by James Swain
“Let’s get over to the wedding chapel before this thing blows up in our faces,” Billy said.
Just off the hotel lobby, the wedding chapel was far enough away from the casino to make it feel real, a pretty room painted in champagne hues and delicate shades of brown, with cut-glass chandeliers and amethyst glass windows traced in gold leaf. Billy sat down in a pew with the punishers. Up at the altar, a white-haired minister was conducting a rehearsal with two nervous kids who kept peeking at the door, as if expecting an irate parent to appear and call the whole thing off. He guessed that the bride-to-be was underage and that she and her boyfriend had eloped. It was easy to get hitched in Vegas. No waiting period, no blood test, just buy a fifty-dollar certificate, and find a man with a turned collar to read from the black book.
The rehearsal dragged on, with the kids comically stepping on each other’s vows. The groom tried slipping a wedding ring on his bride’s finger and dropped it on the floor, where it rolled beneath a pew and disappeared. The girl looked ready to brain him.
The rehearsal ended, and the kids walked down the aisle squeezing hands. The minister wiped his brow with a hanky. A door beside the chapel opened, and a new couple appeared for their rehearsal. It was an assembly line. Billy rose from the pew.
“I need to take a look at something. I’ll be right back.”
He walked around the chapel to the door the couples were coming through and twisted the knob. Crammed into the adjacent room were ten more couples, waiting their turn. Returning to the pew, he asked Ike to call Shaz. As the call went through, he left the chapel with Ike’s cell phone pressed to his ear and parked himself on an overstuffed couch in the lobby.
“What do you want?” Shaz said by way of greeting.
“It’s me, Billy. I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
“That’s right. Did you make the Gypsies yet?”
“I’ve hit a little snag. According to the welcome board in the lobby, there are nine weddings taking place on Saturday. I’m at the chapel, and I’ve already seen twelve couples rehearsing. What’s the deal?”
“Price points. You have to pay to get your name put on the welcome board.”
“So how busy is Saturday?”
“We start at ten a.m. and run them until five. Three weddings an hour, no overlap.”
“I believe you just said twenty-one.”
“Don’t be a wiseass. It isn’t healthy.”
If he knew one thing for certain, it was that Ike and T-Bird weren’t going to lay another hand on him, and he could not help but smile into the phone. “One more question. Do small wedding parties stay in the hotel, or can they just rent the chapel?”
“Anyone who gets married has to stay in the hotel. That’s the deal.”
He ran his free hand through his hair. The joint was a wedding mill. No doubt the Gypsies had taken this into account when they’d decided to scam the casino. It made it that much easier for them to blend in. The mountain he was climbing had just gotten steeper.
“Who deals with all of these couples?” he asked.
“We have a full-time wedding director, Lucille Gonzalez.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Be my guest. Lucille’s office is in the bridal shop; she deals with all of the parties. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming. But be careful. Lucille will take one look at you and start spinning her web. You know the kind I’m talking about.”
“I’ll let you know what I turn up.”
“Don’t hang up. Why do I think you’re fucking with me every time I have a conversation with you? You’re scheming away, I just know it.”
Billy’s cheeks burned. “I’m not fucking with you. Ask Ike if you don’t believe me.”
“Like that moron would know? I used to strip, remember? I can hear it in a man’s voice when he lies. You’re lying. If I find out what you’re planning, I’m going to take you down. That’s a promise, Billy, so help me fucking God.”
She was onto him. But would she pull the trigger when the time came? If the snuff film of Ricky Boswell was any indication, she would, and he’d become another notch on her belt.
“Why don’t you trust me? I haven’t hurt you,” he said.
“Give it time,” she said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The bridal shop was a factory. Weddings were big business for the hotel, and a staff of dress fitters and wedding planners scurried about the spacious room, altering the gowns of the frantic brides-to-be and their doting mothers. The brides were bitchy and tearful and tossed verbal bombs at their mothers or anyone else in range.
The girl at the front desk was on happy pills, immune to the carnage around her. She called into the back for Lucille. Hanging up, she pointed at a door that led to the fitting rooms. “Last door on the left. Don’t bother to knock—Lucille’s expecting you.”
Billy checked out the fitting rooms while walking to Lucille’s office. They were equally tense, the brides frowning at their reflections, the beautiful gowns they were wearing somehow just not right. Maybe that was the key to finding the Gypsies. Find the bride that wasn’t a nervous wreck, and she’d probably be part of the Boswell clan.
The door to Lucille’s office was ajar. A sunny Hispanic woman showing head-snapping cleavage sat at a desk, talking on a landline. Her sensuous brown eyes locked on him, then dropped to his hand to see if he wore a wedding ring.
“I’ll call you back.” She nestled the receiver into its cradle. Rising from her swivel chair, she slowly grew as she stepped into her heels. “You must be Billy.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Never.” She came around the desk with a little swing to her hips. High cheekbones, small mouth glossed pink, azure-shadowed blue eyes. A nice package.
