by James Swain
“I don’t see why not.” From her desk drawer she removed a sleeve containing tickets to the upcoming Eagles concert and handed seven front-row seats to him. “Compliments of Galaxy. Would you be interested in staying awhile and playing? Our staff is very accommodating. I can also offer you a ten percent return on any losses you might incur.”
Billy tucked the tickets into his jacket. This was great; not only was he going to rob them blind, but they were going to pay for him to go see one of his favorite bands.
“You know, I might just take you up on that,” he said.
“Splendid. What’s your pleasure?”
“Blackjack.”
She rose and came around the desk, her gold evening dress touching the floor. She was tall and statuesque with a body that could have stopped traffic, the kind of ridiculously beautiful woman that Las Vegas had been built around. She touched the sleeve of his blazer and gave it a little tug. He could not remember a casino employee ever making physical contact with him before. It was out of character, and had he not been absorbed with staring at her jaw-dropping breasts, it might have dawned on him that something was not right.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“It’s Lady. Lady Shazam. Everyone calls me Shaz,” she replied.
“That’s a cool name. Where you from?”
“Southern Cal. Follow me.”
They entered the high-roller salon. The champagne flute was still in Billy’s hand, and he took another swallow, having no idea that his life was about to turn horribly upside down.
NINE
The salon’s five carved mahogany blackjack tables could have resided in the main palace at Versailles. Each had a well-groomed dealer standing at stiff attention. At the center table stood an attractive African American lady with long bony fingers. This had to be Jazzy, the flashing dealer that was about to make Billy and his crew very rich.
“This lady could use some company. I’ll sit here,” Billy said.
“Jazzy, make sure you take good care of Mr. Pico. He’s a very special customer.” To Billy, Shaz said, “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do, Mr. Pico.”
“I will. Thanks again for the tickets.”
“My pleasure.”
Shaz returned to her desk to wait for the next well-oiled sucker to step through the salon’s doors. Taking a chair, Billy removed two stacks from his blazer and dropped them on the felt. A stern-faced pit boss appeared. Under his watchful eye, Jazzy tore off the wrappers and counted the bills.
“Ten thousand,” Jazzy said.
“Go ahead,” the pit boss declared.
Jazzy shoved the money down the bill slot in her table. Taking ten thousand in chips from her tray, she slid the stacks toward her only customer.
“Good luck, sir,” she said.
Billy’s eyes had become fixated on a stack of gold chips in Jazzy’s tray. He’d never seen gold chips before, and suspected this was a special promotion for Galaxy’s wealthiest customers.
“Are those gold chips something new?” he inquired.
“They are,” the pit boss said proudly. “We’re the only casino in town that lets its customers play with gold chips. They’re worth a hundred thousand dollars apiece.”
“Wow. Can I see one?”
“Jazzy, show Mr. Pico a gold chip.”
Jazzy took a gold chip from her tray and placed it on the felt for Billy to look at. He’d tried to counterfeit casino chips many times and come up short. Even with the latest and most comprehensive Pantone color chart, it was impossible to find a chip’s exact color. Then there was the problem of the microchip under the label that allowed the casino to track the chip’s whereabouts. Those two things made counterfeiting chips something you only saw in movies.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” the pit boss said.
“It sure is. Unfortunately, it’s a little out of my league,” Billy said.
“It’s out of most people’s leagues. Let me know if you need anything.”
The pit boss left. Billy placed an orange thousand-dollar chip into the betting circle.
“Deal me a winner,” he said.
Jazzy dealt a handheld game. As she sailed the cards to him, her hands rocked slightly. Tilting his head, he peeked her second card’s identity before it was tucked away beneath her first card. In blackjack, the dealer’s hole card was hidden until the end, which gave the house its edge. By knowing this card’s value, the odds shifted dramatically in his favor.
He won the hand, putting him up a grand. Four rounds later, she did it again. Only Billy couldn’t keep tilting his head without the pit boss spotting him and throwing him out.
“Where can I find an ashtray?” he asked.
An ashtray was brought to the table. He removed a hard pack of Marlboros from the pocket of his blazer and fired up a cigarette, then placed the pack on the table with the flap pointing at Jazzy. The pack was another of Gabe’s creations. Hidden inside was a rectangular mirror resting at a forty-five-degree angle. By gazing down into a slit in the top of the pack, he would be able to see Jazzy’s hole card while she flashed.
Soon he was up twenty grand. Had his bets been larger, the amount could have been two hundred grand. Crunchie had been right in his assessment of Jazzy. She was the best score in town. But he wasn’t here to steal Galaxy’s money. That would come later, after he’d established himself as a sucker with management.
He lost his winnings back through sloppy play while small-talking with Jazzy and learning her upcoming schedule. A new shift worked the weekend, and she’d be back Monday night. That would give him three days to build himself in before pulling his scam.
A cocktail waitress brought him a fresh glass of champagne. He tipped her and gave her a wink. She walked away too quickly, and an alarm went off in his head.
