Super Con

by James Swain

  “You’re going to do it?” Travis grew excited.

  “I just might. But first I want to know what our take is.”

  “We get territorial exclusivity.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “The Las Vegas sports books are ours to fleece. Broken Tooth gets everything else.”

  “A hundred million bucks was bet on the Super Bowl in Las Vegas last year. That’s ours to work?”

  “That’s right, Billy. I was thinking we’d steal ten million, just to be on the safe side. It will be like taking candy from a baby.”

  “Who pays Night Train and the other players?”

  “That comes out of Broken Tooth’s pocket.”

  The appeal of fixing a sporting event was its simplicity. The athlete did all the work, while the gambler made most of the money. But there was a downside. If the police found out, the cheat’s life would become a living hell, and the cheat would be forced to hire a battery of lawyers to defend himself. This was especially true for baseball and football, which were considered national pastimes and often led to Congressional hearings when games were fixed.

  Up at the bar, a pretty lady angrily slapped a video poker machine and said, “How come I never win this stupid damn game?” Her complaint triggered an old memory. Billy had been in a bar when a gang of gaming agents had burst in and placed yellow police crime-scene tape across the screens of the video poker machines. Later, he’d learned that the manufacturer had rigged the game so jackpots never paid out. The deception had been going on for years, yet the gaming board hadn’t caught on because it was happening right under their noses.

  Broken Tooth was counting on the same thing. It was crazy enough to work.

  “I like it. Count me in,” he said.

  Travis nearly hugged him. “You won’t regret this, Billy.”

  “I sure hope not. How do I connect with this guy?”

  “Night Train has a suite at the Octavius Tower at Caesars where he stays after practice. That’s where he and his defensive teammates are right now. Secretly, of course.”

  “Those villas run forty grand a night. Sounds like my kind of guy.”

  Travis ordered another round. Soon they were holding fresh drinks in their hands.

  “I’m sorry, Billy,” Travis said. “I should have called you first.”

  “Don’t do it again,” he said.

  “I won’t. Here’s to getting rich together.”

  There was no greater sin than hurting the people you ran with. Travis had screwed up and needed to make amends. There was no better way to accomplish that than by making everyone rich. It would erase any doubts about the big man and his motives.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Billy said.

  NINE

  Monday, thirteen days before the Super Bowl

  The next morning, Billy hit the ground running.

  Over coffee, he read the articles Broken Tooth had given him. Night Train was no stranger to trouble, especially when it came to gambling. The NFL prohibited players from hanging out with gamblers and bookies, yet Night Train had been caught in nightclubs, on golf courses, and inside casinos with an assortment of sordid underworld characters.

  Nowhere did the articles mention what penalties the NFL had leveled on him for these transgressions. The NFL had a reputation to uphold, and Night Train’s associating with hoodlums had tarnished it. Yet it didn’t appear that anything had been done.

  He noticed another strange thing. The articles had been written by bloggers and had come from news sites. Using his Droid, he got on the Internet and typed Night Train Gambling into Google. Links to several dozen articles appeared, all written by bloggers. There was not a single article from a newspaper or magazine about Night Train’s gambling.

  He refreshed his cup and went onto the balcony. He lived on the thirty-second floor of a luxury condo with a breathtaking view of the Strip. Not bad for a kid who’d arrived on a Greyhound bus with two hundred bucks in his pocket.

  He gripped the railing and stared at the distant Spring Mountains. Night Train hung out with bookies. That meant he had inside information on games that he was betting on. Night Train was breaking the law and putting the sport that employed him in jeopardy. Yet the guy hadn’t been punished. Either he had photos of the league’s commissioner in bed with a farm animal, or something else was in play here.

  He went inside. On the desk in his study was an old-fashioned Rolodex that contained the names and phone numbers of more than fifty concierges employed by the town’s casinos. He personally knew all of them, some on a first-name basis. And he knew what made them tick.

  He placed a call to Tito Gonzalez at Caesars Palace. Tito was a thirty-six-year-old divorced father of two pulling down forty-five grand a year and driving a ten-year-old Buick LeSabre. Every casino worker had a dream that motivated them to put up with the daily grind of their thankless jobs. For Tito, it was to one day play poker professionally. To accomplish that, Tito needed a stake, and as he’d demonstrated on many prior occasions, Tito was more than willing to compromise his customers’ privacy to raise the money.

  “Hey, Billy, long time no hear from. How you been?” Tito greeted him.

  “I’m doing great. You still playing poker?”

  “You bet. I placed sixth in a WPT satellite event last week.”

  “I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

  “I’m at my stand. Let me call you back.”

  The line went dead. In his mind’s eye, Billy saw Tito walking outside Caesars and finding a secluded spot from which to call him back. Billy’s cell phone rang a minute later.

  “Lay it on me,” Tito said.

  “Night Train McClain is staying in one of your pool villas,” he said. “Rumor has it he likes to play poker. I’d like to make his acquaintance. Can you arrange that?”

