Saturday, December 15, 12:55 P.M.
You ain’t going to be smiling in a minute, Tyrone Hooks thought as he returned the doorman’s automatic greeting with a curt nod and entered the casino through a revolving door. And smile all you want, but I know you really checking me out. On those cameras, too.
Overhead, closed-circuit surveillance cameras were clearly visible, as well as the countless black bubbles in the high ceiling tiles that concealed additional recording devices. They were all completely capable, Hooks had heard when he’d joined a group taking the casino’s free introductory tour, of capturing every move of anyone in the casino.
But the last thing the rail-thin five-foot-ten twenty-five-year-old was worried about was being recorded. If anything, the security cameras would show him nowhere near the crime when it went down.
He paused a moment to stomp the snow from his new high-top gray leather athletic shoes, then he slipped off his heavy winter coat and hung it over his right arm, taking care so that the wad of twenties and hundreds didn’t fall out of the coat’s inside pocket. Underneath he had on a black short-sleeved T-shirt covered by a baggy orange and blue Philadelphia 76ers jersey.
He made a grand gesture of checking the time on his wristwatch. The new eighteen-karat yellow-gold Rolex President hung loosely, and he had to rotate it in order to see its hands showing it was five minutes before one. The watch was heavy and enormous, and against his skinny black wrist looked even larger, almost counterfeit. But it was genuine. A month earlier, Hooks had paid for it in part with his winnings from the blackjack tables.
The cash for the vast majority of the total price—$8,999 before tax, to be exact—had come, however, from the street. His crews pushed plastic baggies of crack, smack, and pot on street corners in the shadows near the Market-Frankford Line El, particularly along a sad stretch of the ironically named Hope Street, no more than a mile from the casino.
Hooks thought the Rolex’s high cost had been worth every penny, because when he flashed the watch—and the cash and told everyone at the tables that he was an upcoming rap music artist, “King 215”—no one tried kicking the rapper to the curb of the Lucky Stars parking lot.
They ain’t throwing my ghetto ass out, he thought as he walked toward the main floor. That’d be bad for business when I rap about it.
Lucky Stars was the newer of two casinos on the Delaware River—in the section of Philly known as Fishtown, which was enjoying a surge of gentrification—and, according to tax payments made to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, already had surpassed the other as the most profitable. (Harrisburg collected about $1.5 billion a year from casinos across the Keystone State, then redistributed it, a portion of which returned to the City of Philadelphia.)
Lucky Stars’ brand-new five-story complex, with restaurants and bars and large performance theaters, featured a hundred gaming tables and twenty-five times as many slot machines. The cavernous high-ceiling area that Tyrone now approached held rows of slots as far as the eye could see, their lights flashing and bells clanging as people pulled—and pulled and pulled—on the one-armed bandits. The area reeked of stale cocktails and cigarette smoke—twenty-five percent of a gaming floor, by state law, had to be set aside for tobacco users—and of the floral-scented carpet-cleaning chemical that failed to mask the sharp smells.
While the casino had helpful signage—it indicated, for example, that gaming tables and restaurants and more could be found on upper floors, reached via multiple elevators and escalators—Tyrone Hooks had cased the place enough times to find his way around with his eyes closed. He knew that on the right side of the first floor was one bank of cashier cages. And that beyond those cages was the entrance to the miniature mall of a dozen luxury retail stores hawking to lucky winners—and anyone who hadn’t lost all their money, including next month’s rent—everything from expensive electronics to designer clothing to jewelry.
Tyrone also knew that while the cashier cages were well-protected, he had learned that the retail stores appeared anything but.
As he turned and headed for the mall, he surveyed the rows and rows of slots. They looked to be not quite half full, making it a slow Saturday afternoon. For his purposes, he figured a busier crowd would have been better—more people caused more confusion and chaos.
After passing the cashier cages, he approached, then entered, the retail mall. It was an open-air design, brightly lit with white marble flooring and columns and undulating walls of clear, thick glass panels that separated the individual stores. Averaging about twenty
by thirty feet, each retail space was compact in size but had the appearance of being bigger because of all the clear walls.
Tyrone Hooks saw that the first store to the left, Medusa’s Secret Closet, had well-formed female mannequins in its front windows, ones made of glass, wearing undergarments that were mere ribbons of material. He caught himself staring at the display before realizing he’d walked past his destination, the first store on the right, Winner’s Precious Jewels.
He quickly turned back toward the store, then entered. There were only two customers—husband and wife, he guessed—and they were looking at the glass display cases on the left side of the store. Behind the case was the manager, a chubby, balding, middle-aged man in a shiny black two-piece suit. When he saw Hooks, he excused himself to the couple, then turned away and moved quickly toward the entrance.
“Good to see you again, sir,” the manager greeted Hooks, then gestured toward the gold Rolex that he’d sold him. “That certainly is a beautiful timepiece. Excellent choice. You’re still enjoying it, I trust.”
“Uh-huh,” Tyrone Hooks said, briefly making eye contact.
“Splendid! And what can I show you today?”
“Just looking.”
“Well, you’re in luck. We recently replenished our holiday inventory. It’s even larger than before, so we have more than the usual number of interesting pieces that would complement your President nicely.”
“Comp— What?”
“Complement. Look nice together . . .”
Hooks thought, Yeah, I’m going to get plenty here to look good.
“. . . We could create, for example, a very nice heavy gold chain with a customized ‘King 215’ hanging from it.”
Hooks smiled that the manager remembered his artist name, which Hooks had based in part on Philadelphia’s telephone area code, and nodded.
“Maybe. If I get lucky again. Just looking right now.”
The manager made a thin smile. “Lucky indeed. Well, we’d be more than happy to accommodate you. Just let us know if there’s anything that interests you.”