He turned around in his chair. To his surprise, the salon had cleared out. The other dealers and pit boss were gone, and Shaz’s desk was empty as well.
The blood drained from his head. Something had been bothering him, and now he realized what it was. No steam. Some steam always accompanied a high roller betting $1,000 a hand, especially when the high roller was a complete stranger who’d just strolled in. But here in Galaxy’s salon, there was no steam at all.
He turned back to Jazzy. “Where did everybody go?”
Jazzy glanced around the salon. Its emptiness seemed to surprise her as well.
“Beats me. I guess they went on break,” she said.
“At the same time?”
“You’re right. It is pretty strange.”
It was time to get out of Dodge. He scooped up his chips and the gaffed cigarette pack from the table and rose from his chair. “It’s been nice talking to you.”
“Have a pleasant evening,” she said.
He walked briskly toward the salon’s entrance. The fear of getting caught was never far from his thoughts; it was the risk that came with the reward. As he opened the carved doors, he stole a glance over his shoulder. The pit boss had reappeared, and stood in front of Jazzy’s table. Their eyes locked. The look on the pit boss’s face said it all.
Busted!
He hurried into the main casino. If he could get out the front doors unscathed, he’d run down to the street and melt into the mass of humanity that filled the Strip’s sidewalks. Thomas Pico would disappear, never to be heard from again. His car could be dealt with later. He hadn’t given the valet his name, and he’d have Leon come by in a few days and claim it.
He sailed through the casino without a problem. His heartbeat was back to normal as he entered the hotel lobby, thinking he’d dodged a bullet. The feeling didn’t last long.
Shaz was in the lobby waiting for him. She’d ditched the evening dress for a pair of skintight leather pants and a black zippered jacket straight out of a dominatrix’s catalogue. A look of
stone-cold hatred filled her eyes.
Flanking her were two of the scariest black dudes Billy had ever seen. They were as big as mountains and were studying him the way a cat sizes up a helpless canary in a cage.
Billy moved backward, having nowhere else to run.
“Get him,” Shaz said.
TEN
The scary black dudes knocked Billy’s glasses off dragging him across the lobby. He was thrown into a service elevator and taken to the basement, his final destination a claustrophobic room with a single plastic chair and a security camera bolted to the ceiling.
Billy had been back-roomed before and knew the drill. For the next hour, he’d be slapped around and threatened before the police were called, the casino wishing to impress upon him that he should never step foot on the premises again.
The black dudes took a moment to introduce themselves. Their names were Ike Spears and Terrell Bird, T-Bird for short. Both wore lots of gold jewelry and too much cologne. Ike had the larger vocabulary and appeared to be the leader of the two. T-Bird was shorter, with pretty dreadlocks that bounced on his shoulders. They’d both played defensive end for the Pittsburgh Steelers and sported glittering Super Bowl rings.
They took turns smacking Billy around. They were punishers and were paid by the casino to inflict pain upon unwanted guests, just as cocktail waitresses were paid to act nice. Being mean was their job, but they still didn’t have to hit Billy as hard as they did.
Soon Billy’s ears were ringing. Somebody answer the phone. Tasting his own blood, he spit some onto his palm and held his arm out as if directing traffic. The beating stopped.
“Keep hitting him,” Shaz ordered them.
“I don’t want his blood on me. Little fucker might have AIDS,” Ike said.
“Or ebola,” T-Bird said.
“You’re both pathetic.” Looking into the ceiling camera, Shaz raised her arms as if to say, What now? Scant seconds later, her cell phone rang.
“Follow me, girls,” she said.
She went into the hall to take the call. The punishers dutifully followed.
Billy sank into the plastic chair. He’d taken a few hits to the jaw, and he ran the tip of his finger across his teeth to see if they were still intact. To his surprise, they were all there.
So much for small favors.
Although his body hurt, he wasn’t scared. Soon the Metro LVPD would be summoned, and he’d be taken to the Clark County Detention Center and booked. There he’d be allowed to call his lawyer and post bail. He’d be a free man by morning, and he’d go home to his condo to lick his wounds and figure out how he was going to beat this rap.
Cheating cases were hard to prove. Nevada juries would not convict unless there was clear videotape evidence of the crime. Billy was always aware of the cameras when he was making a play, and hid his actions. As a result, the times he’d been busted he’d always plea-bargained out and had to pay fines to the court. It was a small price to pay for all the money he’d stolen from the casinos.
From the hallway came the sound of Shaz talking. He needed to find out how she’d made him for a cheater. His disguises had flown by the best security people in town, and it was going to bug him until he learned how she’d done it.
The unholy trio returned. A smelly towel was thrown in his face. He wiped away the blood, thinking the storm had passed.
A minute later, he learned otherwise.
They took an elevator to an unfinished fourteenth floor of the hotel’s first tower. He felt a hand on his shoulder and followed Shaz down a hallway with no carpet, their feet echoing off harsh concrete. She unlocked a door to a suite with a “DO NOT ENTER” sign hanging on the knob.
“This is where we bring cheaters,” she said.
