by James Swain
“Saturday afternoon. Let’s hook up on Sunday, grab some lunch.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her. She wasn’t prodding him for information or asking bad questions, and his earlier suspicions that she was up to something faded away, replaced by the delicious idea of them ripping off Vegas casinos together. What a wild ride that would be.
“I just remembered something. You dropped a photograph of your daughter on the floor in the cocktail lounge the other night.” He took out his wallet and rifled through the billfold. “Damn. It’s not here. I must have lost it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty more. How’d you know Amber was my kid?”
“Come on—she could be your clone.”
“Acts like me, too, got a mouth on her you wouldn’t believe. She’s in community college, going to graduate in the spring. I’ve already got my ticket booked.”
“You must be real proud of her. What’s she majoring in?”
“I’m embarrassed to tell you.”
“Why?”
“She’s studying CSI. My baby wants to be a cop.”
They shared a laugh. Mags had a deep, throaty laugh, and he imagined hearing it in bed and how pleasing it would be. Hooking up hadn’t been right fifteen years ago, but now it felt okay. The age difference between them no longer mattered. He had caught up to her, and the long-awaited prize was about to be his. He decided to test the waters and dropped his hand on her knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. She didn’t seem to mind.
“How did you manage to go to MIT? I hear the tuition’s crazy,” she said.
“I got a full ride,” he said.
“You must be some kind of brainiac.”
“School always came easy to me. During my first semester, they gave me the Bucsela Prize for outstanding achievement in mathematics. The funny part was, I hardly ever studied.”
“Your old man must have been proud.”
“Not for very long.”
“What do you mean?”
“I only lasted two semesters.”
“Why’d you quit?”
The words hit him hard. Mags hadn’t asked him if he’d flunked out or been thrown out. She’d asked him why he’d quit, as if it was a statement of fact. Every time he’d been busted by the gaming board, a nosy gaming agent had dug into his past, seen he’d gone to MIT, and wanted to know why he’d only lasted a year. Rather than tell the truth, he’d made up a lie, and now Mags had repeated that lie. It could only mean one thing: she was an informant working for the enforcement division of the gaming board.
He jumped off the couch, startling her.
“I’m going to be late. I’ll call you Sunday,” he blurted out.
She rose as well. “What’s wrong? Your face is all red.”
“Talking about college isn’t my favorite subject.”
“Did something bad happen? Come on, you can tell me.”
What had happened was that a woman he’d been carrying a torch for had stuck a dagger straight into his heart, and it hurt so bad that he needed to get away from her as fast as he could.
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another time,” he said.
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
She pressed her body against him. Their lips touched. It was all he could do not to put his hands around her throat and choke the life out of her.
FORTY
The Bali Hai golf course was part of the shimmering-gold Mandalay Bay Resort. Billy parked his Maserati in the gravel lot and sat very still. It didn’t seem real. Mags had gone over to the dark side. And to think that he’d asked her to work with him ripping off casinos.
A tap on his window got him out of the car. Cory had a bag of golf clubs slung over his shoulder, Morris a racing form. Cory passed Billy the golf bag.
“Tony G’s waiting for you by the first tee in his cart,” Cory said. “He’s got his enforcers with him, Guido and Snap. Guido won the Las Vegas bodybuilder championship last year; Snap fights mixed martial arts. Guys who don’t pay get their arms snapped.”
Morris handed him the racing form. It was for today’s races at Santa Anita. It was in the twelfth race that Sal the fixer would switch in the Brazilian ringer. Sal was purposely not letting his web of bettors know which horse was the ringer until right before post time. That way, his web couldn’t share the information and bring down the ringer’s odds.
“How are we going to work this?” Billy asked.
“Sal will text me a few minutes before the race starts with the ringer’s name,” Cory said. “I’ll text the information to you, and you’ll scam Tony G.”
“If Tony G sees me reading a text and then betting on a long shot, he’ll feel a breeze. Try again,” Billy said.
“We can send the information to you by code on your Droid,” Morris suggested. “You’ll put your cell phone on vibrate and stick it in your pocket.”
“Vibrating cell phones make noise. If Tony G hears the vibration, he’ll get suspicious. Try again.”
“Here’s an idea,” Cory said. “The club has a drink service. Cute girl drives out in a cart, brings you an ice-cold beer. I’ll bribe her into passing you the information on a cocktail napkin.”
“What if she gives the napkin to Tony G by mistake? Is that when Snap breaks my arm?”
Beaten, Cory and Morris gazed shamefully at the ground. They were the little brothers that he’d never had, yet there were times when he wanted to throw them both down a flight of stairs. Still holding the racing form, he slapped it against Cory’s chest.
“Find a pencil, and draw circles around the horses that should win the other races, but don’t draw anything on the twelfth,” he said.
Cory went inside the clubhouse to get a pencil. An idea was brewing in Billy’s head, and he popped the Maserati’s trunk. He carried a variety of stuff in the trunk, including a box of magic props. He frequented the local magic shops, always on the lookout for a new gimmick that could be used to beat the casinos. His favorite shop was Houdini’s inside the MGM Grand, where every purchase came with a free lesson from one of the demonstrators.
