by James Swain
“No winners?” Choo-Choo said.
“No sir. If you won all the time, they’d ban you.”
The football players nodded. So far everything he’d said had made sense. Now came the tricky part.
“Blackjack games have different betting limits,” he said. “Low-limit tables have minimum bets of five dollars and maximum bets of five hundred dollars. High-limit tables have minimum bets of a hundred dollars and a maximum of ten thousand dollars. The games I’m going to rig will be low limit. Know why? Because surveillance hardly watches low-limit games.”
“How do you make money in a low-limit game?” Night Train asked. “Even if you’re cheating, you can’t win that much.”
“You’re going to ask the pit boss to raise the limits at your tables. But first you play for a little while and lose. That’s when you ask the pit boss to raise the table limit so you can bet more. When the pit boss asks you how much, you say, ‘Ten grand a hand.’”
“Will he go along with that?”
“Of course he’ll go along with it. It’s what suckers do when they get behind. At that point, you should have drawn a good crowd. I’ll be in the crowd, wearing my tinted sunglasses. That’s when we start scamming.”
Night Train wasn’t far behind and said, “You’re going to read the dealer’s cards and signal us how to play our hands. Is that the deal?”
“Correct. I play your hands for you, and we clean up.”
Night Train flashed his famous smile. His teammates also looked happy. If the boss was good with the scam, then so were the troops.
“Remember,” he said. “You’re pretending to be suckers. That means talking to the crowd and flirting with the girls. In other words, don’t get serious when you start winning.”
“Just keep acting like dumb shits, is what you’re saying,” Night Train said.
“I can do that,” Choo-Choo said.
“No problem,” Sammy chimed in.
Clete and Assassin grunted that it wouldn’t be hard to act like dumb shits.
“Last thing,” he said. “When you reach a million bucks in winnings, you ask the pit boss to raise the table limit to fifty grand a hand. The pit boss will say yes, in the hopes you’ll lose everything back that you’ve won.” He paused. “Are we good?”
“I think we’re real good,” Night Train said. “Aren’t we, boys?”
His teammates bobbed their heads in unison. Loyal to the point of being blind, they would have jumped into a vat of boiling oil if Night Train had asked them to.
It was time to explain the signals. Signals let a crew secretly communicate inside a casino. For the super con, Billy planned to employ a sky signal. A sky signal was visible to the crew but invisible to the surveillance cameras, which filmed straight down from the ceiling.
The sky signal used a common beer bottle, held at chest height. If the bottle was in the left hand, with the right hand below but not touching it, this meant take a card.
If the bottle was held with the right hand, with the left hand below, this meant to stand pat. The difference in these two actions was plainly visible to a player at the table but couldn’t be seen—or filmed—by the eye-in-the-sky.
Left hand holding the bottle, take a card. Right hand holding the bottle, stand pat.
The third signal was called the chin. If Billy dipped his chin, it meant start the play. This was also invisible to the eye-in-the-sky.
He ran through the signals a dozen times, just to make sure the football players got it right. In conclusion, he said, “If I take a drink of my beer, it means we’re done. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Now get to practice before you’re late,” he said. “The prop bets can’t be fixed if you guys are benched at the start of the game.”
“You got it, boss,” Night Train said.
And with that, the football players burst out laughing.
FORTY-FOUR
Mags came to the set filled with confidence, the burden of Grimes’s threat to destroy her career a thing of the past. The world was her oyster, and she couldn’t wait to nail today’s scene and deliver the kind of performance the CBS honchos needed to green-light Night and Day.
To her surprise, the set was deserted. No cameramen, no crew, no snippy director with a bad attitude, and, worst of all, no Rand. The shoot had been cancelled, the equipment packed up, and no one had bothered to tell her.
“Somebody should have called you. I mean, you are the star,” Amber said.
“This is Hollywood, honey. They call you when they feel like it.”
She checked her cell phone. There were no messages, leading her to wonder if Rand was sick in his room. On a hunch, she called the hotel’s main line and asked for him.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no one registered in the hotel under that name,” the operator said.
“He’s staying in your damn hotel. Check again,” she said.
The operator’s fingers danced on a keyboard. “Here he is. Rand Waters. According to my computer, he checked out late yesterday. Is there someone else you’d care to speak with?”
She was shaking with rage and hung up. Rand had run out on her like a cheap one-night stand. No message, no note slipped under her door, nothing. She marched off the set and into the hotel with her daughter on her heels.
“Where are you going?” Amber asked.
“To the bar to talk to my cameraman, Sean Mulroney. Sean will know what’s going on.”
True to form, Sean was perched on a stool in LINQ’s bar getting plowed. Despite the early hour, Sean’s nose was deep purple, his eyes bloodshot. Mags took the adjacent stool while Amber sat down next to her mother. Sean nodded drunkenly.
