Super Con

by James Swain

  Special Agent Grimes awaited them in the lobby of LINQ. The knot in Grimes’s necktie was undone, and his chin sported a dark shadow.

  “Catch any bad guys?” Mags asked as they took the elevator down.

  “Slow day so far. Like the present I sent over?” Grimes asked.

  “What present? I didn’t get any present.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve never heard of Louisa Cruz.”

  “Sorry. Name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  Rand stared at the floor, pretending not to hear. The elevator landed and they walked down a hallway to a steel door with a security camera perched over it. Grimes hit a buzzer.

  “Before we go inside, I need to remind you that it’s against the law to take photos of the equipment. If I catch either of you doing that, I’ll confiscate your cell phone. Got it?”

  “Of course,” Rand said.

  “You’re the boss,” Mags added.

  A short man wearing a turtleneck ushered them in. The room was dimly lit and designed like a bunker, and it took a moment for Mags’s eyes to adjust. Twenty-eight monitors took up the main wall; in front of them sat a dozen techs at desks, using joysticks, keypads, and desktop screens to jump among feeds from the casino’s many cameras.

  At one desk sat a plump guy eating a burger in a fast-food wrapper. Frank slapped him on the shoulder. “This is Blake, one of LINQ’s table games specialists. How’s it going, Blake?”

  “Living the dream,” Blake replied without humor.

  “Any bites?”

  “Not yet, but the day’s still young.” With a flick of the joystick, Blake jumped from a craps table to a blackjack game with lightning speed. “I thought I saw your boy earlier, but it wasn’t him. Is your offer still good?”

  “Absolutely. Five hundred bucks if you nail him,” Grimes said. “That goes for the other techs as well.”

  A glossy photograph was propped on Blake’s desk. It was the same photo Frank had shown Mags of the Gypsies having lunch with the claimer. Frank had nailed two of the Gypsies already but let them slip through his fingers. Now he was offering a bounty to capture the third Gypsy in the photo—the one with the prominent Adam’s apple, who would be easy for Blake or one of the other techs to spot if he entered LINQ’s casino.

  “You must really want to catch this guy,” Rand said.

  “That would be an understatement,” Frank said. “The gaming board busted three hundred cheats last year, and all of them were small fries. The big ones almost always elude our net. But that’s about to change.”

  Rand picked up the photo and stared at the faces in the group. “Who are they?”

  “They’re a family of thieves called the Gypsies who prey on the casinos. They specialize in well-orchestrated scams that have netted them millions of dollars.”

  “Millions? Wow.”

  “Wow is right. The older lady in the photo is a retired school principal and in cahoots with the Gypsies. She claimed a jackpot from a slot machine that the Gypsies rigged and split the winnings with them.”

  “I thought it was impossible to rig a slot machine.”

  “So did we. But the Gypsies figured out a way to open a machine and nullify the antitheft device while adding a special code that made the machine pay a jackpot if played a certain way. That’s what makes the gaming board’s work so challenging. Even when we’re right on top of things, we’re still a step behind.”

  “That’s a good quote. Can we use it in the show?”

  “No.”

  “Got it. Do you ever resort to unusual methods to catch cheats?”

  Frank flashed a smile. “I’ll have to take the fifth on that one.”

  “In the movies, the cheats get dragged to a back room and get the tar beaten out of them before they get turned over to the police,” Rand said. “Does that really happen?”

  Every damn day, Mags almost said.

  “Not anymore,” Frank said.

  Blake leaped out of his chair like he’d been hit by a cattle prod. “Got him! Our boy just sat down at a hundred-dollar blackjack table.”

  “Put him on the wall,” Frank said.

  The twenty-eight wall monitors became filled with a live feed of the Gypsy with the pronounced Adam’s apple. He was dressed casually, his face hidden by a pair of cheap shades and a baseball cap. The disguise had flown by the other techs; only Blake’s trained eye had picked him up. Frank removed his wallet and slapped the bounty on Blake’s desk.

