by James Swain
“Hey. No orgies in my limo, you hear?”
FIVE
They ran up a two-thousand-dollar tab in one of the Golden Steer’s private dining rooms, the booze and champagne flowing like water. Billy sucked down several cups of coffee before taking his crew home, dropping them at their front doors with a promise to call tomorrow and fill them in on the details of Crunchie’s big score. Last stop was his pad at Turnberry Towers. He passed $500 to Leon through the open slider.
“I need to ask you a question,” his driver said. “Does this score include me?”
“If you want to be in, yeah, it includes you,” he said.
“Why wouldn’t I want to be in?”
“If we go down, you go down as well. You won’t be able to say you didn’t know what was going on, you were just hired to drive.”
“You’re saying I could end up doing time.”
“Yeah. You got any priors?”
“A couple.”
“Any felonies?”
“A couple.”
“Then you’ll do hard time if we get caught. Still want in?”
Leon scratched his chin and weighed the risk against the reward. “What’s my cut?”
“How does twenty-five grand sound?”
“Are you serious? Just for driving you around?”
“I’m going to be impersonating a whale, and will need a full-time driver at my beck and call. You’ll need to get your tuxedo dry-cleaned and wear the hat and do the step-and-fetch-it. You up for that?”
“Shit, I’ll wiggle through a pipe for twenty-five grand.”
Billy would have enjoyed seeing that. Climbing out, he banged his hand on the roof. The limo pulled away and slowly faded into the night.
Home sweet home was a luxury penthouse condo that he’d won in a rigged poker game from a Dallas oilman. The game had been arranged by the host at a Strip casino with whom Billy had split his winnings and who technically owned half the condo. They talked once a month, the host checking to make sure Billy hadn’t pulled a fast one and sold the place. Maybe he’d take his cut from Crunchie’s score and pay the host off. It would be nice to get him off his back.
Standing in his bedroom, he peeled off his clothes and tossed them in the trash. Losing your clothes after a heist was an old hustler’s trick, designed to keep casino security from remembering you the next time you ripped the place off.
He wanted to look sharp for his meeting, and he entered the closet and picked through the racks. He settled on black Armani slacks and a Louis Vuitton black silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons that he’d been saving for a special occasion. When he finished dressing, he appraised himself in the mirror hanging on the closet door. He looked like a player.
What a life. He’d just celebrated his thirtieth birthday, and had made more money and accumulated more sexy stuff than he’d ever dreamed possible. And there was more where that came from. He’d once taken a helicopter ride over Las Vegas. The gaudy casinos and hotels had reminded him of an upturned pirate’s treasure chest, just waiting to be plundered.
He called downstairs to the valet and requested that his car be brought up.
For years, the local hustlers had met at the Denny’s on Tropicana Avenue to talk shop. Then several regulars got busted, and word leaked out that the booths were bugged by the gaming board. It had made the Grand Slam special a lot less attractive.
By default, the Peppermill had become the new hangout, so it was natural that Crunchie wanted to meet there. From the street it resembled a retro diner, but in fact was two businesses. The front was a tourist-trap restaurant that served twelve-dollar burgers, the back a cocktail lounge with a circular fireplace and no security cameras. As Billy eased his metallic black Maserati GranTurismo into the narrow parking space in front, his Droid vibrated. Crunchie calling.
“I’m running behind,” the old grifter said by way of greeting.
“You’re not here?”
“My Vet won’t start. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”
Billy tapped his fingers on the wheel. Crunchie had called this meeting, and now he wasn’t here. This was getting off to a bad start. “How soon will that be?”
“Don’t get your diapers in a wad. I’ll be over as fast as I can.”
“That’s not very fast the way you move.”
“Fuck you, you little asshole. Sixty minutes. Feel better now?”
“Remember to bring your hearing aid.”
There were plenty of ways to kill an hour in Vegas, and he took a stroll up the block to a joint called Slots A Fun. A former crew member named Sal was doing time for sticking a strobe light up a slot machine’s coin chute to make it overpay, and Billy had promised to keep tabs on Sal’s girlfriend, a Vietnamese blackjack dealer named Ly.
A week after Sal got sent away, Billy had called Ly to see how she was holding up. She’d sounded depressed and had talked him into meeting her at a fleabag motel on North Seventh Street. Pulling into the motel’s parking lot, he’d spied Ly’s junker parked outside a room. He’d knocked on the door, found it open, and gone in. Burning candles everywhere, and on the bedside table, a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a pack of Trojans.
Ly stood beside the bed wearing a red satin kimono and a spray of flowers in her hair. As if by magic, the kimono slipped to the floor, revealing erect nipples rubbed with ice cubes, and no pubic hair. The sight of her took his breath away.
“Get in here, and shut the door behind you,” she’d said.
Ly meant lion in Vietnamese. Billy had started backing up.
“You no like?” she said.
“I don’t sleep with my friend’s girlfriends,” he explained.
“I need money. You gotta help me.”
