The Casino Switcheroo

by Michael P. King

  When he reached the intersection, a semitruck flew through the stop sign and slammed into his right side. Everything was happening in slow motion. The airbag exploded in his face. The front of the Highlander crashed into a tree. He unhooked his seatbelt, kicked the door open, and fell out of the Highlander into the grass, coughing as he scrambled to his feet. He could hear gunfire. He looked over his shoulder and saw two men climbing out of the semitruck. He ran for the beach, gunshots peppering around him.

  Ninovich screeched to a halt behind the wrecked Highlander and jumped out of the Suburban with his pistol drawn. The Highlander was wedged between a huge oak and the semitruck, its front end crushed. He glanced up at the cab of the semitruck. Freddy, the leader of his Seaside Place crew, and Derrick, one of Freddy’s car thieves, were climbing out, their pistols in their hands. “Where is he?”

  Freddy pointed with his gun hand. “He ran toward the beach.”

  “Get after him!”

  Freddy and Derrick jumped down from the cab and rushed around on either side of the Highlander. Ninovich opened the back of the SUV. It was empty. He hurried after his men. Freddy and Derrick were on the rocky beach, searching among the boulders and sandy cuts with their pistols out. “Did you see him?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Any blood?”

  “Nothing,” Freddy replied.

  “Keep looking. He was only a hundred yards ahead.”

  “It’s all gravel here, Ninovich. And the tide is coming in.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Koenig was in the ocean, underwater swimming down the beach past the wreck. As long as they did what made sense and kept looking in the other direction, he had a chance. He lifted his head out of the water and glanced back toward them. They were farther away. A craggy boulder jutted out into the surf just ahead of him. Once he got to the other side of it, they wouldn’t be able to see him. He spat out water, gulped a breath, and drove under. He’d certainly made a fool of himself getting into a pissing contest with the kid. Hadn’t thought he’d be sharing info with Smithson. Should have had Raymond kill him at the restaurant.

  He found a handhold on the rough surface of the boulder, lifted his head above the water, and took another breath. He glanced back. No one was coming. He clung to the side of the boulder, moving hand over hand until he was on the far side. Then he climbed out onto the gravel, dripping like a half-drowned rat. He was completely hidden from Smithson’s men. A couple hundred yards down the shore, a man and a woman stood at the water, and a dog rushed back and forth, chasing the waves. He felt in his pockets. His lock picks were still there. He strolled over to the on-street parking, approached an old Ford as if it were his, and picked the door lock. Once inside, he hotwired it. Quarter tank of gas. More than enough. The back seat was a jumbled mess of clothes and food wrappers. He found a towel and draped it over his head like a hood before he pulled out into traffic and headed for the vacation rental. The money was waiting.

  Meanwhile, in the parking lot behind Jumbo Records and CDs, Gower and Johnson were directing the cleanup. The police helicopter was gone. Four men were in custody. Two were dead on the pavement, another on the roof of the three-story building to the south. The crime scene investigators had just arrived, but the overall situation seemed clear. Some sort of meeting had gone bad. The Barlows had probably been here, but they were gone now.

  “Who are these guys?” Gower asked.

  “Two of the guys we arrested definitely work for Ninovich,” Johnson said. “The three dead ones I’ve never seen before. They’ve got no identification.”

  “Like the guy in the alley.”

  “Maybe they belonged to the kidnappers.”

  “Maybe. We need more facts.”

  Sergeant Park crossed over to them. “Just got a call. A semi from one of Ninovich’s garages T-boned a Highlander up on Coast Road.”

  “Anyone injured?”

  “There’s no one there.”

  Kelly Jo was parked in front of the Bright Smiles dental practice next to the Mail-N-More on Vine Street, downtown. All the stores, except for the Mail-N-More and the corner bar, were closed. She saw a patrol car drive by in her rearview mirror, but it didn’t slow down. Max came out of the Mail-N-More with a manila envelope in his hand.

  “It’s all here,” he said. “IDs, passports, credit cards.”

  Kelly Jo backed into the street. “Are you calling this a win?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Koenig could say the same thing.”

  “I’m not done with him yet. Aces up both sleeves, remember?”

  Max called Zeb. “Hey, brother.”

  “What can I do you for?”

  “I reached out to you for info on Koenig, and then Koenig was all over us.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence. I’ve done a lot of trade with you over the years, but I guess Koenig’s done more.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “I believe it is. If you want a pass, you’re going to have to help me now.”

  “You can’t get to me.”

  “Can’t get to you? Are you on the space shuttle? ’Cause if you’re on this planet, you are definitely getable. You want to put a contract on me and find out who’s better at running and gunning?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Where’s Koenig?”

  The line was quiet.

  “Where is he? There’s not going to be any blowback, because he’s going to be dead.”

  “Up on Coast Road north of you. Vacation rental place. Let me get the address.”

  “You do that.”

  Kelly Jo pulled into a Gas-N-Go and stopped next to the side of the building. “I told you he was a rat bastard.”

  “Yeah, you did. I thought he just had a problem with women.”

  Zeb gave him the address.

  “This better be right.”

  “It is.”

  “We’ll see.” Max ended the call.

