Take Down

by James Swain

  “Enough to retire on. You interested?”

  Ike turned to stone, thinking hard.

  “Ain’t no harm in talking to him,” T-Bird said into his partner’s ear.

  “When?” Ike said into the phone.

  “Right now,” he replied.

  “Where?”

  “In my suite at the hotel. I’ll order room service. You guys hungry?”

  “We’re always hungry. Get me a filet, well done, french fries, hollandaise sauce on the side. Same for T, only make his medium rare with a baked potato and sour cream.”

  “Got it. See you soon.”

  “Listen, Cunningham, you’d better not be fucking with us.”

  “I’m not fucking with you.”

  Ike ended the call. He slapped his partner on the shoulder at their sudden good fortune, then remembered the CCTV camera in the ceiling. He flipped Billy the bird before ripping it out.

  THIRTY

  Billy ordered the punishers’ steaks from room service along with a large shrimp cocktail for himself. The room service attendant explained that the kitchen was backed up and that it would take forty-five minutes for the meals to be delivered. Billy wanted the food on the table when Ike and T-Bird arrived, and he said, “Make it twenty, and I’ll be happy.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s impossible,” the attendant replied.

  Nothing was impossible inside a Vegas casino. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s Hinton, sir.”

  The incoming caller ID on Hinton’s phone said that Billy was calling from a high-roller suite. “If you don’t get those meals up to my suite right now, I’ll check out of this crummy dump and tell the rodeo clown at the front desk you were rude to me. Got it?”

  “Please don’t do that, sir,” Hinton said.

  “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

  “You’ll have your food in twenty minutes. I’ll deliver it myself.”

  “I’m counting on you, Hinton.”

  While waiting for the food to arrive, Billy went to work on the suite. He was about to sell a bill of goods to Ike and T-Bird, and to do that, he needed the suite to look just right. He started by positioning the chairs at the dining room table so that Ike and T-Bird sat together and would face him while they ate. He wanted to gauge their expressions while he made his pitch and know how each man was leaning. More importantly, he didn’t want them communicating with each other, even if it was with their eyeballs.

  The suite’s bar was filled with top-shelf brands. He set a bottle of Hennessy XO on the marble bar top along with three snifters to toast their newfound partnership. By setting the bottle out ahead of time, he was signaling his desire to work with them.

  Hinton arrived with a few minutes to spare and set the covered plates at the appropriate spots on the table under Billy’s instruction. When he was done, Billy shoved a hundred-dollar tip into Hinton’s breast pocket and made a new friend.

  Ike and T-Bird arrived a short while later. T-Bird carried the money from the safe in a Nike duffel bag he’d taken from Billy’s closet.

  The bag was popping at the seams, and Billy wondered how many other items they’d filched from his condo.

  “What’s your fancy?” he asked from the bar.

  “Whatever’s cold,” Ike said. “You having a party?”

  He pulled three bottles of beer from the fridge, popped their tops, and brought them across the room. “Call it a celebration. Here’s to getting rich together.’

  “Sounds good to me,” Ike said.

  “Same here,” T-Bird said.

  They took their spots at the table and started to eat. Ike and T-Bird were vacuum cleaners, weapons of mass consumption. Billy took his time and savored his shrimp cocktail. More shrimp got eaten in Las Vegas than anywhere on the planet, and the shrimp were always succulent and delicious. When he was done, he sprayed lemon on his fingers and washed away the remaining taste with beer. The punishers had already crossed the finish line and were watching him.

  “Taste good?” he asked.

  Ike grunted that his steak was decent, nothing great. T-Bird said the same. They did not act nearly as fierce with their bellies filled with red meat and potatoes.

  “Want some dessert? The kitchen’s open all night,” he said.

  “What we want is for you to talk to us about life-altering money,” Ike said.

  “That’s right, tell us about the money,” T-Bird chimed in.

  They wanted to hear about the payoff before they knew the risk. It was an amateur mistake, born out of desperation and greed. He took another swig of beer, just to make them wait. “Let me ask you a question. If I said there was a rich guy that could be ripped off, and that you’d walk away with enough money to retire on, would you do it?”

  “Someone we know?” Ike asked.

  “The right Reverend Rock.”

  “What you smoking? It’s making you talk crazy.”

  “Hear me out. Rock’s a drug dealer, and he’s using the casino to launder drug money. If Rock gets scammed while he’s here, he can’t call the police and file a report. Rock’s money is ours—he’s just holding it for us. It’s a perfect job.”

  “Maybe for you it is,” Ike said. “If me and T get involved, we’d have to go into hiding, get new identities, the whole shebang. Rock has a long memory.”

  “So what if you go into hiding? The way I see it, you guys have a problem. You’re too big to be thieves. Wherever you go, you stand out. That’s hard when you’re a thief. Look at me—I’m five eight and weigh a hundred sixty pounds. Stick a baseball cap on my head, and I look like your average schmuck.”

  “You don’t look average,” Ike said.

  T-Bird had pulled his chair closer to his partner. In the reflection in the mirror on the other side of the suite, Billy saw the bird man foot-tapping Ike on the leg the way cheating couples did at bridge, as if to say, Listen to the man.

