by James Swain
“So let’s hear your deal,” Billy said after the bartender served them.
“I’ve been making a killing off a blackjack dealer at the Rio named Jazzy,” Crunchie said. “Jazzy has this bad habit of rocking her hands and flashing her hole card every fifth hand. The other day I found out Jazzy left the Rio and took a job dealing at the high-roller salon at Galaxy. I racked my brain thinking of who I knew could play a whale. Then it hit me. I’ll call Billy.”
“So how are you going to get me into the joint?”
“There’s a fake identity in Galaxy’s computer just waiting for you.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“I didn’t. Skip Johnson did. Remember Skip? He ran with us for a while.”
“I remember Skip.”
“Skip had a dream. He thought he could walk into a casino, sign a marker for a few hundred grand in credit, get the chips, and cash out without having to pay the casino back.”
“Nice dream.”
“Skip nearly pulled it off. He hacked into a national credit data system and stole the credit histories of six wealthy guys back east. He set up bank accounts in these guys’ names and applied to the casinos for lines of credit, which of course they gave him.
“When Skip visited a casino, he’d show one of his fake IDs to a VIP host. The host gave him twenty grand to play with, which Skip lost playing craps. Skip’s brother Ronnie was in the game, betting against him. The money Skip lost, Ronnie won. You familiar with this?”
“Offsetting betting procedures,” Billy said.
“Right. Skip did this all over town. When he got home, he paid off the markers, so the casinos jacked up his credit line. In some joints, it reached two hundred grand.”
Billy was impressed. Crunchie’s big score was sounding better by the minute.
“On New Year’s Eve, Skip and Ronnie went for the kill. They checked into hotels where Skip had high credit lines. That night, Skip visited the first casino, signed a marker, and was given two hundred grand in chips. He passed the chips to Ronnie, who cashed them in. Skip was on a roll until he hit the Wynn. A security guard recognized him, and the thing fell apart.”
“So how does that get me into the high-roller salon at Galaxy?”
“One of Skip’s false identities never got used on New Year’s and is still in the casinos’ computers,” Crunchie explained. “I bought the false identity from Skip so he could post bail. It’s for a hedge fund manager named Thomas Pico. He’s thirty years old, same as you. You get into Galaxy’s salon by pretending to be Pico.”
“How can Pico be in Galaxy’s computer? The joint just opened.”
“The VIP host at Galaxy’s salon is named Ed Butler. Butler used to work at Bellagio. When Butler switched jobs, he brought his database with him, including Pico.”
“So Butler met Skip when he was impersonating Pico.”
“That’s right.”
“How many times?”
“Skip said he met Butler once. Butler sees a hundred high rollers a month. Trust me, he won’t remember meeting Skip.”
“So all I have to do is waltz into Galaxy, show them false ID, and rob them blind.”
“That’s right. So what do you say?”
“I’m in,” Billy said.
SEVEN
They went over the terms of their deal and shook hands on it. It was how cheaters did business. No fancy lawyers or contracts, no fine print, just a man’s word and the pressing of the flesh. Outside in the parking lot Crunchie said, “You’ll need these,” and gave Billy a handful of plastic, including a black American Express card, voter registration card, Social Security card, and a Platinum Visa card, all in Thomas Pico’s name.
“Skip gave me those as part of our deal,” Crunchie said. “All you need is a phony driver’s license and you’ll be all set.”
“I’m going to check out Galaxy tonight, get a lay of the land,” Billy said. “I’ll call you tomorrow, let you know what I find.”
“You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“Not when there’s money to be made. Later, man.”
“I’m looking forward to this, Billy. It’s been too long since we’ve pulled a heist.”
“I feel the same way.”
Billy drove to Gabe’s place in Silverado Ranch with his fingers tapping the wheel. A driver’s license would be the first thing that the VIP host at Galaxy’s high-roller salon would ask to see. Unlike the good old days when driver’s licenses were printed on cheap cardboard with typewriters, today’s licenses used special Teslin paper and ID holograms and were difficult to counterfeit. The casinos were constantly seeing phony licenses from underage kids trying to sneak into their clubs, and they’d gotten good at picking out fakes.
It was past midnight when he pounded on Gabe’s front door. The porch light came on.
“It’s Billy. Lemme in. I’ve got a job for you.”
The door swung in. Gabe stood in the foyer in a bathrobe, his eyes ringed with sleep.
“What’s up?”
“I need a fake driver’s license so I can go visit the high-roller salon at Galaxy.”
“Is the deal on?”
“Yeah. But I want to check the place out first, just to be on the safe side.”
“Come on in.”
They walked through the downstairs to the spare bedroom in the back of the house that served as Gabe’s workshop. Having grown sick of her husband’s gambling addiction, Gabe’s long-suffering wife had thrown their belongings in a U-Haul and bolted with their kids, taking every stick of furniture, every wall covering, and all the photographs, as if trying to take the memories as well. Gabe’s idea of redecorating had been to put packing crates with TV sets into each room. That way, he could watch his beloved college sports anywhere in the house.
