by James Swain
“You want to know the truth? Your technique sucks. If Pepper and Misty weren’t distracting the pit bosses, we would have been caught by now, you stupid shit.”
“Is that so?” Travis lifted his shirt, exposing his weapon. “Say it again, I dare you.”
One of the advantages of learning to shoot at MGV was the staff. All ex-military vets from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, they’d drummed into Morris’s head the importance of getting the draw on your opponent. Anyone could fire a gun and hit a target; the key to battle was getting off the first round. Reaching under the couch, Morris drew a Beretta M9 and took careful aim at their unwanted guest. The M9 had been the standard handgun across the military for twenty years and was absolutely lethal at close range.
Travis froze. His arms went into the air. “Morris. Please.”
With his free hand, Morris picked up the remote off the couch and turned on the TV. The voices of two announcers broadcasting a basketball game filled the room, and he jacked up the volume.
Then Morris shot Travis dead.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Vegas never slept, and neither did its airport. Flights into McCarran arrived at all hours, with suckers pouring off the planes eager to blow their hard-earned cash.
Mags stood in the main terminal listening to the endless loop of promotional ads for the casinos play over the PA. It was worse than Chinese water torture, and if she could have found a live human being in the terminal, she would have bribed him to turn it off.
The big board flashed. Amber’s flight had landed, and Mags nervously chewed her fingernails. Her baby had flown across the country to visit a mother she hardly knew. Maybe it was the start of a beautiful relationship, or maybe they’d end up at each other’s throats. It really didn’t matter. It was about to happen, and she’d never been more excited in her life.
Her trajectory was changing. She was starring in a TV show and getting paid to be an actress. And she didn’t have the cops breathing down her neck. Life was good.
She got a text. I’m here!
Suddenly, she felt scared. Amber was twenty-one years old! Her daughter had slept with boys and knew how to survive in this cruel world. What the hell did Mags think she was going to tell Amber that her daughter didn’t already know?
Nothing, that’s what.
Mags hadn’t been around for the important stuff. Her parents had raised Amber and molded her into the person she was today. Mags had sent checks and called on the important dates, but what good was that in the scheme of things?
Nothing, that’s what.
The main terminal had a bank of slot machines. Mags sat down in a chair in front of one and buried her head in her hands. This was all wrong. She’d made a terrible mistake.
A hand touched her shoulder. “Mom?”
She slowly rose. The terminal was swarming with travelers wearing puffy jackets lined with down. Her baby stood before her dressed in a black leather jacket and a wool cap, and could have stepped out of the pages of a yuppie clothing catalog.
“You’re taller than me.” Mags gasped. “How did that happen?”
Amber kicked off her shoes and shrank two inches. “That better?”
Mags hugged her. “Much better.”
Amber didn’t have luggage, just a carry-on, so they went outside to the departure area as Mags sent a text to her driver. Thirty seconds later, a black stretch limo pulled up to the curb, and the uniformed driver jumped out and opened the passenger door.
“Welcome to Las Vegas, Ms. Flynn,” the driver said to her daughter.
Amber looked at her mother before getting in. “This is so decadent.”
“It gets better,” Mags said.
They drank California champagne and ate caviar on crackers during the drive. It was Amber’s first time in Sin City, and Mags had the driver take the long route. The town was jumping, and Amber lowered her window, her face bathed in blinding neon and all the false promises that it carried.
“What do you think?” Mags asked.
“All the amenities of modern society in a habitat unfit to grow a tomato,” Amber replied.
“Whose line is that?”
“A really funny comic named Jason Love. Is it always this crazy?”
“This is nothing. Wait until the weekend rolls around.”
At LINQ, Amber got the same royal treatment at the front desk, and she was presented with the keys to a suite on the same floor as Mags. They rode up on an elevator together still holding their champagne flutes and giggling like teenagers.
“Mom, I want you to be straight with me,” her daughter said. “Are you really starring in your own TV show? Or is this just an elaborate put-on?”
“It’s a pilot. And yes, I’m the star. Fingers crossed the network likes it.”
“How could they not?”
Amber’s suite was perfect, the lights turned low, music playing over the surround-sound system, a welcome basket of fruit and delectable chocolates on the night table. Amber got settled in and smothered a yawn. It had been a long day, and Mags kissed her daughter’s cheek.
“Get some sleep. I’ll order up breakfast in the morning. Then you can come to the set and watch us shoot a scene. Sound like fun?”
“Sure, Mom,” her daughter said. “Whatever you want to do is okay with me.”
Mags entered her suite to find a shooting script lying on the floor with a Post-it note from Rand. The studio hired a script doctor to do a polish. Nothing major. See you in the a.m.
She fixed herself a drink and thumbed through the script. The scenes that had yet to be shot were filled with changes and corrections, all of it in red pencil, just like her least favorite high school teachers used to do. Most of the changes were cosmetic, except for the scene where her crew rips off a Strip casino and Mags deposits the loot at the door of a women’s health clinic that can’t pay its bills. The script doctor had suggested having the scene happen during the day, so that Mags could interact with the clinic’s owner. It would be more dramatic that way, the script doctor said.