“Shaz said you were a consultant the casino had hired to sniff out a crook, and that I might be able to help you,” she said. “Wait—I’ve seen you on TV. The Discovery Channel, right? They did a show about casino scams, and you were on it, being interviewed.”
“Wrong,” he said. “It was actually A&E.”
“Hah! Shaz said you were the devil. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable.”
He took a chair. Lucille sat on the edge of the desk and let her feet dangle playfully in the air. She was a live wire, that was for sure. She offered him a cigarette, which he declined. She lit up and inhaled pleasurably. Multiple lines on the desk phone were blinking frantically, and she paid no attention to them. He dug that. She had focus.
“I’m looking for a family of crooks that are staying in your hotel posing as a wedding party,” he explained. “I’m guessing you might be able to help me figure out who they are.”
She brought her hand dramatically to her chest. “You want me to help you catch these people? How exciting. What do you want me to do?”
“I need you to think back over the past week. Have you seen any brides that weren’t crying or picking fights with their mothers? That seems to be the norm, from what I’ve seen.”
Lucille went into thought mode, her face a study in concentration.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Have they all had meltdowns?”
“Good expression,” she said, the cigarette’s ash glowing. “Yes, they all have. It’s part of the marriage process. The anticipation is too much, and they blow their stacks.”
“And you rescue them.”
“I most certainly do. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” Her laugh sent a stream of blue smoke over Billy’s head. “I’m not helping, am I?”
“You’re doing great. Do you dance?”
“All the time. How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess. Which clubs?”
“I used to go to the Bank, but it got tired after a while, same DJs every week. Now I hang out at the Tryst. The DJs change every night and it’s much fresher. Fridays are
the best, but not until after midnight. I bet you’re fun on the dance floor.”
“I’ve got some moves. Let’s get back to business. Have any of the brides acted strangely, or done something to give you a funny feeling about them?”
“You mean in my gut? Not that I can remember.”
“How about their mothers?”
Lucille’s eyes sparked as she ground her cigarette into an ashtray on the desk. He had hit a nerve, and he waited expectantly for her to continue.
“The mothers are a pain in the bitch, if you’ll pardon my language,” she said. “A few days ago, a bride was getting her gown altered, and I’m there with her mother, making sure it looks right. The mother says she paid twenty grand for the gown from a bridal shop. I took one look and knew the gown was a knockoff. Bridal shops sell fake wedding gowns made of synthetic fiber. The shops mark up the price ten times, pocket the difference. It’s a big scam.”
It sounded like the fake-sweater scam, only on steroids. He didn’t have a problem selling knockoffs—bridal gowns got worn once and got stuck in mothballs—and he wondered if Lucille might be amenable to starting up a business on the side, with him fronting her.
“How many gowns do you sell from your shop?” he asked.
“Don’t go getting any ideas,” she said.
She was a square. He smiled pleasantly, as if making a joke.
“Tell me about the mother,” he said.
“I had to tell the woman the truth. Her poor daughter’s about to go down the aisle in a dress that was probably made in China, for Christ’s sake. So I took her aside and said, ‘I hate to tell you this, but your daughter’s gown is a knockoff. When you get home, go to the bridal shop where you bought it and tell the owner you know the RN number printed on the label isn’t real, and that you’ll report him if he doesn’t refund your money. That should do the trick.’”
“How did the mother react?”
“That was the strange part. Momma got real quiet. In a whisper she tells me to mind my own business, then turns around and walks away.”
“You don’t think she’ll go to the shop when she gets home?”
Lucille shook her head. The story had riled her up, and she lit a fresh cigarette and filled her lungs before responding. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think Momma knows her baby’s gown is a fake. It was written all over her face. Maybe she bought it through the mail to save money, or maybe there’s some other reason. But she knew.”
He had to think about that. He motioned with his hand, and Lucille passed him the cigarette. He took a taste, the smoke tickling his tongue, then gave it back.
“Have you ever had that happen before?”
“Never, and I’ve been in the business a while. Families skimp on things, sure, but never on the gown. The gown represents the family as much as it does the bride.”
She had nailed the discrepancy on the head. A family marrying off their daughter could be excused for buying a supermarket wedding cake, serving cheap New York State champagne, or having a drunk uncle sing “Just the Way You Are” for the first dance, but they couldn’t get away with buying a fake gown. There was something else in play here.
“How can I find this woman?”
“She and her daughter are here right now. Shall I make an introduction?”
“If you don’t mind.”
From a desk drawer Lucille found a name tag that said “Director of Special Memories” and clipped it to Billy’s shirt. Her hands lingered on his chest. She was sexy and smart and knew the angles. It was too bad she was a square.
She backed away, expecting him to say something, embarrassed when he didn’t. She’d helped him, and he didn’t want to bruise her feelings. He took a business card from a box on the desk and slipped it into his breast pocket. Her eyes danced with possibilities.
“Can I call you sometime?”
“I don’t see why not,” she said. “Walk with me.”
Lucille led him to a dressing room. He’d been hearing tales about the Gypsies for as long as he could remember, and he was excited at the prospect of finally meeting a member of the clan, even if under strained circumstances. Lucille stopped at a door marked with a gold star and tapped lyrically, the sound like raindrops dancing on a roof.