The suite had colored wires springing from holes in the walls. The dead bolt was thrown and the breath caught in Billy’s throat. He was about to die. There was no other reason for them to bring him here. Old-timers called it getting eighty-sixed. Eight miles out in the desert, six feet down in the ground.
“You with us, Billy?” Shaz asked.
“How did you know my name?”
“Haven’t figured it out yet? You will. Walk with me.”
“Come on. I didn’t even steal any money from you,” he pleaded.
“Shut up.”
A hallway led to the master bedroom. She took a tube of Vicks VapoRub from her pocket and rubbed the ointment beneath each nostril, then passed the tube to the punishers.
“What are you doing?” His voice cracked.
She let out a hideous laugh and entered the bedroom. A violent push sent him stumbling behind her. The stench knocked him sideways; then the visuals took over. Blood splatters on the fancy bedspread, the wallpaper, sprayed across the ceiling like a Jackson Pollock painting and across the carpeted floor. Someone had died here, and had not gone quietly.
Positioned beside the bed was a tripod with a video camera; next to it, a director’s chair. It took a moment for the significance to sink in. When it did, he nearly got ill.
The sick bastards had filmed it.
Shaz’s fingernails dug into his flesh. She pulled him across the bedroom, the smell growing worse as they neared the closet. Something dead was hanging inside the closet. Bringing his hand to his mouth, he tried not to puke the onion rings he’d eaten earlier.
“Why don’t you just get it over with?” he said.
She drew close to him. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Shoot me, and get it over with.”
“Do you want to die?”
“Do I have a choice?”
She pressed herself against his body. She was getting aroused on his fear, and he desperately wanted to get away from her.
“You don’t have to die, but you have to look first,” she said.
“Why do I have to look?”
“Because I want you to.”
She sprung open the closet door. Inside a poor stiff hung from the clothing rack. Death robbed you of life and of dignity as well. The stiff had lost both. Short and skinny, with short dark hair, he was wrapped in plastic and had a thick rope tied around his neck, the other end tied to the rack. The right side of his skull had been shattered, the blow so severe that it had caused his left eye to break free of its orbit. The eye hung loosely on his discolored cheek like a displaced Christmas ornament, his other eye shut in permanent sleep. Something was wrong with his hand, and Billy realized two fingers were missing. Then he noticed the stiff’s toes. Someone had worked them over with a hammer until they didn’t look like toes anymore.
He asked himself, why? Why beat the poor guy to death, when putting a bullet in his head and plopping him in the ground would accomplish the same thing? Why go to the trouble?
“Recognize him?” she asked.
Billy shook his head. He didn’t think the poor guy’s mother would recognize him. Shaz picked up the stiff’s wallet from the night table. Pulling a California driver’s license from the billfold, she shoved it in Billy’s face.
“How about now?”
He studied the photograph and name on the license.
“Never heard of him.”
“Stop fucking with me.”
“I’m not fucking with you. I don’t know him.”
She turned the license around. A hideous laugh escaped her throat.
“Silly me. I’m showing you the wrong license.”
Digging in the billfold, she pulled out a second driver’s license.
“How about now?”
He read the information on the second license. Richard “Ricky” Boswell, 1824 Rodale Circle Drive, Sacramento, CA. Age twenty-two, five feet three inches tall, one hundred thirty-two pounds. It took a moment for the name to register. The stiff was a member of the Boswell clan. Descendants from a tribe of Romanian Gypsies, the Boswells had started
scamming Vegas in the 1990s and were still going strong. They were so skilled in the art of scamming that other cheaters simply referred to them as the Gypsies. They were the mountain that Billy one day aspired to climb, and he felt bad that one of their group had gone out the hard way.
He handed the license back.
“Yeah, I know him. He’s part of a family of cheaters called the Gypsies.”
“We know that. We caught him walking around the casino taking pictures on his cell phone. His family sent him here to scope the place out.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes. Little Ricky also told us that his family was going to take our casino down, and there wasn’t a fucking thing we could do about it.”
“He bragged about it?”
“That’s right, the little asshole.”
Which was why the punishers had tortured the poor kid and eventually murdered him. The picture was getting clearer now, and Billy said, “You want me to figure out what the Gypsies’ scam is. That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?”
“You catch on fast. Can you do it?”
The Gypsies had fooled the best brains in the business with their intricate casino scams, including the enforcement division of the Nevada Gaming Control Board. Trying to figure out how they planned to rip off Galaxy’s casino was a tall order, but he was willing to give it a try, for no other reason than to buy himself precious time.
“I need to look at his personal belongings, see if he took down any notes,” he said. “That should point me in the right direction.”
“You think you can dope out the scam by looking at his things?” she asked.
“You bet.”
She shoved the director’s chair in front of him.
“Let’s get started,” she said.
ELEVEN
The Gypsies’ story was known to every cheater in Vegas. They’d immigrated to the Midwest in the 1960s, where they’d made their living boosting furniture from department stores in the Chicago area. Boosting furniture wasn’t easy, and the Gypsies had used a ploy called the Dazzle to get the job done.