She tossed the script to the floor. The show was called Night and Day. During the day, she was a gaming agent who busted crooks; at night, she was a thief who ripped off the joints. Having her rip off a casino during the day destroyed the whole premise of the show.
“Asshole,” she said to no one but herself.
Someone was knocking on her door. Through the peephole, she spied Amber holding a bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured her drink down the sink before letting Amber in.
“I couldn’t sleep,” her daughter said.
Amber poured the wine, and they curled up on opposite ends of the couch and clinked glasses in a toast. Her daughter’s eyes were filled with worry. Mags waited her out.
“I don’t know how to say this, Mom, but you look terrible. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Mags said.
“Well, you don’t look fine. You’ve lost weight and you have dark rings under your eyes. Are you sick? Don’t lie to me about this, Mom.”
Mags felt trapped. Amber had majored in criminology, and her line of questioning felt like a police interrogation without the bright lights. “Really, I’m fine. It’s been a long day, and I’m running on fumes. I’m not lying to you.”
“How much weight have you lost?”
“Fifteen pounds. You wouldn’t believe how fat the camera makes you look.”
“Are you taking speed to keep the weight off?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Your voice is too high-pitched. I studied substance abuse in school. They taught us how to recognize the different symptoms of drug abusers.”
“And you think I’m abusing speed. How wonderful.”
“Are you?”
“Does it really matter?”
“It does to me. You’re the only mother I have, even if I hardly know you.”
A horrible silence passed. Tears raced down Amber’s cheeks. This was just as excruciating for her as it was
for Mags. They both put their wineglasses on the coffee table. Then Amber crawled into her mother’s arms, and they shared a good cry.
“Have you ever heard of a website called Silk Road?” Amber asked.
They had graduated to room-service nachos and cold beer. It was 2:00 a.m. and Mags was going to feel like crap tomorrow, but she didn’t care. Something wonderful had passed between them, and Mags was going to hold onto it for as long as she could.
“That’s the site that sold illegal stuff, like weapons and heroin.”
“Right. Its creator’s name was Ross Ulbricht, and he lived secretly in San Francisco. Here’s the amazing part. The person who tracked Ulbricht down was a DEA agent named Gary Alford who works in Manhattan. Alford found Ulbricht without leaving his office.”
“How’d he pull that off?”
“He used Google. Seriously.”
Mags smiled through a mouthful of nachos. She hadn’t eaten junk food since going on her diet, and she’d forgotten how truly great it tasted.
“For my class project, I had to track down a criminal using just Google, then write a paper about all the crimes the person had committed,” Amber said.
“That sounds interesting. Which criminal did you pick?”
“You.”
Mags choked on a nacho. She sucked down the rest of her beer, and the storm clouds passed. Amber’s eyes had gone moist again.
“So you know about the cheating,” Mags said.
“I figured it out when I was little,” Amber said. “I always had new clothes and got great toys for Christmas even though Grandma and Grandpa were on Social Security. Then one day I got the mail, and it contained an envelope from you. I steamed it open and saw the money.”
Back in her grifting days, Mags had carried a stamped envelope in her purse addressed to her parents. When the sucker was cleaned out, she’d stuff half the money into the envelope, find the nearest mailbox, and send it off.
“How much about me did you find?”
“A lot,” Amber said. “You were busted more than a dozen times, but the charges never stuck. You must have had some good lawyers.”
“How can you find that stuff if the charges didn’t stick?”
“There’s a website that has mug shots from every police precinct in the country. If you’ve been hauled in, they have your mug shot. They let you permanently un-publish a mug shot for a fee. It’s blackmail, but I did it anyway.”
“You made my arrests go away?”
“You bet. It was the least I could do.”
“You’re not mad at me for not being in your life?”
“I missed you, sure, but Grandma and Grandpa took great care of me. My other friends didn’t have it so good. Their parents went through ugly divorces and they got hurt. Compared to them, my life was pretty stable. But I do have a question. Is that okay?”
“You mean about my busts?”
“Yeah. You were arrested in a casino in New Orleans for using a Taser while playing a slot machine. Your lawyer claimed a guy was stalking you, and the Taser was for protection, so the judge let you go. Were you cheating?”
“You bet. Every slot machine has a random-number-generator chip that is vulnerable to electric pulses. If you zap it in the right spot with a Taser, the machine will register a jackpot or let you play for free. I made a lot of money with it until the joints caught on.”
“That’s cool.”
“Stealing isn’t cool. Never has been, never will be. Don’t think otherwise.”
Amber’s cheeks turned crimson. “But you made your living—”
“Yes, I did. It paid the bills, and that’s the life I chose. But I knew it was wrong when I started doing it, and I don’t want you doing it. Understand, young lady?”
“I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”
“Ever shoplifted? Come on, be honest with me.”
“Not once. Grandma would have killed me.”
“Keep it that way.”