  “Who told you Night Train had a villa here?”

  “A little bird. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Night Train’s off-limits. Listen, I’ve got to run.”

  “Why is he off-limits?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Nice talking to you.”

  Billy believed that the negotiation began with the word no and was not about to throw in the towel. “How much did you make for coming in sixth in your poker tournament?”

  “Seven thousand three hundred and fifty bucks.”

  “I’ll match it.”

  “Sorry, Billy, but that’s not enough. I could get in serious hot water.”

  “I thought you wanted to quit your job and play cards for a living.”

  “I’m not there yet.”

  “I’ll give you ten grand for your trouble. Does that float your boat?”

  “Still not going to cut it. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “No, you don’t. What you need to do is chase your dreams, Tito. You check your bank account every day, and every night you dream of telling your boss to go fuck himself. What’s the figure? You have to be getting close.”

  “I am close. Fifteen thousand eight hundred and forty-six bucks, and I’m out of here.”

  “Done.”

  “Don’t screw with me, Billy. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Have I ever messed with you before? Have I?”

  “There’s always a first time. There’s no way in hell you’ll pay me that much to set up a meeting with Night Train. You’re blowing smoke up my ass, and I don’t like it.”

  Billy pulled Tito’s card out of the Rolodex. “You still have an account with PayPal? The last time we did business, I wired you the money.”

  The line went still, and for a moment Billy thought Tito had run on him.

  “I’ve still got my PayPal account,” Tito said.

  “I’m wiring you the money. Check in a few minutes, then call me back.”

  “I’ll do that,” Tito said, unconvinced.

  Tito was singing a different tune when he rang Billy back. “I can’t believe you just did that,” the concierge said, unable to
hide his excitement.

  “Neither can I. You haven’t done anything yet,” Billy said.

  “On the contrary, I made a call and spoke to the great one himself. I set up Night Train and his posse with some lovely ladies last night, so he owes me. There’s a card game in his villa this afternoon and a seat with your name on it. Be prepared to lose your money.”

  “The game’s rigged?”

  “You bet. A cleaning lady overheard Night Train talking to his pals about fleecing a guy they’d invited over to play and reported it.”

  Cheating at poker was difficult when only one person was doing the stealing. Team play was a lot easier. A guest would be invited to the game, and the players would orchestrate a scam and take every last cent the guest had. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and Billy had all the information he needed to play in Night Train’s game. But he was still curious as to why Caesars was letting cheating take place.

  “Why do you let that go on? Aren’t you afraid of people finding out?” Billy asked.

  “Night Train is bulletproof,” Tito replied. “That fucking guy can do just about anything he wants short of murdering someone, and management’s going to look the other way.”

  “Why?”

  “In my job, you don’t ask questions like that. It only leads to finding out stuff you shouldn’t know. I told him you were a hotshot real-estate salesman. That’s the cover you’re using these days, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “Bring plenty of cash. A word of warning. Don’t ask Night Train if you can get a selfie with him. He’ll get ugly with you.”

  “Doesn’t like to get his picture taken?”

  “No sir. The NFL prohibits the Rebels from hanging out at the casinos during the season. If word leaked out Night Train was gambling and whoring at Caesars when he was supposed to be preparing for the Super Bowl, all hell would break loose with the NFL’s head office.”

  “He’s not preparing for the Super Bowl?”

  “I didn’t say that. He’s at a team meeting right now. He’ll be back in the afternoon. Poker game starts at three.”

  “Does his team know he’s at Caesars?”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “And they let that kind of crap go on?”

  Tito guffawed into the phone. Billy didn’t like being laughed at and bristled.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “I thought you were a sharp guy.”

  Billy nearly said Sharper than you but bit his tongue. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said instead.

  “It means that you don’t understand what you’re getting yourself into, my friend,” Tito said. “The NFL isn’t about football, and it never was.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “Show biz.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  “It’s whatever you want it to be. Get here early so an employee can escort you to the villa.”

  Billy didn’t like ending the conversation being left in the dark. “You going to explain yourself, or do I have to beg?”

  Tito laughed again, and the line went dead.

  Billy’s next call was to Victor Boswell. He had decided not to tell Victor about the unpleasantness with Broken Tooth for fear that Victor would call off the super con.

  “Hello, Billy, how are we doing today?” Victor asked.

  “Couldn’t be better,” the young hustler said. “My crew is itching to know the secret of your super con. Are you ready to tell me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Afraid I might go and pull it myself?”

  “I know you wouldn’t do that. But I can’t say that about your crew.”

  “They wouldn’t do that, either. They just want to know what they’re getting involved with. They might back out if your super con uses electronic equipment. The casinos have developed new ways to detect that stuff.”

  “There’s no electronics involved,” Victor assured him. “Want to come over? I’ll give you another demonstration, then we can hammer out the details of how this is going to work.”

  Any time spent with Victor was always an education in the fine art of cons and grifts. Billy said yes, and Victor gave him the address of the rented house on the north side of town where his family was staying.

