Super Con

by James Swain

  Frank slipped the photo into his jacket pocket and smiled. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll make sure not to administer a lie detector test.” Mags and Amber both started to protest, and he shut them down. “In case you forgot, my career is riding on this case. And that means more to me than all the tea in China. Get it, Maggie?”

  “I don’t know them, Frank. You have to believe me.”

  “I do believe you. But that doesn’t mean I care.”

  “You dirty shit.”

  “Is that all you’ve got left in your sling? Pick up the phone and start calling your grifter friends. Find out where the Gypsies are. If you don’t, I’ll destroy you.”

  “This is blackmail.”

  “I won’t argue with you there. Have a nice day.”

  Frank walked out of the trailer. Rand was standing behind the door and nearly got his nose broken. He had heard every damn word and looked fit to be tied.

  Rand entered and shut the door. “How do we make this go away?”

  Mags shook her head, defeated. “I have no idea.”

  “Will he take a bribe?”

  “You want to give him money? We could all go to jail.”

  “We could have the carpenters working the shoot put new countertops in his kitchen. The wives always dig that.”

  “Jesus Christ, Rand. You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “What about appliances? All name brand. He can’t say no.”

  “That’s not going to work.”

  Rand was a Hollywood charmer. A knife could have been sticking out of his gut and he still would have managed to exude optimism. The smile slowly disappeared, revealing a deeply troubled man. “CBS has budgeted two million bucks for this pilot. If the shoot gets shut down, everyone will be fired, and my deal with CBS will fall apart. You need to fix this, baby.”

  “I don’t know how to fix it,” Mags said.

  “You swiped that photo. You had to realize there would be consequences if you got caught.”

  Rand glanced across the trailer at Amber leaning against the fridge. His eyes stayed longer than they should have, then returned to Mags.

  “I’m sure you and your daughter will think of something,” he said.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Leaving Royal Links, Billy rolled down his window and let the desert air warm his skin. When he’d first landed in Vegas, he thought he’d walked into a pizza oven. Over time he’d gotten used to the intense heat and found himself looking forward to days when it broke a hundred degrees and the grass turned brown before his eyes.

  He got a call as he pulled into Turnberry Towers. It was none other than Mags. Just yesterday she’d proclaimed that she never wanted to lay eyes on him again, and here she was, giving him an old-fashioned phone call. He answered with a cheerful, “Hey there.”

  “You stupid little bastard,” she swore.

  The valet approached. The valet liked his job too much, leading Billy to assume the residents’ cars were being taken for unauthorized spins. He waved him away and parked in the building’s shade. “I missed you, too.”

  “Fuck you, Billy. And the horse you rode in on.”

  “Are you going to explain what I did or just curse at me?”

  “Frank Grimes just paid me a visit. Frank tracked down the Gypsies to a rented house on the north end of town. He went out there to arrest them, only your friends were gone. But they left behind a calling card in the grass next to the driveway.”

  “What kind of calling card?”

  “Excuse me. You left a calling card in the grass by the driveway.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, you little turd. Remember the surveillance photo I gave you? Well, it must have fallen out of your pocket onto the grass.”

  He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d given the photo to Tommy Boswell, who must have let the photo slip out of his pocket while he was climbing into the trunk of the getaway car. Even the best crooks screwed up and became complicit in their own demise. To make matters worse, the photo had landed in the hands of Frank Grimes, who prided himself on making cheats’ lives miserable, one day at a time.

  “Can the photo be traced back to you?” he asked.

  “It sure can. You need to fix this, Cunningham. Right fucking now.”

  Mags was on tilt and running off at the mouth. He needed to look her in the eye and calm her down. Having her come to his penthouse was not a good idea, since she might say something out of line in front of the desk clerk or a resident and blow his cover. And then he’d have to go to the trouble of finding a new place to live.

  Across the street, a brand-new joint called SLS shimmered like a mirage in the desert. He’d recently checked out the casino and found the pit bosses and dealers so green that they could have fallen off the backs of potato trucks. There were loads of dining options, ranging from super expensive to el cheapo, and he decided to meet Mags there.

  “Meet me at Umami Burger at the SLS Hotel in half an hour. And don’t be late.” It was a crass thing for him to say. Mags had helped him, and in return he’d screwed up and put her in a bad light. But she still needed to be reminded who was in the driver’s seat. Otherwise, she’d run all over him.

  She started to royally curse him, and he ended the call.

  Mags sat down at Billy’s table at Umami. “Talk about treating a girl to a good time. This place is a toilet. At least you could have picked some place nice.”

  Umami was nothing to write home about. It had a split personality and billed itself as a burger joint, beer garden, and sports book. It did none of those things well. There was nothing to recommend it, except fifty big-screen TVs that made it impossible to eavesdrop. The gaming board had bugged bars all over town, and Billy chose his meeting places carefully.

  “This is my daughter, Amber. Amber, meet Billy Cunningham.”

  Amber Flynn also pulled up a chair. She was a softer version of her mother, with short-cropped brown hair and a face that made you want to buy her a drink. She’d graduated college not long ago and had the self-assured air of a person who thought anything was possible.

