"Yes, sir, Chivas is a blended whisky—excellent flavor and very consistent. But I find many scotch drinkers prefer the distinction of a single-malt."

Shane was intrigued. He eyed the bartender more closely. The man was older, medium tall, trim, with longish salt-and-pepper hair and a thin mustache. On him the stiff shirt, black bow tie and satiny vest looked perfectly correct. I’m familiar with the differences between blended wines and pure varietals, said Shane. Sounds like the same with scotch.

Not exactly, but that’s a good comparison. Each single-malt scotch has a uniquely recognizable flavor—often related to the history of the aging barrels and the length of aging. Blends tend to meld those distinctions into something more broadly palatable.

Well, I kind of like that ‘blended’ flavor, Shane remarked, "at least with Chivas."

Of course, I’ll be happy to—

Shane pushed out a palm. No, no, I’m ready to try something new.

The man gave Shane a quick nod and backed away. I’ll be right back.

When the bartender was out of earshot, Shane turned to Karen. What did I just get myself into?

Have you never had a single-malt scotch?

"Hell, I don’t know. I usually drink wine. When someone offers a cocktail, I order scotch on the rocks. My friends tell me Chivas is pretty good."

"Well, you’re in for a treat. And don’t expect to be served a single-malt over ice."

"Really? I prefer my scotch on the rocks."

She wrinkled her nose. No respectable Scotsman would ever consider diluting their whisky.

You’ve been to Scotland?

She nodded. Once, on a lecture tour. Spent a couple weeks in England and Scotland, hitting eight different universities.

And you learned … what?

Weather was cold. Food was awful. But everyone was friendly. And everyone loved to drink, especially in Scotland.

So that’s where you learned about whisky?

I did, indeed! Every little town has its own distillery and unique whisky. Sampling their wares is like wine tasting in Napa Valley.

Just then the bartender arrived with a bottle and a small glass. I’d like you to try this, he said, showing Shane the bottle of Macallan 18-year-old Scotch whisky. He poured two fingers into the glass and stepped back.

Shane picked up the glass and sniffed above the rim. Smells like scotch. He grinned. Then he took a sip and allowed the liquid to swirl in his mouth for a few moments before swallowing.

He wasn’t prepared for the boldness of the liquor. There wasn’t a sharp edge. It was mellow as butter, but the flavors were distinctive and lingering—a hint of licorice and something else he couldn’t define, but reminded him of leather and tobacco. He nodded at the bartender. Wow! Thank you. That’s very good—like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.

The bartender nodded back. Enjoy, he said, then picked up the bottle and slid away.

Shane turned to Karen. Would you like a taste?

She wrinkled her nose. I did enough tasting in Scotland to last a long, long time.

You’ve had this … Macallan?

Along with many, many others. Unlike Napa, you can’t spit it out and move on to the next taste. They expect you to finish whatever they pour.

I hope you gave your talk first.

She laughed. Not always. It wasn’t pretty.

Shane took a moment to eye this strange lady he had just met. For the first time he thought of her as a colleague—someone he would enjoy knowing and working with back at Daniels.

And now, suddenly, he wanted to know her better. He considered questions he might not have asked earlier. You know, he said, all this discussion about Scotland and Scotch whisky has derailed my real interest.

Really, Professor Shane? That hundred-dollar bottle of scotch distracted you?

He chuckled. I guess that’s the point. It’s thanks to you that I’m getting this royal treatment. And I’d like to know why.

They take good care of the high-rollers.

Shane nodded thoughtfully. "So, have you been in any really high-stakes games?"

She wagged her head. No, but I’ve seen them. The casino has private gaming suites. Two hundred thousand credit lines and up.

You’ve been there? Shane asked, wide-eyed.

Once.

Another low whistle from Shane. You bought in to that kind of game?

Oh, no, she gave a short laugh. I was a guest. My host got me in. They were hoping I might be interested in moving up.

What was going on?

Five old rich farts playing poker.

Didn’t they object to you being there?

She shook her head, and her cheeks reddened. The old boys like to have young ladies around.

Shane was speechless for a moment. What did they expect you to do?

They thought I was there to serve drinks and smokes. I slid in and out before my number got called.

Shane grinned. They didn’t know you could have cleaned them out.

No. Not my game. Blackjack only.

They have gaming rooms for blackjack, too?

She nodded. That’s my goal, someday.

What’s the game?

Anything you want—single deck, double deck, eight decks in a shoe. Rules are the same as the game you play in the casino.

And you use the same kind of chips?

She nodded.

What about tipping?

Good question. The Montecito is very old fashioned. They take a percentage of your table draw and set that aside for the dealer and other attendants.

What if you win a bundle?

I always tip the dealer over and above the flat percentage—about ten percent of my winnings.

Wow! I’m in the wrong business.

She laughed. That’s not what I heard. You’re kind of a legend at Daniels—lots of research grants, a couple of textbooks.

Shane feigned shock. Who’s been feeding you that?

I did my research before taking the job.

Really? What else do you know about me?

She smiled coyly. Well, I know you’ve been on sabbatical leave at Georgetown—working with Joel Carter, the Nobel Laureate. And I understand you’re a consultant with Livermore Lab and the CIA. I assume you’ve been working with them, too.

Shane found her knowledge of him unsettling. You didn’t talk to Janus Clarkson, did you? he asked. He hadn’t thought much about the disagreeable colleague back at Daniels this past year. This man had tried to destroy Shane’s career and had succeeded in stopping his classified research at Daniels.

Didn’t have much choice, she replied. He’s the dean now, you know.

Shane shook his head. Please don’t pay attention to that jackass.

She reached out and touched the hand that was wrapped around the glass of scotch. Why, Professor Shane, such words about your colleagues! She winked and pulled back to fondle her glass of wine, holding his eyes with hers.

Shane sipped from his glass and placed it back on the bar before responding. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. You need to find out for yourself that Clarkson’s an idiot. That won’t take long.

She chuckled and leaned back on the barstool. I think it’s going to be fun working with you, Tony.

I hope so. Maybe you can teach me how to win at blackjack.

From behind his back came a familiar female voice. I certainly hope so, it said.

Shane spun around to look directly into Sarah’s fiery green eyes. Standing beside her was the dude from the blackjack table. What was his name? Keith? From San Francisco? He was taller than he had thought, with a couple-inch advantage over Shane’s six feet, a better match to Sarah’s height in heels. He had black hair, blue eyes and fair skin like Shane, but Shane’s hair was longer and graying at the temples.

Sarah! Wh … where’ve you been? Shane stammered.

My question for you, she replied. Didn’t you get my texts? Her face was icy stone.

Shane grabbed the cell phone from his jacket pocket and punched it on. Oh my God! he groaned, looking at