  “Treat your girlfriend to a nice dinner tonight,” Frank said.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” Blake replied.

  Frank enjoyed busting cheats more than screwing. Mags knew this as fact, because Frank had once left their bed after getting a call about a cheat ripping off a casino.

  Frank moved closer to the monitors with Rand glued to his side. Mags stayed by Blake’s desk, wishing she’d never agreed to take this little tour. She’d said good-bye to the grifter’s life and did not want to participate, even as a casual observer.

  The Gypsy on the monitors didn’t have a prayer. Frank would catch him in the act, video the crime from every conceivable angle, and bust him. Frank would also interrogate him and ask him to give up the rest of the members of his family. If the Gypsy didn’t play ball, Frank would put him away for a long time.

  The game was blackjack. On the monitor, the Gypsy was dealt a pair of aces. The Gypsy slid a second bet into the betting circle, indicating he wished to split the hand. Then a miraculous thing happened. The Gypsy’s original bet of two black chips grew to three. The new bet also contained three black chips. Black chips were worth a hundred bucks. The Gypsy had added $200 to his bet without the dealer being the wiser.

  “We need a close-up of that,” Frank called over his shoulder.

  “I’m all over it,” Blake said.

  “Did something just happen?” Rand asked, clueless.

  “Our thief had an extra chip palmed in his hand, which he added to his original bet. Hustlers call it capping a bet.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” Rand marveled.

  “He’s pretty slick. We’ll need to record him the next time he moves. That’s the only way we’ll be able to convince a jury that he was cheating.”

  “Are juries hard to convince?” Rand asked.

  “In this town they are. Without rock-solid video evidence, a jury will not convict.”

  Frank went to Blake’s desk and used a house phone to call the head of casino security. “The guy sitting at first base on table seven is capping his bets. Once we have enough evidence, I’ll call you. Make sure you get his cell phone when you bust him.”

  Hanging up, Frank glanced at Mags. “Having fun?”

  Mags thought she might get sick. The Gypsies were in Vegas running a scam with Billy, and there was every likelihood that Billy’s number was logged on the guy’s cell phone. That would put Billy in a bad light and allow Frank to ask a judge for permission to tap Billy’s phones and put a tail on him. Eventually Billy would slip up, and Frank would nail him.

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  Mags blinked awake. Billy had never used or abused her, and he would always occupy a special place in her heart, even if he was a devious little shit.

  “Afraid not,” she said.

  “I asked you if you’re having fun.” Frank stepped closer, his eyes burning a hole into her soul like he knew something wasn’t right.

  “Time of my life,” she said.

  “Why do I think you’re lying to me?”

  “That’s because everyone lies to you, Frank. You should be used to it by now.”

  Frank lifted his hand as if to slap her. He’d struck her several times when she was a snitch, then tried to make up for it with a shitty box of candy or flowers.

  “Go ahead, try it,” she said.

  Frank growled under his breath and moved back to the monitors. Seeing her chance, Mags turned to Blake. “Where’s the ladies’ room? I need to powder my nose.”


  “It’s behind the file cabinets.” Blake lifted his bag of fries. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Mags found the restroom and went in. What she was about to do was illegal and could land her in hot water. She was risking everything, yet her heart said do it.

  Her hand shook as she typed a text message to Billy on her cell phone.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Stage Door was the ultimate dive bar. Three-buck beers, two-dollar shots, and reanimated road kill served as hot dogs were its big sellers. The marquee advertised the number of years remaining on the lease as a middle-finger salute to the casinos that surrounded it.

  It was also a hangout for casino people, and it was not uncommon to find Billy at the bar, buying rounds while listening to dealers blow off steam. Dealers who hated their bosses or who had financial problems could often be recruited to rip off their employers.

  Today, it was Cory and Morris who joined Billy at the water-stained bar. Cory played a video poker machine built into the bar. Without looking up, he said, “We found one of Broken Tooth’s men.”

  Billy drank a Corona out of a frosted mug. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then said, “I’m listening.”