They sat in front of Gabe’s computer. Billy fished the false ID from his pocket.
“I need a driver’s license for this guy,” he said.
Gabe put on a pair of cheaters and studied the plastic. “Who’s Thomas Pico?”
“Hedge fund manager out of New York. His name’s in their database.”
“Sweet.”
Making a fake driver’s license took several steps. To start, Gabe did a search on the Internet and located a blank template for a New York State driver’s license, which he copied with Adobe Photoshop into a folder on his Mac. Then he typed Thomas Pico’s personal information off the voter registration Billy had given him onto the template, which he and Billy both proofread to make sure the information was correct.
The next step was the head shot. Gabe kept several head shots of Billy stored on his hard drive as JPEG files. He picked a recent photo, copied it from the folder, and inserted it into the template on the screen. Billy shook his head disapprovingly.
“Use another one. I look hungover in that photo.”
“I’ve got to use this one,” Gabe said. “The other shots don’t have your shoulders in them. Every state in the Union requires that the top of the shoulders be included in a driver’s license head shot. It gives the face better proportion.”
“Like a mug shot.”
“That’s right, like a mug shot.”
The final step was creating the driver’s license number, which was encoded with the driver’s name, gender, and date of birth. These numbers were created with special algorithms, and each state used a different one. Gabe owned a software program with all fifty states, plus Puerto Rico and Guam, and using that program, he created a fake New York driver’s license number using Pico’s personal information. Seconds later, the number appeared on the screen: P091095704268392?80.
“What’s the question mark for?” Billy asked.
“Good eye,” Gabe said. “The question mark indicates an overflow digit, which means there’s another guy in the state of New York named Thomas Pico who sh
ares the same birth date. The question mark distinguishes them from each other.”
“That’s good to know.”
“To you it is. To the rest of us, it’s just another piece of useless information.”
Gabe resumed his task. He inserted the driver’s license number into the template, keyed a command into his computer, and watched the inkjet printer on the stand spit out the fake license. They took turns examining it under a bright desk light.
“Like it?” Gabe asked.
“It looks good,” Billy said.
Gabe moved to the worktable and glued the fake license to a stiff sheet of Teslin plastic, trimmed the edges, and used a piece of sandpaper to make the card look old and worn. He handed the fake license to Billy, who tucked it away with the rest of the fake IDs.
“Thanks for the quick turnaround,” Billy said.
“Anytime, my man. Let me walk you out,” Gabe said.
The Maserati was parked in the drive. Keys in hand, Billy said, “I’ll see you tomorrow at one. We’re going to that Gamblers Anonymous meeting, and don’t try to talk your way out of it.”
Gabe shuddered from an imaginary chill and tightened the knot in his robe’s belt. “Can’t it wait? A couple of days won’t be the end of the world.”
“You’re gambling too much. Has Tony G sent his boys around to collect?”
“They came by the other day. I made them scrambled eggs and bacon.”
“Did they threaten you?”
“I’ve got it under control.”
Gabe was pretending the money he owned Tony G was no big deal. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and Billy put his hand on Gabe’s arm. “You’re going to that meeting. I’ll drag your sorry ass there if I have to. You’ve got to kick this habit.”
“Whatever you say,” the jeweler mumbled.
Billy got into his car and fired up the engine. Gabe was old enough to be his father, and it felt shitty talking to him this way. Gabe stuck his face in the open driver window.
“Don’t be mad at me, Billy. It’s just making things harder,” Gabe said.
“I’m trying to help you, man.”
“I know you are. Just don’t push so hard, okay?”
“You think I’m pushing too hard? I can push you so hard, you won’t be able to breathe.”
Gabe paused for a few beats, then said what was really on his mind. “Do you really think you can steal all this money off Galaxy?”
“It’s sure looking that way.”
“What are you going to do with your share?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead. You?”
“What else? Pay off Tony G.”
“Good idea.”
Gabe was smiling as if all his troubles had disappeared. Slapping his hand on the roof of Billy’s car, he walked back into his house without another word.
EIGHT
The houses in Gabe’s subdivision looked the same, and Billy drove around until he passed the empty guardhouse and knew he was home free. He connected with Las Vegas Boulevard, the Strip’s casinos lighting up the northern horizon with the intensity of a nuclear detonation.
He did the limit, deep in thought. He’d never impersonated a hedge fund manager before, and he needed to find out what their deal was. He pulled into the Fatburger across the street from the Monte Carlo and was soon sitting in the parking lot, eating greasy onion rings while studying photos of hedge fund managers on his Droid that he’d pulled up using Google Images. To a man, it was a boy’s club of soft-looking white guys with spiffy haircuts and teeth as white as piano keys. Blazers and gray slacks were the norm, the shirts button-down.
Preppies.
By clicking on the images, he was taken to several online newspaper bios, which he read to get a feel for the lifestyle. Hedge fund managers were übersmart, with MBAs from Wharton, NYU, and Ivy League programs. On a whim, he typed “Thomas Pico” into Google, and discovered there were no photos on the Internet of the man he was impersonating.
Beautiful.