  “There’s another problem—you’re also famous,” he said. “You played football for the Steelers, won a Super Bowl, your faces televised to a billion people during the game. How many times do you get recognized? I bet it’s a lot.”

  “Guy recognized us tonight,” T-Bird said.

  “There you go. You’re not cut out to be thieves. You need to make one big score and vanish into the wind.” He paused to let the idea set in. “So what do you say? Do you want in?”

  T-Bird gave his partner another foot-tap. Ike scratched his chin, thinking.

  “All depends on what our take is,” Ike said.

  “Twenty-five percent.”

  “Twenty-five percent of what?”

  “Twenty-five percent of whatever was in the bag Rock passed through the cage last night. It looked like six million. Twenty-five percent would be one point five million. That’s your take.”

  “Try eight million,” Ike said. “That’s what gets laundered each week.”

  “All right, then your take would be two million. That’s enough to spend the rest of your life eating cheeseburgers in paradise, don’t you think?”

  “That’s a nice number,” Ike said. “We could live off that. Couldn’t we, T?”

  “Fat and happy,” T-Bird said.

  The vibes coming off the punishers were of the feel-good quality. Billy had planted the seed; now he needed to make it grow.

  “On Saturday afternoon, the Gypsies are going to scam Galaxy’s casino, and Doucette is counting on me to stop them. If I tell Doucette that the scam’s going to happen in front of the craps pit, he’ll send every security guard to the craps pit. You couldn’t ask for better shade to make a run at the cage.”

  “Shade?” Ike asked.

  “Distraction. Every hustler uses it. By the time Doucette realizes Rock’s eight million is missing, you two gentlemen will be gone.”

  “A
re you talking about a heist with guns?”

  “Hardly. I’m talking a scam. The cashier will hand T-Bird eight million in laundered money, and T-Bird will waltz out the front door. Does that sound like fun to you?”

  “I dig the way you describe things,” Ike said. “But it won’t be cash. It will be eight million in money orders. Doucette uses a chain of check-cashing stores in town to launder the money.”

  “Can the money orders be traced?” Billy asked.

  “Nope. Each money order is for ten grand. Rock comes to the casino with two big leather briefcases, and he leaves with a small one.”

  “That will make your job even easier. This is going to be a piece of cake.”

  “Keep talking,” Ike said.

  It was time for the reveal. From his pocket, Billy removed the souvenir key chain with the rubber casino chip he’d purchased at Galaxy’s gift shop, and let it dangle on his finger.

  “See this hundred-thousand-dollar gold chip? I bought it in the hotel gift shop. It’s the key to the kingdom. We’re going to get rich off this.”

  T-Bird jumped out of his chair. “Are you fucking kidding? That thing’s rubber. No one’s gonna be fooled by that.”

  “Sit down, and let him talk,” Ike said, knowing there was more.

  T-Bird dumped his body back in his chair and folded his massive arms.

  “You’re right, it is made of rubber,” Billy said. “Now, look at the color. It’s the same color as the hundred-thousand-dollar gold chip in the casino. The exact same color.”

  T-Bird started to protest. Ike silenced him with an elbow to the ribs.

  “What’s the one thing the casinos are most afraid of?” Billy went on. “Counterfeit chips. A talented forger can wipe a casino out. To stop this from happening, the casinos employ different measures to stop forgers. The two measures that have worked best are RFID microchips and using special colors that can’t be duplicated. You with me so far?”

  “Yeah,” the bird man grunted.

  “Galaxy doesn’t use RFID microchips, so that just leaves the special colors. And Doucette let a promotional company have the formula to make this rubber chip. I’ll get the paint from them, give it to a forger that works for me, and he’ll counterfeit gold chips. Get it?”

  Ike nodded approvingly; he was on board. T-Bird still needed convincing.

  “Passing counterfeit chips inside a casino has a name,” Billy said. “It’s called making a run at the cage. It’s a difficult scam to pull off. You’ve got to fool the cashier, the cage manager, and the eye-in-the-sky. If any of those folks think you’re trying to pass bogus chips, they’ll hit an alarm, and you’ll get busted.”

  “This sounds hard,” T-Bird said.

  “It won’t be when we do it. In fact, it’s going to be a piece of cake.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He’d already told them the answer, only T-Bird was brain dead and had forgotten. Ike’s brain was still working, and he slapped the table with his enormous palm.

  “We’re going to make a run at the cage while the Gypsies are pulling their scam,” Ike said. “You understand what the man is saying? We’re going to pull a scam while another scam is going down. Security will be dealing with the Gypsies, while we’re ripping the joint off. Douche bag won’t know what hit him.”

  T-Bird had a funny look on his face. Rising from the table, he pointed at the door to the master bedroom. “In there,” he said, and walked into the other room.

  Ike rose as well. “Be right back.”

  The bedroom door closed, and they started to argue like a married couple having a spat. For a couple of ex-jocks about to run out of road, it was the deal of a lifetime, and he wondered what the problem was. At the end of the day, it really didn’t matter. Ike was the brains of the duo, and T-Bird would eventually agree to what Ike wanted, because that was how it worked.