  “I took your suggestion and did a Google search for the best authentic Chinese food in Vegas. A restaurant called Joyful House popped up. Five stars. The menu’s in Chinese and serves shark fin soup and several dishes prepared with live fish. My gut told me this was the place, so Morris and I ate lunch there today.”

  Cory went silent. He was one card away from making a royal flush, which would pay out two grand. He drew the wrong card and punched the machine.

  “Loser,” Morris said.

  “Shut up,” Cory said.

  “The suspense is killing me. What happened then?” Billy asked.

  Cory picked up his drink and took a sip. “We sat near the entrance and ordered lunch. Around noon, one of Broken Tooth’s goons came in and picked up two bags of food. The owner was working the cash register, and they talked in Chinese and were real chummy.”

  “So the owner knew him,” Billy said.

  “The goon had definitely been in before,” Cory said.

  “Did the goon make you? You said you were sitting by the entrance.”

  “Nope. We were wearing disguises,” Cory said.

  Cory and Morris had once done a job but failed to wear disguises. Billy had canned them over it, then taken them back, with the promise they’d never do it again.

  “Nice to hear it,” Billy said. “Did you follow him?”

  “For about a mile. Then we stopped,” Cory said.

  “Why?” Billy asked.

  “The goon was looking in his mirror as he drove,” Cory explained. “If he made us, he could get out at a red light and shoot us. And our short, happy lives would be over.”

  Drive-by shootings were common in Vegas and rarely got solved. Cory’s reasoning was sound, and Billy said, “We need to go back to Joyful House and set up surveillance. We’ll use two cars to follow the goon and find out where Leon’s being kept.”

  “I think we should go see Broken Tooth and do an exchange,” Cory said. “We’ll give him Travis, and in return he lets Leon go.”

  “That’s a clever idea. Were you planning on kidnapping Travis?”

  “That was the plan. It solves two problems at once. Leon would be let go, and Travis would get paid back for screwing us.”

  “Do you think Broken Tooth would shoot Travis?”

  “Probably.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No,” they both said.

  Billy’s cell phone danced on the bar. Mags, of all people, had texted him. Their last meeting had ended in less than spectacular fashion, and he was still trying to get over it. Mags was the most screwed-up woman he’d ever known, yet he could not erase the notion that someday they were going to rob a casino together. He read her message.

  Grimes going to bust one of the Gypsies

  He texted her back. Where?

  LINQ. Going down now. Good luck

  Billy needed to call Victor and alert him that one of his family was in trouble. Cory had resumed playing video poker with Morris looking over his shoulder.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  The Stage Door sat in an alleyway between Bally’s and the Flamingo. He found a secluded spot beneath the monorail that ran between the hotels and made the call.

  Kat answered her father’s phone. “My father’s taking a nap.”

  “One of your siblings is about to get busted by the gaming board,” he said.

  “What? Which one?”

  “Whichever one is ripping off LINQ.”

  “Hold on, I’ll go get my father.”

  “Hey Billy, what’s going on?” Victor said, his voice thick with sleep.

  “I just got tipped off that one of your kids is about to get busted at LINQ. Frank Grimes, the asshole who shot you in the leg, is running the operation.”

  “That must be my son Tommy. He called me earlier, said he was going to check out a new joint called LINQ. I’ll call him right now and alert him.”

  “I’m on the Strip with two of my crew. I’m happy to help.”

  “I just might take you up on that. I’ll call you back.”

  He ended the call. The sky was darkening, and the Flamingo’s flashing sign looked like a Fourth of July display. He’d come to Vegas a decade ago thinking he’d last a year before the illusion wore thin. Only the opposite had happened, and his infatuation with the town had turned into a full-blown love affair. He craved action, and there was no other city in the world that had more action than right here. Victor called him back.

  “I just spoke to Tommy. He didn’t have a clue the gaming board was onto him. He’s going to make a run for it but doesn’t think he can get more than a few blocks. My kids can’t get there in time. Can you help him out?”