“Sean, this is my daughter, Amber,” Mags said. “Amber, meet Sean Mulroney, the best cameraman in Hollywood.”
“My mom’s told me all about you,” Amber said.
“Whatever she told you was a lie. Either of you ladies want a drink? It’s on me.”
“We’re good,” Mags said. “What’s going on, Sean? Where’s the crew?”
“They were sacked.” To the bartender he said, “Another round, my good man.”
Mags’s face nearly hit the bar. “When? By whom?” It was the wrong thing to say, and she grabbed Sean by the wrist. “Did you get canned as well?”
Sean did not reply until he had a fresh beer in one hand, a shot in the other. “I will answer your questions in the order in which they were received. The firing took place at eight a.m. this morning on the set. The executioner was none other than the evil Rand Waters, who spoke to us from LA using Skype on a laptop computer that sat on a chair. Rand gave no explanation but simply stated that our services were no longer required. And yes, I also got the boot, which led me here to my present endeavor.”
Her show was over. Mags knew that soulless sharks ran Hollywood, but she had convinced herself that she’d come out on top. Stupid her.
Sean laid a gentle hand on her wrist. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
“No, not a word.”
“Rand’s a bastard. If it’s any solace, I thought you did a fine job.”
She kissed his cheek. “Thank you for saying that. You take care.”
“May our paths cross again.”
Mags left the bar beneath a dark cloud. For the last few months, Night and Day had consumed her life. With acting classes, rehearsals, and coming to Vegas to shoot the pilot, she hadn’t contemplated her future if the show got cancelled. Reality had just dumped a hundred pounds of steaming shit on her head, and it was all she could do not to scream.
“What are you going to do?” her daughter asked.
“Maybe I’ll take a vacation, go back east. Like a roommate for a few months?”
“You can always stay with me, Mom.”
Mags went to her trailer to grab her belongings. Stepping inside, she found Billy sipping a bottled water. Billy had warned her this might happen, and it was all she could do not to slap him.
“Go away, Bill
y. Leave us alone.”
“We need to talk. I have a proposition for you,” he said.
“Not interested.” The trailer had a built-in dresser. Mags pulled open the drawers and removed her things, which she handed to her daughter while trying to ignore him.
“How come the set’s so quiet?” he asked.
“The show is on permanent hiatus.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe this will cheer you up. I’m doing a job and I need your help. Think of it as a last score for old time’s sake.”
“I told you, I’m done with grifting.”
“You haven’t heard the terms. I’ll pay you half a million bucks to paint cards.”
A plastic hairbrush bounced on the floor. Mags picked it up and tossed it to Amber. Her checking account had all of nine hundred bucks in it. Without the money from the show, she had no source of income and no immediate opportunities for work. She was flat broke and might end up living out of her car if her luck didn’t improve. No doubt about it, she needed a savior, but not this one. She’d promised herself she was going to stop thieving, and it was a promise she intended to keep, no matter how harsh the outcome might be.
“Not interested,” she said.
“It will be like stealing candy from a baby,” he said, unwilling to quit. “You’re going to paint cards in low-limit blackjack games, which are hardly watched by surveillance. The scam won’t take place until after you’re gone. You’ll be out of the line of fire.”
“My face is known to every casino in town.”
“You’ll be in disguise. They’ll never spot you.”
When opposing forces collide, bad things occurred. The urge to smack Billy in the face was growing stronger, and she turned to her daughter. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
Amber looked upset with her. Did her daughter want her to take the job? They left the trailer without saying good-bye and headed across the empty set. She heard the trailer door being shut behind them.
“Go away. I mean it,” she said.
“How can you run away from half a million bucks? Just answer me that,” he said.
“I don’t have to explain my decision to you.”
“Remember the day we met in Providence? You told me that you dreamed of coming to Vegas and joining a crew. You said the crews made the big money. I’m giving you the chance to fulfill that dream. Do one more job and walk away. You won’t regret it.”
Why wouldn’t he listen? She had made a clean break and kissed her past good-bye. No one had an issue with that except Billy. He was preventing her from escaping the black impulses that had consumed her for so long, and it made her want to hurt him. Reaching LINQ’s front entrance, she spun around. When he smiled, she slapped him.
“Last time. Leave me alone,” she said.
He brought his hand to his lips and came away with blood. It seemed to startle him, and he retreated a few steps. “Whatever you want, Maggie. But will you answer one question for me?”
“Will you leave if I do?”
“Yes.”
“Fire away.”
“If you were so intent on running away from being a thief, why did you agree to play a cheat in a TV show? How is that different from before?”