“I will. Thanks for being so honest. It means a lot to me.”
Her empty beer can did somersaults before landing in the wastebasket by the bar. Mags couldn’t have repeated the shot if her life depended upon it. Amber’s can followed, hit the wall, and miraculously landed in the wastebasket, the shot worthy of a highlight reel.
“It’s way late. What do you say we get some sleep?” Mags suggested. “I have to be on the set at eight a.m. or the director will throw a temper tantrum.”
“Is the director a jerk?”
“Everyone in the TV business is a jerk.”
Mags walked her daughter to the door and gave her a hug. The toughest conversation in the world hadn’t turned out to be so tough after all. All the bad things she’d done were in the past, and she hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
“Good night, honey. Sweet dreams.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, eleven days before the Super Bowl
A lot of cheats in Vegas also hustled on the links. It was a great way to stay in shape, work on your tan, and make a few bucks on the side.
Every golf hustle was different. Some cheats lied about their handicaps. Others resorted to having their caddies secretly move their opponent’s balls to unfavorable lies. And there were cheats who coated their clubs with Vaseline to make the ball fly straighter. There were many scams like this, designed to give the cheat a few extra strokes during the course of a match.
Billy’s scam used simple math to give him a mathematical edge over his opponents. There was no trickery involved, and as a result, he’d never had a sucker make a beef. The scam only worked at the Royal Links course, which was located ten miles east of the Strip. The course was designed to reflect the links-style play found on the British Isles. There was the Road Hole and Hell Bunker from St. Andrews and the infamous Postage Stamp from Royal Troon. Making par was a struggle for even the best golfer.
Billy was a member at Royal Links in good standing and friends with the golf pro. The pro had taught Billy how to hit his drives straight and true and how to sink a putt from ten feet out, every time. This was the key to Billy’s scam—the ability to hit certain shots at certain times, every time. The pro would set Billy up to play with a wealthy guest looking for a friendly game. Most of these guests were strong players with lower handicaps than Billy. But that didn’t mean Billy couldn’t steal their money.
The scam always started the same way. Billy would play a few holes while making small talk. Where you from, what do you do, how many kids you got? It was his standard spiel and made the sucker think that Billy was a stand-up guy and not a person who’d resort to robbing him blind.
After three holes, Billy would ask the sucker if he liked to gamble. Every person who visited Vegas liked to gamble, being that there was nothing else to do in town except get drunk, eat, and see the shows. The sucker always said yes.
Billy would suggest two simple wagers. The first wager was to see who could drive the ball the longest without the ball leaving the fairway. The wager was for $500 per hole. If the sucker was wearing a nice shiny Rolex, the wager was a $1,000. The second wager was to see who took fewer strokes on the green. This wager also ranged between $500 and $1,000. During an average match, Billy would pocket between five and ten thousand bucks of the sucker’s dough.
The secret to winning the drive was simple. The sucker drove the ball longer than Billy, but that wasn’t an advantage on a links course, where sand dunes and narrow fairways resulted in balls not staying inbounds. Since the bet required the sucker to keep the ball on the fairway, the sucker’s strength off the tee usually betrayed him.
Billy won this bet 70 percent of the time. To keep the sucker in the game, he’d sometimes deliberately blow a hole. Charity wasn’t his strong suit, and he won the money back on the greens, where his putting excelled. His average for these wagers was also 70 percent.
Today’s sucker worked in finance and was named Arnie. Every couple of minutes, Arnie’s cell phone chirped like a sick bird. H
e’d say, “Hold on, I gotta take this,” and play would stop so he could make another earth-shattering deal.
On the ninth hole, a golf cart pulled up with Morris driving and Cory in the passenger seat. Billy sometimes brought them to Royal Links to work on their games, and he guessed that they’d used Billy’s name to get past the guards posted at the front gate.
Billy looked up from his putt. “What’s up?”
“There was a problem last night,” Cory said.
“What kind of problem are we talking about?”
“Travis came over to our place.”
“It didn’t end well,” Morris added.
“What did you do, smack him in the head with a lead pipe?”
Morris dropped his voice. “Worse.”
Morris was white as a ghost. So was Cory. Billy got his bag and put it in the back of their cart. Then he walked over to Arnie, who’d just wrapped up his call.
“I need to run. Let’s do this again sometime,” he said.
“You leaving?” Arnie asked.
“Business calls. You know how it is.”
“But I’m way down. You need to let me win my money back.”
To take your opponent’s money before a match was over was considered bad action and would land Billy in hot water if the club found out. Suckers needed to believe they could win, even when they didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of coming out ahead. It was the hustle that kept Las Vegas going.
“We’re square,” Billy said.
Arnie’s mouth dropped open. “You mean I don’t have to pay you off?”
“That’s right. Have a nice day.”
The clubhouse looked like a sandblasted castle, the bar a stodgy British pub. It was quiet, and Billy chose a corner table away from the talkative bartender.
“The usual, Mr. Cunningham?” the bartender called.
“Yes, Nigel. The same for my guests.”