  Kelly Jo watched a silver Nissan pull away from the gas pumps before she put the Explorer in Drive. “So, we going after Koenig?”

  “No. I’ve had enough of this mess. We’re getting out of town while the getting’s good.”

  “Then what was that about?”

  “Listen.”

  Max put his smartphone on speaker and called Ninovich. “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “So you haven’t found Koenig?”

  “I’m going to find you. I’m going to put my hardest guys on you and the little bitch.”

  “You’re hurting my feelings. Didn’t I tell you I’d take care of you? Koenig’s running up to his last safe house.” He gave him the address. “You hurry, you might catch him and the money.” Max ended the call.

  “You think Koenig is really still there?” Kelly Jo asked.

  “Don’t know. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and they’ll kill each other.”

  Raymond and Hernandez were already at the vacation rental. No one had come after them, so they’d made an easy drive up the coast. They knew where the duffels were, knew they were wired to explode, and they’d had time to find the remote control. But they didn’t know the passcode.

  They were in the living room, beers in their hands, assault rifles in easy reach, watching the Coast Road. “How much of that mess do you think was intentional?” Hernandez asked.

  “If by intentional,” Raymond replied, “you mean planned out in detail, I don’t know. But if you mean the general result, the whole mess was intentional.”

  “Did he get himself killed?”

  “He’ll be along shortly. He’s got the cops and Smithson’s crew all over each other and there’s only the two of us left, so he’ll be crowing when he gets here.”

  “If he shows, we make it a three-way split, or we kill him after he disarms the bombs.”

  “He’ll want to pay you your twenty-five thousand and for
me to leave with him.”

  “That’s a nonstarter.”

  “Just kidding. A three-way split is fine with me.”

  “If he doesn’t show, we’ll have to find a guy who can figure out the pass code,” Hernandez continued.

  “He’ll show.”

  When the Ford pulled into the driveway, they picked up their rifles and took position where they could each watch the sidewalk and each other. Koenig hurried up the walkway, moving like a crab, his wet suit hanging awkwardly against his body. He turned the doorknob and gave the door a push, letting it slowly open so he could look inside before he entered. He saw Raymond and Hernandez angled off to his right and left. “Boys. Glad you made it.”

  Hernandez chuckled. “You’ve looked better.”

  “I’ve been better. But it’s nothing a drink of whiskey and two million dollars won’t fix.” He walked past them into the kitchen and poured himself two fingers of scotch. “You find the remote?”

  “Yes, we did,” Raymond replied.

  “Then let’s talk about how we do the next little part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think all three of us want to leave here alive. We’ve earned it. So how are we going to make that happen?”

  Ninovich, Freddy, and Derrick were barreling up the Coast Road in the Suburban. Freddy was pushing the truck like he was on an empty stretch of the Autobahn. Derrick was in the back seat filling the magazine of an AR-15 rifle. Ninovich was on the phone, calling in reinforcements. “ASAP. Don’t wait for stragglers. You get in the truck now.”

  Koenig, Hernandez, and Raymond were sitting in the living room facing each other, Raymond and Hernandez with rifles across their laps, Koenig holding his scotch. “The problem, as I see it,” Koenig said, “is that after I disarm the bombs, we could all turn on each other. No matter what anyone says now, no matter what they promise, the temptation of two million dollars is just too great.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Hernandez asked.

  “We could throw all the guns into the ocean, but then we’d be vulnerable to anyone else who shows up.”

  “Who else could show up? We’re the only ones who know about this place.”

  “If you believe that, my boy, you’re dreaming. Time is of the essence. It always is.”

  “Then you better disarm the bombs.”

  “Possibly being killed later is always preferable to definitely being killed now.”

  “We could unload the guns and put them in our cars.”

  “Then we just take the bloodbath out into the yard.”

  Raymond slapped his hand against his thigh. “Two bags, two bombs.”

  Koenig smiled. “I was waiting for you to figure it out.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Hernandez asked.

  “Is that your best offer?” Raymond asked.

  “Absolutely,” Koenig said.

  Raymond spoke to Hernandez. “He’ll disarm one bag. We can take it and leave. He’ll stay with the other bag until we’re gone.”

  “If you try to take the last bag,” Koenig said, “I’ll input the explode code and blow it up. We can all die or you can settle for half a million apiece.”

  “Jesus,” Hernandez said. “You’d kill yourself? And blow up a million dollars?”

  “If I’m going to die, everyone dies and no one gets the money,” Koenig replied. “What’s your answer?”

  “You’ve got a deal,” Raymond said.

  “I’m in,” Hernandez said.

  “Okay,” Koenig said. “Leave the rifles up here.”

  They went down into the walkout basement. “The remote is on the mantle,” Raymond said.

  Koenig got the remote, turned so that Raymond and Hernandez couldn’t see what he was doing, and input the disarm code for the left duffel. Then he put the remote control in his pocket. “All done.”

  “Pick it up,” Hernandez said.

  Koenig shrugged. He unzipped the left duffel, took out the bomb and the jar of ball bearings, set them on the sofa, and passed the duffel to Raymond. “That should make things lighter.”