  “I’ll be there in thirty,” Billy said.

  “Hundred bucks says you can’t figure out what I’m doing,” Victor said.

  “You’re on.”

  TEN

  Billy pulled into the driveway of the Boswells’ rental house and killed the engine. Many crews that traveled for jobs had switched from staying in hotels to renting houses. Owners of rentals rarely keep records, and for a thief, that was always a good thing. The Boswells’ rental was a testament to suburbia, with a basketball hoop over the garage door and an artificially green lawn. He texted Victor to say he’d arrived.

  He got out of his car and had a look around. Like a bad penny, gaming agents had a habit of turning up, usually in the form of a stakeout. The car parked across the street was empty, as well as the SUV down the block. He decided it was safe and crossed the lawn.

  Victor greeted him at the front door. His host wore a starched white shirt and black dress slacks, and he had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Victor was getting on in years, but instead of trying to hide his age, he owned it and was the epitome of class. Leaning on his cane, he escorted Billy to a gaming room in the rear of the house with a felt blackjack table in its center.

  “Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot,” Victor said.

  “I’m good. Did the blackjack table come with the house?”

  “I bought it from the Gambler’s General Store. Wanted to be ready for the big day.”

  “Are you practicing the super con on your family?”

  “Every day. They still can’t figure out how it works.”

  “You like keeping them in the dark, don’t you?”

  “Come to mention it, I do. This might be the best play I’ve ever come up with. Ready to take another shot at the champ?”

  “You bet I am.”

  Billy walked behind the table and took the dealer’s position. Victor took the chair across from him and stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth. Victor had smoked since he was a kid but had quit after one of his children had pointed out that his lips trembled whenever he got nervous, sending a smoke signal to observant pit bosses.

  The game was handheld, single deck. Billy shuffled the cards and had Victor cut them with a plastic cut card. He placed the deck into his hand in preparation to deal.

  “Place your bets,” Billy said.

  Victor had three denominations of play chips stacked in front of him. Thousand-dollar chips, five-thousand-dollar chips, and ten-thousand-dollar chips. He slid three ten-thousand-dollar chips into the betting circle.

  “That’s a big bet to start with,” Billy said.

  “I’m feeling lucky,” Victor said.

  Billy’s cheeks burned. Victor wouldn’t make a bet that large unless he knew what the outcome was going to be. Yet he had done absolutely nothing to compromise the game.

  Billy dealt the hand. Victor got a blackjack, which paid three-to-two.

  “Would you look at that,” Victor said with a grin.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Deal another round. You’ll catch on eventually.”

  “What are you saying—that it’s right in front of my nose?”

  “You know what I’m doing, you just don’t recognize it.”

  Billy dealt another hand, which Victor won with a huge bet. Then Billy dealt three more rounds. Victor won the first but lost the next two. On the hands that Victor lost, smaller bets were placed, indicating that he knew which cards were going to be dealt to him.

  “What happens if a pit boss smells a rat and stops the game?” Billy asked.

  “He won’t find anything,” Victor said.

  “Can I look anyway?”

&nb
sp; “Be my guest.”

  Billy gave the deck a thorough examination. Because players were allowed to touch their cards in single-deck games, cheats had resorted to marking the backs of the cards with secret substances, allowing the cheat to learn the values of the cards as they were dealt. By knowing the dealer’s cards, the cheat had a huge edge over the house and cleaned up.

  The deck was normal. Victor said, “I bought the cards with the table.”

  “You like rubbing it in, don’t you?”

  “Just being honest with you.”

  “What if the pit boss pulled you into a back room and patted you down?”

  “You think I’ve got a camera up my sleeve?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  Victor cuffed his shirtsleeves. Cheats often strapped cameras to their wrists to spot the dealer’s hole card. The information was transmitted to the cheat’s partner, who sat in a cocktail lounge, looking at a live feed on a laptop. The partner signaled the information to the cheat using a device called a thumper, which was strapped to the cheat’s leg.

  Victor’s sleeves were clean.

  “I can do this in my birthday suit, in case you were wondering,” the older man said.

  Billy was starting to feel stupid. After taking the cards out of the discard tray, he added them to the deck and reshuffled.

  “Let’s try it now,” he said.

  “Trying to mess me up? I like your spunk,” Victor said.

  The next round was Victor’s as well. Victor had won $30,000 of the house’s money in the amount of time it took to drink a beer. Billy noticed something he hadn’t seen before. The corners of Victor’s eyes narrowed as the cards were dealt. That was a tell, and Billy picked up a card and examined its back.

  “You’re using luminous readers. The cards are marked with luminous paint, which you’re reading with a special pair of contact lenses. That’s your scam.”

  “That’s as old as the hills, Billy. No one uses luminous readers anymore.”

  “Which is why you resurrected it. Marking cards with luminous paint is so old that pit bosses in Vegas have stopped looking for it.”

  “But a pit boss can look for it,” Victor reminded him. “And if the pit boss finds the marks, I’m screwed.”