“I’ll help you, but I’m not going to fuck you.”
“Suit yourself,” she said.
Slots A Fun offered an arcade-like atmosphere created by rows of noisy slot machines. In the back were five purple-felted blackjack tables that were hard on the eyes. Ly’s table was empty, and Billy tossed down a wad of cash and sat down. She was as pretty as a doll and wore a tight-fitting purple vest over her uniform. She counted the money with the precision of a bank teller.
“Three hundred,” she called out.
A pit boss came over to inspect the money.
“Go ahead,” the pit boss declared.
Ly shoved the bills down the cash slot in the table. From her tray, she removed a stack of ten green chips and a stack of ten red chips, which she pushed toward Billy. The greens were worth twenty-five dollars apiece, the reds five dollars.
“You look familiar,” the pit boss said. “Haven’t I seen you before?”
Billy didn’t think there was a pit boss in town he hadn’t ripped off at least once.
“America’s Most Wanted,” he replied.
“Hah. That’s a good one. Ly will take good care of you.”
The pit boss walked over to another table.
“I’m broke,” Ly said under her breath.
“You’re always broke.”
“Come on, help me.”
Billy reached into his pocket and finger-palmed a gaffed chip that Gabe had manufactured for him. The gaffed chip had a green Slots A Fun chip on one side, a red Slots A Fun on the other, its edge painted half-red, half-green. He placed his hand on the table edge.
“Good boy,” Ly said.
He feigned plucking a green chip from the stack in front of him. In actuality, he pushed the gaffed chip into view. He took a red chip from another stack and placed the two chips into the betting circle. To anyone watching, he’d just bet thirty dollars.
“Good luck,” Ly said.
She dealt the round. Billy won, and she paid him thirty dollars. He left his original bet in the betting circle and added the winning chips to his stacks.
; She dealt another round. This time, he lost the hand.
“You lose, too bad,” she said.
She scooped the losing bet off the felt and flipped the gaffed chip over, pretending to deposit it into her tray with the green chips. In reality, the gaffed chip remained in her hand. As she deposited the red chip into her tray, she left the gaffed chip with it.
To anyone watching, nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“Change, please.” Billy tossed a green chip toward her.
Ly removed the gaffed chip and four normal red chips from her tray and slid them toward him. Billy took the gaffed chip and under cover of his hand, flipped it over. Soon, the gaffed chip was lying in the betting circle with a red chip.
It was one of the sweetest scams ever devised. When he won a hand, the casino paid him thirty dollars; when he lost, the casino made only ten dollars because of the shortchange. On an average night, he could steal $600 without suspicion. Ly’s cut was half.
“Where you taking me to dinner?” she asked.
It was how every session with her ended.
“Not tonight,” he said.
“You got some other girl you like more than me?”
He knocked over one of his stacks of chips, signaling that she needed to watch her mouth. She continued to talk recklessly, and he rose from his chair. Fear flashed through her eyes.
“Don’t go. My rent due,” she said.
“That’s not my problem.”
“I thought you care about me.”
She was pushing it. He decided to mess with her and pushed all of his chips into the betting circle. If he lost, Ly lost as well.
“What you doing?” she asked.
“Shut up and deal,” he said.
He walked out of Slots A Fun with twelve hundred bucks of the casino’s money. It was more than he normally would have stolen from a joint so small, and he would have to avoid coming here for a while. Ly was becoming a liability. If he wasn’t careful, they’d end up getting busted.
Ly parked her junker in the elevated self-park garage across the street at the Riviera. On the fourth floor he found her car and used the spare key she’d given him to pop the trunk. He dropped her cut onto the spare tire and told himself it was time to end the arrangement.
Some things were easier said than done. If he called and broke the bad news, she’d scream at him. If he went and saw her, she’d attack him. He decided to do it subtly and let her figure it out. He placed his cut on top of hers, then took the spare key from his key chain and placed it atop the money, then shut the trunk. Ly wasn’t stupid and would understand that they were done.
It was nearly eleven. Time to see the captain and talk business. Stealing a few cool million was at the top of his bucket list, and he hurried from the garage.
SIX
Billy walked back to the Peppermill with a million watts of neon burning his eyes. As he neared the restaurant’s parking lot, his cell phone came alive.
“I’m just pulling in,” the old grifter said.
“Stop for a haircut?” he asked.
“I got a call right after we hung up that I had to take.”
“You couldn’t talk and drive? It’s the newest thing.”
“It’s complicated, man. Just leave it alone.”
“You’re not going to tell me why you’re running late?”
“No. Drop it.”
Billy felt a breeze. Was the captain trying to set him up? It wouldn’t be the first time that another hustler had tried to put him in a bad light. He decided he’d better find out.
“I’m in the bar having a beer. What’s your pleasure?” he asked.
“Jack Daniel’s, straight up, and a beer chaser,” the old grifter said.
“See you in a few.”