He removed a swami gimmick from his collection and shut the trunk. It was made of brass and prefitted with a tiny piece of lead that fit comfortably under his right thumbnail. With it, he could secretly write on a piece of paper—or a racing form—without being detected.
Cory came back outside. He’d done as told and circled the favorites on the racing form while leaving the twelfth race blank. Billy stuck the form in his back pocket.
“Do either of you know semaphore?” he asked.
“I learned in the Boy Scouts,” Morris said.
“Good. Here’s what I want you to do. When Sal texts you the ringer, drop your beer on the ground and curse. Then grab two clubs from your bag and start loosening up. Use the clubs to signal the first three letters of the ringer’s name. That’s all I need to find it on the form.”
“Got it,” Morris said.
It was 3:20 p.m. Billy still needed to buy golf shoes from the pro shop before heading out to the first tee. He put his arms on their shoulders and drew them close.
“Tell me you’re ready,” he said.
They swore to Billy that they were ready.
“I want to ask you a question. If you found out that someone you knew was a snitch and was working with the gaming board, what would you do to them? Be honest with me.”
“I’d kill them,” Cory said without hesitation.
“So would I,” Morris said.
Billy felt the same way. It didn’t matter that he’d carried a torch for Mags all these years. The betrayal was too great.
The first pair of shoes he tried on fit perfectly. He paid up and left the shop with his bag of clubs slung over his shoulder. Painted signs directed him down a crunchy gravel path to the first tee. Tony G used the Bali
Hai course as his office and was probably a strong player and would hustle Billy once he’d sized up Billy’s game. That was how it usually went.
Golf was not a friendly game in Vegas. Every club had hustlers who paid golf pros to arrange matches for them. Some hustlers were scratch players who practiced in shaded areas and had pale white skin that matched the tourists they fleeced. Others resorted to cheating, and spread Vaseline jelly on their clubs’ faces to better control their shots, or wore golf shoes with the soles removed, allowing them to move their balls out of unfavorable lies with their toes.
Billy guessed that Tony G also had tricks that he used. That was fine. While Tony G was hustling him on the greens, he’d be hustling the bookie at the racetrack.
He came to the first tee. Tony G sat in a cart with an iPhone, making book. Late fifties, fat as a tick, with a thick matte of white chest hair creeping out of his V neck.
Behind the bookie was a second cart with the enforcers. Guido was at the wheel and wore a sleeveless black muscle shirt that showed off his massive arms. He was jotting down the bets his boss was making on a legal pad and paid Billy no attention. Snap sat next to him and had a wiry body without an ounce of fat. Snap’s nose had been honked a few times and was as thick as a blood sausage. His weak spot, Billy guessed.
“You must be Billy,” Tony G said, covering the mouth of the cell phone. “Toss your bag in the cart and grab a drink. There’s beer and spritzers in the cooler. We’re up next.”
“Appreciate it,” Billy said.
Cory and Morris had strolled onto the first tee and were hitting their drives. They were both out of practice and needed to work on their games if they planned to pull off any more golf scams. Done, they got into a cart and drove down a dirt path.
Billy pulled a driver out of his bag and walked onto the tee, where he took several practice swings. Tony G approached holding a sleeve of new golf balls.
“Let’s use these,” the bookie said. “You can have the number-one ball.”
They hadn’t even started, and Tony G was already hustling him. During their match, Tony G would make Billy’s ball vanish and would drop a ball with identical markings in a sand trap, costing him several valuable strokes.
“How long you in town?” the bookie asked, making small talk.
“I’m here for the weekend. Weather sure is great.”
“You’re telling me.”
Tony G got a call from a client. The bookie stepped off the tee and passed the information to Guido. Knowing Tony G wasn’t looking, Billy removed the racing form from his pocket, refolded it lengthwise, and returned it to his pocket so it was partially exposed.
“Let’s play some golf,” Tony G said. “You like to gamble?”
“Doesn’t everyone? What’s your handicap?” Billy asked.
“I’m an eight. How about you?”
“I’m an eight, too. How about we bet five hundred a hole?”
“I’m game. You do the honors.”
Billy teed up and hit his drive. Every golf course in Vegas followed a basic premise. If a player drove his ball straight and stayed out of the rough, he was rewarded with a decent score.
Tony G went next and hit a powerful ball that sailed forty yards past Billy’s. Like hell you’re an eight, he thought.
They drove down the path. Halfway down the fairway, they got out and found their balls. Up on the green, Cory and Morris were putting out. Tony G waited until they had left before taking his next shot, which landed five feet from the flag. Billy’s shot sailed over the green into the rough. They returned to the cart.
“You into the ponies?” Tony G asked.
Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Tony G had spied the racing form in his pocket.
“Love ’em,” he said.
“What’s your favorite track?”
“Santa Anita. My father used to take me there when I was a kid, taught me how to handicap. He died a few years ago, left me his company. He was the best.”
He turned his head and pretended to wipe away a tear.
“I’m happy to take your action,” Tony G said. “You can bet on the races while we play.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that.”