  “Nice to meet you,” Billy said. “You guys want something to drink? Or a burger?”

  “We didn’t come here to eat,” Mags said. “I’m going to get right to the point. Frank Grimes wants me to help him find the Gypsies. If I do that, he leaves me alone. If not, he’s promised to turn my life upside down and destroy me.”

  “Is Grimes serious?”

  “Dead serious. My producer knows.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that if I don’t get Grimes off my back, Night and Day will be shut down, and I’ll be out of work.”

  Billy glanced at Amber, then back at her mother. “How much does she know?”

  “I don’t keep secrets from Amber.”

  “You need to help my mother,” Amber said, breaking her silence. “That asshole suit from the gaming board has it out for her.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Billy said.

  “That’s not good enough.” Amber sounded so much like her mother that it was scary. She put her elbows on the table and leaned in. “My mother helped out your friends, and you dropped a piece of evidence that’s put my mother in a bad situation. I know you didn’t do this intentionally, but you were still responsible, and you’ve got to own up to that.”

  Mags had told Billy that Amber had majored in criminology with a minor in psychology, making Billy think that Amber believed she might plumb the recesses of the criminal mind and learn what made people turn bad. In the meantime, she needed to be straightened out, so he said, “I didn’t ask for your mother to give me that photograph. She didn’t tell me that it could be traced back to her or that I needed to destroy it, which I would have been more than happy to do. So don’t throw a guilt trip on me, okay? Shit happens, especially in our line of work.”

  That shut the kid up but fast. A waitress hit the table. Billy ordered three Sculpin IPAs before Mags or her daughter had a chance
to read the menu. The waitress departed.

  “I don’t like IPAs,” Mags said.

  “Neither do I,” her daughter echoed.

  “It’s an acquired taste.” He paused to let that set in, then said, “Why does Grimes have it out for the Gypsies? There are other thieves he could chase who would land him a promotion.”

  “Frank said the Gypsies are special, that no one’s ever caught them,” Mags explained.

  “He wants the recognition,” Billy said.

  Mother and daughter stared at him, not understanding.

  “Grimes wants to be recognized by his superiors,” he said. “It’s what drives most people in law enforcement. They need a superior to tell them they’re better than average.”

  “You’re good,” Amber said.

  “Call it whatever you want,” Mags said. “Grimes is hell-bent on nailing your friends to the wall. So what the hell are we going to do?”

  Their beers came. Mags and her daughter sipped and winced. IPAs were a creation of the British army in their desire to bring beer to soldiers stationed in India during the 1800s. The beer’s unusually strong hops were not for more sensitive palates or the faint of heart.

  “We’ll send Grimes in another direction,” he said.

  A spark of hope lit up Mags’s face. Acting was draining the life out of her, and the bewitchingly beautiful creature who had seduced him into a life of crime was a shadow of her former self. It broke his heart, but he didn’t see how he was going to get her back.

  “How are you going to do that?” Mags asked.

  The germ of an idea was forming in Billy’s head. The Gypsies were a big fish, but there was an even bigger fish to be caught, one that would all but guarantee Grimes a promotion and get him the praise of his peers. He finished off his beer.

  “Tell me,” Mags insisted.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t entirely figured it out yet. But I will. You have to trust me on this. I’ll get Grimes off your back, and you can go back to being a TV star.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes, it’s a promise.”

  Amber shot him a murderous look. “Well, aren’t you Mr. Fucking Wonderful? ‘You have to trust me on this.’ Right. Like anyone is going to trust you. You don’t have a plan at all. You’re just bullshitting us.”

  “Amber, that’s enough,” Mags said.

  “I don’t care. He screwed up and needs to make things right.”

  Billy started to steam. He’d given Mags his word, and in this town that was better than a contract witnessed by a dozen high-priced lawyers. Only Amber wasn’t buying it, and he wondered if his hundred-dollar haircut or the crease in his trousers had turned her off.

  “We’ll probably never hear from you again, either,” Amber added.

  She had called him a snake. Billy didn’t like it and decided to set Amber straight. “Your mother came to me because she knows I can fix this. How isn’t important. Once I put my mind to something, I’ll get it done.”

  “You’re not that smart.”

  “You don’t think I can do it?”

  Amber shook her head; she had no faith in him at all.

  “If I told you I was going to steal two grand from the casino, would you believe me?”

  “Steal it how?”

  “That’s beside the point. Would you?”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “So you don’t trust me when I say I’m going to do something.”

  “Not in the least,” Amber said.

  “Two grand in sixty minutes.”

  “Is he being serious?” Amber asked her mother.

  Mags rose from the table. Her daughter had picked this fight, and Mags wasn’t going to get in the middle of it. “I’ll be outside in the car. Come out when you’re done.”

  “But Mom . . .”

  “Start timing me,” Billy said.

  Billy entered SLS’s casino with Amber hot on his heels. Mags had spoken so highly of her daughter that he’d expected a polished young woman possessing loads of subtle charms. Amber was barely out of diapers and hardly knew the score.