  “You bet. Tommy’s tall, with a thick head of hair, right?”

  “That’s him. I really appreciate this, Billy.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. What’s Tommy’s cell number?”

  Billy sent Tommy Boswell a text, Pick you up on the Strip. Then he went inside to find Cory and Morris still at the bar. Morris had a Taser cupped in his hand and was giving the video poker machine a shock. The scam didn’t work in casinos because of the cameras, but in a dive like this one, a Taser would produce free plays and even a false payout.

  “Go get your car,” Billy said. “We need to give Tommy Boswell a hand.”

  They followed Billy outside. Their black Infiniti SUV was parked in a handicap spot by the building. Cory had falsified medical documentation to obtain a handicapped placard under the belief that in a town this crowded there was nothing more valuable than free parking.

  Billy started jogging toward the Strip. His plan was to head toward LINQ with his eye out for Tommy Boswell. Once he’d made visual contact, he’d wave Tommy toward the Infiniti, which would whisk him away to safety.

  He suddenly stopped. A great plan, only he wasn’t wearing a disguise. A street surveillance camera was going to pick up his face and connect him to Tommy Boswell.

  He turned around and went back into the Stage Door. Up at the bar, a legless vet was chatting up a blind girl. The vet wore a Vietnam veteran tiger-stripe ball cap. Billy had bought the vet enough beers to feel comfortable interrupting the conversation.

  “Twenty bucks for your cap,” Billy said.

  “Make it thirty, and it’s yours,” the vet said.

  “Sold.”

  Money changed hands. Billy put on the cap and threw on his shades. Outside, the Infiniti idled by the curb. He trotted toward the Strip with the vehicle right behind him.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Reaching the Strip, Billy headed north, the Infiniti trailing behind him in the right lane. The sun had gone to bed and the all-night party was under way, with drunken tourists walking an imaginary tightrope down the sidew
alk.

  As Billy walked, he tried to see above heads in the crowd. When the Strip’s hotels were booked solid, there were a quarter million people packed into the town. Right now, it felt like most of them were walking with him on the sidewalk.

  This wasn’t going to work. Tommy Boswell could be ten feet away, and he wasn’t going to spot him. He decided to send Tommy a text.

  Looking for you. Put your arm in the air.

  Fifty feet ahead, a disembodied arm shot into the air. Not seeing who it belonged to, he climbed onto a machine that dispensed free flyers filled with ads for hookers. Tommy Boswell came into view, hustling down the sidewalk. Most cheats kept in shape by running, and Tommy had the long, effortless strides of someone who’d put in the miles.

  A gang of determined gaming agents gave chase. Billy identified them by the bad haircuts they wore like badges of honor. Grimes was in front, yelling for Tommy to halt. When Tommy didn’t oblige him, Grimes reached into his sports jacket for his sidearm. Gaming agents were allowed to shoot people who robbed the casinos, even if the thieves were unarmed. This was going to end badly. Jumping down, he pulled out his wallet and began throwing handfuls of cash into the air. “Free money! Who wants some free money?”

  The crowd went ape. People screamed and grasped at the bills. Two tourists claimed a fifty at once. They ripped the bill in half and started fighting.

  Tommy Boswell burst out of the crowd. “Hey, stranger.”

  “My friends are in the black Infiniti,” Billy said. “Jump in the back and hit the floor.”

  “You coming?”

  “Nope, I’m staying here. See you later.”

  Tommy ran between cars into the middle of the street, bent down, and did a duck walk to the Infiniti, where he opened the back door and jumped into the backseat. The door wasn’t closed before Cory cut across two lanes of traffic, hung a left at the light, and vanished down a side street. Cory, once king of the fuckups, had pulled through like a champ.

  Grimes and his posse were closing in. Billy flipped open the newspaper box and grabbed a handful of flyers. The cover read BUST YOUR NUT IN A CLASSY SLUT. Only in Vegas was that shit acceptable, and he walked with the crowd.