  The Nike duffel bag sat on the floor. It had been eating him to know what they’d stolen from his condo. The zipper made a harsh sound as he tugged it open. The bag was filled with the money from his wall safe—no surprise there. In the side pockets they’d stuffed watches, jewelry, and fancy cigarette lighters.

  He took everything back. The pieces that didn’t fit in his pockets went into drawers at the bar. He also helped himself to the money, and left twenty grand. That was the amount they’d agreed to, and he was not going back on his word.

  Harsh words floated out of the bedroom. He went to the couch, flipped on the TV, and stared at images that made no sense. Sleep was calling to him. It had been a long fucking day, and he needed to recharge his batteries for tomorrow, which promised to be an equally long fucking day. He still had to find the Gypsies, and that was no small order.

  The punishers came out of the bedroom and stood in front of the couch, blocking the TV.

  “We got a question,” Ike said. “How do we know you won’t rob us and take all the money come Saturday? What’s to stop that from happening?”

  “You have first touch,” he said.

  When neither man responded to this most incredible of offers, he explained.

  “You’re going to rob the cage while I’m catching the Gypsies. The cashier will hand you the money orders, and you’ll walk outside and jump into a car with my crew. I’ll meet up with you later and split the money. Sound fair?”

  It was more than fair, and erased any doubts that Billy wasn’t being on the level with them. Both men stuck out their hands.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” Ike said.

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE HOT SEAT: SUNDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

  The sunlight was starting to fade when the gaming agents decided to take a break and walked out of the interrogation room. Billy had been talking nonstop, and his vocal cords were turning hoarse. He uncapped the last water bottle on the table and chugged it down.

  “Let me have your pen,” he said.

  His attorney handed over his gold pen. Billy scribbled on the pad. His attorney gave the question some thought.

  “I’d put your odds at less than even money,” the attorney said truthfully.

  It was better than having no odds at all. The gaming agents returned and took their places at the table. LaBadie replaced the cassette in the tape recorder on the table.

  “Let’s continue,” LaBadie said.

  “Ready when you are,” Billy said.

  “We want to hear more about the rubber chip you found in Galaxy’s gift shop. You said the gold color matched the casino’s hundred-thousand-dollar chip, and this led you to believe that your crew could counterfeit these chips and use them to rob Galaxy’s casino.”

  He’d told them a faithful rendition about the first two days, except for the details about his crew. Those things he’d glossed over, referring to his crew simply as a group of friends that he occasionally got together with.

  “I already told you, I don’t have a crew,” he said.

  “Stop playing games, Billy. You and your crew made a run at the cage and ripped the place off Saturday afternoon.”

  “Never happened.”

  “Did Maggie Flynn know your plans?”

  He glanced sideways at his attorney. “Tell them.”

  “For the record, my client does not have a crew,” Underman said. “If you continue to put words in my client’s mouth, I’ll have to ask you to stop this interrogation immediately.”

  “We’re not putting words in his mouth,” LaBadie said defensively.

  “I beg to differ.”

  LaBadie had been around the carnival a few times and knew that Underman was establishing a line of defense to use at trial.

  “Have it your way. Carl, go get the bag,” LaBadie said.

  Zander left the room. When he returned, he was holding a paper bag. LaBadie took the bag and poured its contents onto the center of the table. Gold chips
from Galaxy’s casino rained onto the table, their color so rich they sparkled in the light.

  “Recognize these?” LaBadie asked.

  Billy shook his head, playing dumb.

  “They’re counterfeits. Your crew used them to steal eight million bucks.”

  “I don’t have—”

  “We have this on videotape, Billy. Now are you going to come clean with us or not?”

  Billy picked up one of the chips and gave it a cursory glance. If they had it on tape, then he was fucked, no two ways about it. So why hadn’t they shown him the tape and gotten it over with? Why go to the trouble of making him tell his story? Either LaBadie was lying or something else was going on. All he could do was keep talking and hope for the best.

  “You want to hear the rest of my story?” he asked.

  “You’re not going to confess?” LaBadie asked.

  “To what?”

  “To all the crimes you committed.”

  “I didn’t commit any crimes. I’m innocent.”

  “You’re making this tough on yourself, Billy.”

  “Why don’t you just listen to the rest of my story? I mean, isn’t that why we’re here?”

  LaBadie parked himself in a chair. The three gaming agents put their elbows on the table, their eyes boring a hole into their suspect’s face.

  “Spit it out,” LaBadie said.

  THIRTY-TWO

  FRIDAY, ONE DAY BEFORE THE HEIST

  Billy awoke to being kicked in the shins. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than being bonked in the head with a lead pipe, shot in the face at point-blank range, or strangled with a rope, which occasionally happened to people who cheated for a living. He’d fallen asleep on the couch in the living room of his suite, an empty snifter in his hand. Painful sunlight streamed through the picture window as bright as a police interrogation.

  “Get up, you sneaky little bastard.”

  A plumber’s dream of Cleopatra stood before him. Baby doll red dress, five-inch spiked heels, her lips a tight red scar, and enough cleavage to open a Hooters. He still hadn’t figured out what her deal was, and decided to make it a priority over the next two days.