He pulled the racing form from his pocket. It was 3:50 p.m. Each race had a post time, and he flipped the pages and stopped on the eighth race of the day, which was listed to start at 3:55 p.m. Cory’s pick for the eighth race was a horse named Solid Gold.
“Five grand on Solid Gold to win,” he said.
“Five grand? That’s some serious money, kid.”
“I can handle it.”
Tony G pulled out his iPhone. Most bookies relied on apps to check the results of sporting events in real time to prevent being swindled on events that had already occurred. Using an app named Today’s Racing, he checked the eighth race at Santa Anita.
“There’s a lot of money riding on Solid Gold. The odds have dropped to even money. You still want it?” Tony G asked.
Billy said yes. He needed to stick to the script and not improvise. Tony G drove to the green, and they finished the hole, which the bookie won by two strokes.
When they returned to the cart, the eighth race was over. Tony G pulled up a replay on his phone using the Today’s Racing app, and they watched Solid Gold stumble out of the gate and finish sixth. Billy had lost the hole and the race, and was down fifty-five hundred bucks.
“Too bad,” Tony G said without a hint of sympathy.
Billy hid a smile. The fish had taken the bait. All he needed to do now was reel him in.
FORTY-ONE
Billy proceeded to lose the next three races at Santa Anita. A half inch of rain had fallen at the track earlier in the day, and the conditions were sloppy. It seemed to be affecting many of the favorites, all of whom were falling out of the money.
His golf match wasn’t faring any better. On the front nine, he lost six holes and tied the other three. On the holes that he tied, Tony G purposely missed a couple of makeable putts, just to keep Billy in the game.
His losses were adding up. He was going to win it all back, but that didn’t matter. He hated losing, even if only for a short while.
Tony G parked the cart in a shaded spot by the teeing ground of the tenth hole. It was 4:53 p.m. The twelfth race was listed to start at 4:58 p.m. Cory and Morris were on the tee, preparing to take their drives. They had purposely slowed down and were holding up play. Tony G bit off the end of a cigar and said, “Who invited these jerks?”
“They sure are slow,” Billy said.
“You’re telling me. I’ve never seen them before.”
Clutched in Cory’s hand was a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser. The can appeared to slip out of Cory’s grasp, and hit the ground.
“Shit,” Cory said.
The scam was on. Cory grabbed a towel from his bag and dried off his shirt. Morris picked up his partner’s driver and, along with his own club, pretended to loosen up. As Billy watched, the clubs formed letters in the air using the semaphore code.
Morris held the club in his left hand by his side, the club in his right hand at twelve o’clock. The first letter was D. The club in his left hand stayed by his side, while the other club went to eight o’clock. The second letter was A. The club in his left hand went to four o’clock, while the club in his right remained at eight o’clock. The third letter was N.
That was all Billy needed to know. He stuck his left hand into his pants pocket, located the swami gimmick, and jammed it under his thumbnail. He brought his hand out of his pocket and held it in his lap. With his right hand, he grabbed the racing form off the dashboard. Turning sideways in his seat, he opened the form to the twelfth race so the page was hidden from Tony G.
“I’m on a losing streak,” he said.
“Happens to the best of us,” the bookie said.
He scanned the horses entered into the twelfth race. The ringer was named Dana’s Boy, listed at seventy-to-one odds. He circled the name with the swami gimmick.
“Here she is. I think my luck’s about to change.”
He passed the racing form to Tony G and pointed at the ringer that he’d just circled.
“Five grand on Dana’s Boy.”
Tony G studied the form. As he’d done with each of Billy’s bets, he pulled up the twelfth race on the app on his cell phone and studied the true odds, which fluctuated before the start.
“This horse is dog food, kid. Why’d you pick it?” the bookie asked.
“My mother’s name was Dana, and I’m her boy,” he said.
Tony G relayed the bet to Guido. By now, Cory and Morris had hit their drives and left. Billy got his driver and went to the teeing ground. Tony G joined him moments later.
“Youth before beauty,” the bookie said.
Billy teed up and hit his drive. He was laughing inside, and his ball flew straight and true. For his next shot, he chipped to the green, then sank a twenty-foot putt for his first birdie of the day. Tony G couldn’t touch him and lost the hole.
As they left the green, Tony G pulled up a replay of the twelfth race on his iPhone, and they watched Dana’s Boy tear up the wet track at Santa Anita and beat the field by five lengths.
“Dog food my ass!” he shouted into the bookie’s ear.
Dazed, Tony G stumbled to the cart as if he had two left feet. Billy grabbed a bottled water out of the cooler and handed it to the bookie. The enforcers hopped out of their cart.
“What’s the matter, boss? You look pale,” Guido said.
“We just got taken for three hundred and fifty thousand big ones,” Tony G said.
“What? By who?”
Tony G smirked, as if to say, Who do you think? He leaned against the hood of the cart and gulped down the bottled water. His eyes were blinking, his brain playing back the events of the past hour and analyzing them, frame by frame, word by word, looking for a clue that might lead him to understand how Billy had scammed him. Long shots did not win horse races, and Tony G knew that the race had been fixed. But knowing something and proving it were two entirely different things, and if Tony G didn’t pay Billy off, his reputation would be ruined.