  The blackjack pit was hopping, the dealers smiling and friendly. He did a slow trawl of the tables, looking for a game that could be easily scammed. There were dozens of ways to cheat at blackjack that ranged from the obvious to the sublime. Billy had cut his teeth with these scams but over time had graduated to bigger things.

  He zeroed in on a female dealer whose name tag said KENYA/CLEVELAND. Kenya was as pretty as a picture and all dolled up, her long fingernails perfectly manicured. No casino in town would have let Kenya deal blackjack, but SLS was brand new, and management didn’t know better.

  He turned to Amber. “Are you legal?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Amber said.

  “Are you twenty-one? Otherwise, you can’t sit down at the table with me.”

  “Yes, I’m legal.”

  “They’re going to want to see ID.”

  “I have a driver’s license and my student ID.”

  “That should work. How much time do I have left?”

  “Fifty-two minutes.”

  They took chairs at Kenya’s table. Billy threw down $500 and Kenya turned it into chips. He placed a fifty-dollar bet for himself, another fifty for Amber.

  “Is it okay if I coach my girlfriend?” he asked. “She’s never played before.”

  “Coaching’s allowed,” Kenya replied. “Good luck.”

  Kenya dealt the round. Blackjack required that the dealer take the second card and slip it facedown beneath her first card, which stayed faceup. This facedown card was called the hole card. Its identity would be revealed only after the players had played their hands.

  If Billy could determine the value of the dealer’s hole card, he would possess an edge over the house that would allow him to win more than he lost. It was all about the odds, and this piece of information tilted the odds in his favor.

  There were several ways to peek at a dealer’s hole card. Each used a hidden device or an accomplice. Unless, of course, the dealer unwittingly gave away this information.

  Dealers who gave away their hole cards were called flashers. Kenya was a flasher. As she slipped the second card beneath her first card, the nail on her manicured forefinger dug into the felt and caused the card to bow, briefly exposing its left corner. There wasn’t enough time to read the card’s value but plenty of time to determine if the card was a paint card or a number card. Paint cards had a lot of ink on their faces and were either a jack, queen, or king. Number cards were the rest of the cards in the deck.

  On the first round, Kenya flashed paint. Ten in the hole. Kenya’s face card was a five, giving her a total of fifteen. A stiff.

  Billy had a fourteen and waved his hand over the cards, indicating that he would not take another card. Amber had a pair of tens.

  “Should I stay?” Amber asked.

  “Split them,” Billy said.

  Amber hesitated, then split her tens and doubled her bet. Kenya dealt a five on the first ten, a six on the second. Both hands were stiffs. Amber groaned.

  “It’s not over,” Billy said.

  Kenya flipped over her hole card, revealing a jack. Kenya dealt herself a third card and busted. She gave a practiced smile and paid off her customers.

  “I just won a hundred bucks,” Amber said under her breath.

  “You sound surprised,” Billy said.

  “Do it again.”

  Kenya was as easy to read as an open book. Billy took his sweet time and slowly built up his winnings. Had he won too quickly, it would have alerted a pit boss or a sharp tech in the surveillance room that something fishy was going on at Kenya’s table.

  Amber said little, content to watch the scene play itself out. She was like a sponge, and little seemed to escape her attention. Glancing at her watch, she said, “Time’s almost up.”

  Billy visually co
unted their chips. They were ahead $2,200. Rising from his chair, he graciously tossed Kenya a two-hundred-dollar tip.

  “Thanks for the good time,” he said.

  Casinos were designed for their patrons to lose track of time, and the blinding afternoon sunshine caught Billy by surprise as he walked out of SLS.

  “I think I figured out your little scam,” Amber said. “It was based upon our dealer’s long fingernails. She kept scraping the felt, and you spied her hole card.”

  Amber was sharp, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

  “What if I told you that you were wrong?” he said instead.

  Her face crashed. “Then how did you do it?”

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters is, if I tell you I’m going to win two grand, I’ll win two grand. And if I tell you that I’ll deal with a slimy gaming agent giving your mother a hard time, I’ll take care of him.”

  “Can you really fix my mother’s problem?”

  “Stop questioning me, will you?”

  She briefly stared at the ground. “I’m sorry I underestimated you.”

  “Don’t do it again.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Your mother loves you more than anything in the world. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I know that.”

  “She’d do anything for you, she loves you that much.”

  “I figured that out.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He took out his winnings and shoved the money into her hands. “Now, go show your mother a good time.”

  “The money’s mine?”

  “Yes. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  She hesitated. The good angel sitting on her shoulder said, Give the money back, it’s stolen. But the bad angel perched on the other shoulder said, Take the fucking dough and have a party, this is Vegas, kiddo. The bad angel won, and she shoved the money into her pocket.

  “What’s the deal between you and my mom?” she asked.

  He wasn’t going there, and he started walking backward.

  “You’re in love with her. I can see it in your face.”

  “It was nice meeting you,” he said.