“Hi, it’s Lucille, just checking to see if everything’s going okay.”
The mother of the bride opened the door. Late forties with dyed-blond hair and circles under her eyes, she gave Billy the once-over before focusing her gaze on Lucille. She didn’t look any different than the other mothers he’d seen, and was either doing an Oscar-caliber acting job or wasn’t part of the Boswell clan.
Behind her, the bride-to-be stood before a three-way mirror as a tailor applied the final touches to her strapless gown. She bore a striking resemblance to her mother: same face, same figure, only no dye job. The gown was a disaster and made her look thick around the middle.
“Hello, Mrs. Torch,” Lucille said. “This is my associate, Mr. Cunningham. I just wanted to check in and make sure you and Candace were doing all right.”
“My daughter’s driving me nuts,” the mother of the bride said, dropping her voice. “Otherwise, I guess everything’s fine.”
Billy did a double take. It was the same woman that Ike and T-Bird had roughed up coming out of the restrooms. Cecilia Torch, the one who’d played it cool as the casino had tried to bribe her with gifts so she wouldn’t sue. He’d pegged her for a distraught mother, desperate to save her daughter’s wedding from disaster. Had she pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes and actually been hiding the fact that she was part of a family of cheaters?
The two women discussed tomorrow’s wedding. Listening to them talk, he couldn’t tell if Cecilia was faking it. He had an idea. You could learn a lot by listening to a person talk with your eyes closed. The mouth spoke the lie, but the face sold it. But without the face, the lie was just a lie and could be picked up.
He pretended to take a call. What he actually did was shut his eyes and listen to Cecilia talk. He quickly picked up the hint of three-card monte below the surface, the bullshit smooth and expertly delivered. Whatever rancor Cecilia had shown to Lucille when confronted with the accusation of her daughter’s fake gown was history; now Cecilia was respectful and polite, and he knew it was all an act.
He said good-bye into his cell phone and put it away. Then he took a closer look at the daughter’s wedding gown. It made the girl look pregnant. Somehow, the gown played into this.
The conversation between Cecilia and Lucille ended. Lucille said the usual pleasantries and shut the fitting room door. She walked Billy out to the reception area, where his journey had started, her face a question mark.
“Are they the ones?” she asked.
“Afraid not,” he said.
“Damn, I would have sworn it was them.”
Clasping her hands, he gave her a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek.
“You’ve been a huge help,” he said.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.” As he headed for the door, she called out to him. “Don’t forget to check out Tryst. The place gets really hot after midnight.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
Ike and T-Bird stood outside the bridal shop with their cell phones, surfing websites with splashy layouts of Italian sports cars soon to be in their futures. Bye-bye, Camaro, hello, Lamborghini Roadster and Ferrari Spider. His cautionary talk about lying low after the heist had gone in one ear and out the other. Living large was all they cared about.
Their gazes lifted in unison.
“Any luck?” Ike asked.
“Home run,” he said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Billy talked to Cory from the balcony of his high-roller suite. Standing by the rail, he sipped on a bottled mineral water while letting the desert sun bake his face.
“Did Gabe have a
ny problems getting the paint?” he asked.
“Nope,” Cory said. “Gabe’s in the garage now, starting to make the fake chips. He gave me and Morris a lecture on negativity. You should have heard it.”
“You be nice to Gabe. Agree with whatever he says, and don’t you dare piss him off. That goes for Morris, too. Gabe’s our ticket to paradise.”
“I know, I know. He’s a downer sometimes.”
“Deal with it. How’s the horse-race scam looking?”
“We’re all set. You’re playing with Tony G at the Bali Hai at three thirty. Morris and I will be playing in front of you. The scam is for the twelfth race at Santa Anita. Once we know which horse is the ringer, we’ll pass the information to you, and you’ll place a bet with Tony G and fleece him. The ringers are always long shots. Once we had one at fifty-to-one odds, if you can believe it.”
Vegas bookies were tough to fleece. Billy couldn’t see Tony G accepting a large bet on a long shot from a stranger, couldn’t see it at all. Cory was leaving something out.
“You’re telling me you’ve been fleecing bookies with this scam, and none of them wised up? What are you doing, hitting them over the head with a lead pipe?”
“We’re not fleecing bookies, we’re hitting sports books,” Cory explained. “Sal, the guy who’s fixing the races, has a web. Morris and I are part of the web. I probably should have told you sooner how this worked. Sorry.”
Billy’s blood began to boil, and he sipped his water to calm down. Webs were used by fixers to place bets on rigged sporting events. Most webs were spread across the country and employed a dozen or more bettors in different cities whose job was to place medium-sized wagers on rigged events with different bookies. The beauty of a web was that it spread the pain around, and no one bookie got beaten for too much money. The drawback was that it required a large group of people to pull off, as well as a large pool of victims. For Cory to think that the horse race scam at Santa Anita could be used against a single bookie—i.e., Tony G—was insane.