He got out, popped the trunk, and rummaged through his box of disguises containing wigs, glasses, ball caps, and several sports jackets. He tried on a pair of black eyeglasses and a blazer with gold buttons that screamed conservative, combed down his spiked hair with a stiff brush, and had a look in the driver window’s reflection.
That worked.
Back in the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and filled his pockets with stacks of hundred-dollar bills that he planned to play with tonight in Galaxy’s high-roller salon.
He left the Fatburger lot thinking that only suckers walked around with this much cash, and laughed out loud.
One a.m. and the Strip was jamming. He drove the Strip whenever possible, the glittering casinos and blinding neon never failing to flip on the pleasure switch in his head. Vegas made Providence feel so small and dirty that he’d never wanted to go back, and if his old man hadn’t croaked one dreary Christmas a few years ago, he never would have.
His old man had decided to die at home in his favorite chair, hooked up to an oxygen tank, an unlit cigarette dangling from his parched lips. With each passing hour, his old man’s breathing grew more tortured. Knowing the end was near, he’d told his son to get a cardboard box from the closet in the hall. Billy got the box and saw that it was filled with love letters from a woman that was not his mother. Among the letters was a newspaper clipping showing him being presented with an award that he’d gotten during his brief stint at MIT.
Back in the living room, he’d asked his old man what he wanted done with the stuff.
“Burn it,” his old man said. “All of it.”
The day after his old man croaked, he’d done just that.
Galaxy was in his sights. It was a boxy monstrosity consisting of two mammoth hotel towers and a casino squeezed onto a tiny plot of land. As he navigated the winding entrance, floodlights lit up the night sky as if at a movie premiere. To make it in Vegas, a casino had to be themed, the more outlandish the better. Galaxy’s theme was the golden age of Tinseltown, and a medley of popular movie scores played over hidden speakers.
He tossed his keys to the valet and headed inside.
The lobby was designed to resemble the Beverly Hills Hotel, with a circular marble floor, inset ceiling, and cut-glass chandelier. On every table, fresh cut flowers. A man wearing a tux played show tunes on a baby grand piano that made Billy want to dance.
A short hallway led to a casino several football fields in length. Entering, he passed beneath a smoky dome ensconced in the ceiling where an eye-in-the-sky camera recorded his picture and ran it against a facial-recognition program that identified twenty-six points on his face; the profile was then run against a database of known cheaters. To beat the system, all he needed to do was erase three of those points. By wearing glasses, ball caps, changing his hairstyle, or wearing false teeth, he could walk through any casino unchallenged.
There was more to beat than just the cameras. Floor people also studied the customers. Some were ex-cops with a gift for grift. Billy beat them by pretending to be an ignorant tourist and asking dumb questions. Hustlers called this playing the Iggy, and he did it as well as anyone. The high-roller salon was tucked away in the rear of the casino and had a pair of carved white doors at the entrance. As he turned the knob to enter, he reminded himself that his name was Thomas Pico and that he was a hedge fund manager from New York.
The salon was a cozy space with thick gold carpets and muted lighting. By the entrance, a blond she-devil manned an antique desk. This was the salon’s VIP hostess, whose trust he needed to gain before he ripped the place off. Her nameplate said “L. Shazam.” It fit her.
“Is Ed Butler here?” he asked politely.
“Ed’s off this week,” she replied. “Perhaps I can help you.”
“Ed comped me at the Bellagio a few years ag
o. I’d heard he’d moved over here.”
“Let me see if you’re in our system. Please make yourself comfortable.”
He took a chair beside the desk and passed her his fake ID. A cocktail waitress glided toward him carrying a tray with a single flute of champagne. The drink was offered and accepted. “Here you are,” the hostess said, tapping her computer screen with her fingernail. “I see that the last time you played at the Bellagio, you were extended a hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit. Were you hoping for that same line of credit with us tonight?”
“I just wanted to say hello to Ed,” he said, sipping his drink. “He probably doesn’t remember me. It’s been a while.”
She politely returned his ID. She’d seen enough about him to know that he was worth stealing from whatever casino he was staying at. “Where are you staying in town, Mr. Pico?”
“It’s Tom. I’m at the Encore.”
“Are they treating you well?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Is there something not to your liking?”
“They usually put me in a suite. Not this time.”
“We have some of the most luxurious accommodations in Las Vegas. Some people say we’ve redefined luxury. I’d be happy to comp you a penthouse suite.”
“I’ll stay where I am. But thanks anyway.”
“Are you a music fan? I can get you front-row seats to the Eagles concert this weekend. It’s been sold out for months, but I have tickets left.”
She wasn’t going to let him go without a fight. Billy tipped his champagne flute, as if to say, Well done.
“Just say yes, and they’re yours,” she added.
Rich people never hurried, and Billy took another sip of champagne before responding.
“Can I bring my friends?” he asked.
She nodded, thinking she had him. “How many are in your party?”
“There are seven of us. I brought my team to Las Vegas to celebrate.”
“Your team? Are you in professional sports?”
“I’m a hedge fund manager. They work for me.”