  Hernandez grabbed at the opening to the duffel. It was full of rubber-banded bundles of old one hundred-dollar bills. His eyes lit up. He turned to Raymond. “Let’s go upstairs and make a count.”

  Koenig followed them up the stairs. Hernandez dumped the bundles of bills onto the dining room table. “Fifty-fifty split and go our separate ways.”

  Raymond counted out two piles of fifty bundles each. Then he and Hernandez thumbed through the bundles in their own pile at random, to make sure the bundles were all money.

  “Satisfied?” Koenig asked.

  “No,” Hernandez said. “I’d like a third of the whole score, but it will have to do.”

  Raymond and Hernandez bagged up their money. On the way to the door, Raymond turned to Koenig. “See you around, old man.”

  “If you actually believe you’re going to see me again, then I didn’t teach you well enough.”

  Koenig watched Raymond and Hernandez drive away before he picked up the assault rifle from the sofa and went into the bedroom to get his escape packet. It was just where he left it under the mattress. He was all set. He wondered how far they would get before they figured out that the money he’d given them was counterfeit.

  He heard a vehicle outside. They couldn’t know about the money yet. Did they change their minds about killing him? He rushed to the living room window and peered out through the blinds. Ninovich and two men were climbing out of a Suburban. How did they find out he was here? A Ford F-150 slid into the yard behind them. Christ. Koenig fired a burst through the window. The glass exploded into the yard. Ninovich and his men dove for cover. Three men jumped out of the F-150, firing as they ran for the side of the house. They were going to outflank him. He had seconds, not minutes. He ran down the stairs into the walkout basement. No time to disarm the duffel and escape. The money or his life. Damn it. How did they get here so fast? The kid had done this to him. Had to be him.

  Koenig slipped out the patio door into the backyard and scurried behind a garden shed in the back corner just before one of Ninovich’s men appeared around the side of the house. The man crept along the house until he came to the patio door. Koenig took the remote control from his pocket. As soon as the man saw the duffel, the money was gone. Either he’d blow it up or they’d call in someone to defuse it. Two million. All gone. It was just a diversion now. Two million for his life. Koenig input the explode code into the remote control.

  Two explosions, one on top of the other, rocked the house. Pieces of roofing and scraps of lumber exploded into the sky. Koenig, shielding his head with his arm, rushed across the backyard and into the neighbor’s yard. No one appeared to be home. No one who could hear, anyway. He cut through their yard to the next house, where he looked through the glass in the back door of the two-car garage. An old Bronco sat on one side of the garage; the other side was empty. He broke out the glass with his elbow and entered. The back door to the house was open. A key rack hung on the wall just inside the door. Koenig took the keys to the Bronco. This was not a time for stealth. Ninovich and his men were probably dead, but he couldn’t take the chance. He raised the garage door and backed out onto the Coast Road. Bits of shingle, broken glass, and splinters of wood littered the yard. A fire truck wailed in the distance. Koenig sped away. All that work, all that effort. For nothing. All the up-front expenses, and purchasing the counterfeit. He’d had to use every penny he could scrape together. The job itself had been perfect. He’d had the two million in his hands. But now it was all gone. He hoped the kid was dead.

  Ninovich stood in the front yard of the vacation rental, a bloody gash on his face. His ears were ringing. The place looked like it had suffered a direct hit from a tornado. The house was gone. The yard and street were strewn with lumber, glass, shingles, drywall, and bits of one hundred-dollar bills. What the hell had caused the house to blow up? The guys from the F-150 had died durin
g the blast. A toilet had smashed the hood of the Suburban. The windshield on the Ford truck was shattered.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. Freddy pointed at the truck. He was saying something, but Ninovich couldn’t quite make it out over the ringing. Derrick pulled the truck forward. Ninovich nodded. He and Freddy climbed in. They drove down to the nearest side street, where they turned off the main road and pulled over. Ninovich got out his phone and texted for help.

  “Little Jimmy will be here in twenty minutes.”

  Freddy shook his head. “Can’t hear a fucking thing.”

  He showed him the text message.

  Little Jimmy, a fat man wearing olive garage coveralls, pulled up in a utility van and transported Ninovich, Freddy, and Derrick to Mendoza and Warren Medical Clinic. A nurse wearing scrubs was holding the back door open for them when they arrived. Before Ninovich got out of the van, he put his hand on Little Jimmy’s arm. “Can the Suburban or the Ford be traced back to us?”

  Little Jimmy shook his head no.

  In the clinic, they each went into different treatment rooms. Ninovich sat on the end of an exam table. The nurse took his vital signs. He thought she told him his blood pressure was surprising good considering the situation, but the ringing in his ears was still a little loud for him to be sure. Before she left, the doctor came in and checked him over. Then he picked up a tablet computer, wrote a note, and handed the tablet to Ninovich. You probably have brain trauma from the explosion. Your hearing will probably improve over the next few days. You should rest for a few days. Avoid loud noises. If your symptoms don’t improve, you should seek more treatment. I’ll be back to stitch up your face.

  The doctor and nurse left the room. A text message came in on the tablet. It was Smithson. What?

  Ninovich replied: Target and $ blown up. Still looking for others.