He ducked behind a light pole plastered with flyers for escorts and watched Crunchie park his vintage ’69 Corvette and then get out and stretch. Crunchie had grown up on a ranch in Montana and favored cracked-leather boots and a black Stetson with a rattlesnake band. He was tall and sinewy, his skin rough-hewn. As he crossed the lot and entered the restaurant, Billy noticed that he was limping. Had someone beat him up? It sure looked that way.
A bad feeling settled over Billy. He decided to hang back to see if Crunchie had brought along any unwanted friends. The world being what it was, you could never be too careful.
He’d joined Crunchie’s crew soon after arriving in Vegas. Crunchie had run a cooler mob that specialized in switching cards on unsuspecting blackjack dealers. Billy hadn’t believed such a thing was possible until they’d ripped off the Mirage. The dealer had shuffled her six decks and placed them on the table to be cut. At the next table, a member of the crew had feigned having a heart attack. As the dealer called for the pit boss, she briefly lifted her fingers from the cards. In that split second, the six decks were switched for six duplicate decks stacked to deal nothing but winning hands. Twenty minutes later, they possessed a hundred grand of the Mirage’s money.
Several parties came out of the restaurant, but none went in. He decided it was safe and went inside. The restaurant was packed with tourists eating overpriced food. The hostess flashed a smile but did not offer him a menu. She’d seen him before and knew he was local.
A beaded curtain led to the lounge. Single white candles flickered on tables while a heatless fireplace burned in the room’s center like a campfire. A bar with nine stools took up the sidewall. Crunchie sat on a middle stool, pounding brown liquid. Billy took the adjacent stool and got the attention of a cute bartender wearing skintight clothes and her hair tied back.
“Corona, no glass,” he said.
“Want a lime with that?” the bartender asked.
“I’m staying away from the fruit. I hear it’s bad for you.”
She served him. Under his breath, Crunchie said, “Where you been?”
“Outside. How’d you get the limp? You didn’t limp when we ran together.”
“My arthritis is acting up. I’m getting old.”
The cute bartender offered to run a tab. Billy slid her a twenty, told her to keep the change. She flashed a smile that made him want to come back and see her again. Grabbing his beer, he made his way toward a corner table with Crunchie right behind him.
They sat across from each other at a table the size of a dinner plate. Crunchie had once been good looking, with chiseled features and an easy smile. Hard living had taken its toll, and his face looked like freckled rust, his teeth stained so badly that it was hard to tell if he had any.
“What the hell’s bothering you?” the old grifter asked.
“You’re late. You set a time, you keep it. You taught me that, remember?”
“Did I now.”
“Damn straight. And you’re limping. You never mentioned having arthritis before.”
From the pocket of his jeans Crunchie produced a plastic medicine vial filled with blue capsules, which he placed in the center of the table. “This is the dope I’m taking for my hip. Thirty years ago a security guard at the Dunes threw me down a flight of stairs. My hip’s never been the same.”
“You never limped when we ran together.”
“I hid it, didn’t want to look like a gimp. The older I get, the worse the pain.”
The story added up. But Billy still needed more convincing. “Who were you talking to?”
“My daughter. She’s a real pain in the ass.”
“Since when did you have a kid?”
“Back in ’91, I had a fling with a sexy little cocktail waitress at the Sands. She wanted to get hitched, I balked, she tied a suitcase to the roof of her car and boogied to LA. Twenty years later my phone rings, and this girl says, ‘Hi, my name’s Clarissa, and I’m your kid.’ Let me tell you, it’s been one horror show ever since.”
“She hitting you up for money?”
“Every damn time we talk. She’s got two little brats, no job, no child support. I send her a check every month, but it’s never enough. What are you grinning about? You think this is funny? Fuck you, Billy.”
“I’m just trying to imagine you getting hustled, that’s all.”
“This is different. She’s my daughter.”
“So you were talking to her, and she made you late, is that the deal?”
A wall of anger rose in the old grifter’s face. Producing his cell phone, he showed Billy the recent call memory. In the past twelve hours, he’d gotten three phone calls originating from a 310 area code, which was Southern California.
“Call her, you don’t believe me.”
Billy nearly did, just to get the old grifter’s goat. But he leaned back in his chair instead. There was still a deal on the table, and money made the world go round.
“You and I have known each other a long time,” Crunchie said. “You think I’d double-cross you? Hell, I taught you how to rob, kid.”
“You taught me a lot of things,” Billy said.
“You thought I was setting you up?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Jesus, Billy. I’d never do that. You’re the kid I wished I had.”
Billy’s old man had cheated at cards but had never been willing to teach Billy the ropes, wanting his son to go to college and make something of himself. When Billy had arrived in Vegas, Crunchie had taken him under his wing, and it had been one long joyride ever since.
“You really mean that?” he said.
“Damn straight, I do. I’d never screw you.”
“Then I was out of line. Sorry.”
“You still want to do this?”
Billy said that he did. Flagging the cute bartender, he pointed across the table.
“Another round. Make my friend’s a double this time.”
