Take Down
Page 38
He sat up in bed and watched her fix their drinks in the nude. Normally, it would have turned him on. But he was seeing her differently now, and it scared him. She wasn’t being rational. She couldn’t go back into a casino ever again.
She joined him, and they clinked glasses.
“Here’s to running together,” she said.
“You’re sure about this?” he said.
“Why do you keep saying that? Of course I’m sure. I’ve been grifting since I was a kid. What the hell else am I going to do? Work the register at Mickey D’s?”
He took a swallow of his drink. She was on a suicide run, the blinders on so tight that she couldn’t see the forest for the trees. If she wanted to kill herself, fine, that was up to her. But he wasn’t going to let her take him and his crew down as well.
He decided to give her one more chance.
“You should take some time off first,” he suggested. “Go back east, see your kid. It would be good for you.”
“You sound like you’re trying to get rid of me.”
“You need to clear your head. You’ve been through a lot.”
“My head is plenty clear. I want to run with your crew.”
“You want me to set up a meeting, make introductions?”
“Is that how it works?”
“Yeah. Like introducing a new dog to the pack.”
“See where I fit in the pecking order.”
“Something like that.”
“I can dig that. Set it up.”
It was turning into a bad dream. Mags was a liability and always would be. He wondered why he hadn’t seen it before, and realized he’d been blinded by his feelings.
He downed the rest of his scotch. She did the same.
“Want another?” he asked.
“That would be great. So, am I in?” she asked.
“You’re in. Let’s celebrate.”
He got her good and loaded. She started slurring her speech and soon was fast asleep. He put on his clothes and went downstairs to the valet area. His car came up. He popped the trunk and opened the strongbox. Two stacks were left. It was all the money he had in the world. He peeled off two hundreds for himself and could not help but laugh. It was the same amount he’d arrived in Vegas with, ten years ago.
He returned to the suite and put the stacks on the empty pillow so it would be the first thing she saw upon awakening. He stole a last look before walking out the door, made a mental picture so he wouldn’t forget. It would be a long time before he fell this hard again.
He thought about kissing her but decided it was a bad idea.
With the sultry voice of his GPS to guide him, he drove east on Pacific to Neilson Way, went right on Olympic Boulevard, and a quarter mile later was greeted by the sign for I-10 East. Traffic was flowing, and he lowered his window and let the wind dry the stinging tears from his eyes.
He told himself he’d get over it, but he knew that was a lie. He’d never gotten over his mother going to prison or his old man checking out, the losses gnawing away at his insides like slow-moving cancers, and he didn’t think it would be any different this time around.
Soon he was on I-15 North. It was a straight 208-mile shot into downtown Vegas. He put his foot to the pedal and started to race. Eighty, ninety, then a hundred miles per hour, the houses and buildings falling away until he was in the desert, the car practically driving itself.
He tried to take his mind off Mags and thought about Victor Boswell instead. When he’d told Victor he’d figured out their scam, Victor had asked if one of his kids had screwed up, as if it was a common occurrence. Yet Victor wouldn’t think of replacing them. Victor’s family was devoted to him, and he was devoted to them, and that was why the Gypsies had lasted so long.
There was a lesson there. At the end of the day, it was about family, and watching each other’s backs, and sharing the good times. Maybe that was why he was hurting. Losing Mags was hard, but losing two members of his crew was worse.
He pulled off on the shoulder and made a call on his Droid.
“Billy?” Cory asked breathlessly.
“You guys still up?”
“Just watching a movie on Netflix.”
“Hey, Billy,” Morris said in the background.
“Some of those marked decks in the Palms gift shop are bad,” he said. “When I taught you how to use juice, I left out the most important part.”
“You did? What’s that?”
“After you apply the marks, use a blow-dryer to dry the cards. Set the dryer on low, and gently pass it over the cards. That way, the marks will never show.”
“Are you saying we need to replace all the cards?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“We can do that. Do you want in?”
Knowing Cory and Morris, they hadn’t thought the scam out, and it was a risk. But what scam didn’t have risk? It really didn’t matter. The siren’s song was calling to him, just like it had so many countless times before. He needed to hustle again and stuff his pockets with other people’s money. But most importantly, he needed to run with his crew. Without them, there was only so much stealing he could do.
“I’m in,” he said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank the following people for their generous contributions to this book. Andy Vita and my wife, Laura, who helped me with the early drafts. Kjersti Egerdahl and Kevin Smith, whose contributions and editorial suggestions are worth far more than a simple line of thanks. The crew of cheaters I met in Las Vegas in 2008 who agreed to let me tell their story. And a very special thanks to Stephen Roberts, who made me sit down and watch an old French movie with subtitles called Bob le flambeur, which inspired me to write this book.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2007 Robert Allen Sargent
James Swain has been writing most of his life and has worked as a magazine editor, screenwriter, and novelist. He is the national bestselling author of seventeen mystery novels. His books have been translated into many languages and have been chosen as Mysteries of the Year by Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews. Swain has received a Florida Book Award for fiction, and in 2006, he was awarded France’s prestigious Prix Calibre .38 for Best American Crime Writing. When he isn’t writing, he enjoys researching casino scams and cons, a subject on which he’s considered an expert.