She swallowed hard. “Just . . . leave.”
“The answer is, it isn’t. You’re a thief and always will be. It’s in your blood. Think about it.”
“Go, damn it!”
“Nice meeting you,” he said to Amber before walking away.
FORTY-FIVE
Pulling into the valet area of Turnberry, Billy spent a moment behind the wheel in thought. He had less than twenty-four hours to find a painter if the super con with the football players was going to succeed. That was hardly enough time with a casino scam.
Rushing a job was never smart, but he didn’t have any other choice. After this weekend, the football players were off to Phoenix for Super Bowl week, and his window of opportunity would be lost.
He scrolled through the names of local cheats in his cell phone’s directory. Painters were in short supply these days. The good ones were traveling the country fleecing the Native American casinos where the security was second-rate. He stopped on the name Casey Duvall. They’d worked together a decade ago running with a crew led by an old-timer named Crunchy. One night on a dare, Casey had painted all the high cards in a blackjack game at Bellagio using Vaseline, the jar conveniently tucked between his legs with the lid unscrewed. Casey had brass balls and would be perfect for this job. He called his old friend and heard him answer.
“Casey, this is Billy Cunningham. How you been, man?”
“Billy C, as I live and breathe, it’s good to hear your voice. What’s shaking?”
“I’ve got some business to discuss. You free tomorrow?”
“For you, man, of course.”
A rapping on the side glass made Billy jump. He turned his head to stare at the ugliest of sights. It was Grimes, and the special agent looked fit to be tied.
“I’ve got company. Let me call you later.”
“You know where to find me,” Casey said.
He ended the call and lowered the passenger window. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Let’s go for a ride,” Grimes said.
“Is something wrong?”
“There sure is.”
Maseratis were designed for people of smaller stature. Grimes climbed into the passenger seat and tried to put his seat back. When it didn’t budge, he let out a curse.
“Who designed this fucking car, a bunch of circus midgets?”
“Any place in particular you want to go?”
“Just drive around.”
The Las Vegas Country Club was Turnberry’s immediate neighbor. Billy did a slow loop around the emerald green eighteen-hole golf course wondering what he’d done to warrant a visit from Grimes. The special agent popped gum into his mouth and chewed vigorously.
“I have a problem that needs fixing. Broken Tooth hired a fancy lawyer out of LA named Max Stein. Stein was originally part of O. J. Simpson’s dream team, only he broke his ankle skiing and had to sit out the trial. Stein appeared in court today and told the judge that neither Broken Tooth nor his henchmen killed Travis Simpson, and that the body in the trunk of the rental was a frame-up. The judge ordered that we do a forensic test on the two handguns we found in the house. Guess what? Neither handgun killed Travis Simpson.”
“That’s a problem,” Billy said.
“Yes, it is. So here’s what I need. One of your friends shot Travis. Call him and find out where he ditched the weapon. I’ll go get it, and we’ll switch it for one of the guns we found at the house. Then we’ll run another ballistics test and get a match.”
“You didn’t share the first test with the judge.”
“That happens tomorrow. When it does, the test will be positive. Now make the call.”
They came to a red light. Billy braked and turned in his seat. “How do I know that you’re not wearing a wire and that this whole thing isn’t a setup to frame me?”
Grimes blew a bubble in the young hustler’s face that burst with a loud snap. “You think I’d incriminate myself and throw my career down the drain by what I just said? Wise up. I need the murder weapon, and I need it right now. Make the call before I get pissed.”
“What if my friend threw the gun over the Hoover Dam, and it can’t be retrieved?” he said. “What are you going to do then?”
“Your friend buried the gun in a deserted lot. I know that because I was a homicide dick for five years, and that’s what most killers do. The deserted lot is within a radius of two miles of where your friend lives, and it’s about three feet down in the ground.”
“Can I pull over?”
“Be my guest.”
Sunrise Hospital and Medical Center was another Turnberry neighbor. He parked in the lot and called Morris’s cell phone. Morris picked up on the first ring.
“Hey Billy, what’s up?”
“I need you t
o tell me where you ditched the piece,” Billy said.
Morris made a gagging sound into the phone. “What are you talking about?”
“Where’s the gun? Just tell me, and then hang up the phone.”
The line went still. Billy shut his eyes, praying that Morris wasn’t one of those small percentage of shooters who’d buried his gun in some exotic place.
“There’s an empty lot down the street from our house,” Morris said, breaking the silence. “Cory and I buried the gun there and filled the hole with empty beer cans. That was Cory’s idea, in case somebody with a metal detector found the spot and decided to dig.”
“Any landmarks?”
“Not that I can think of. We covered the spot with garbage to hide it.”
“Where in the lot?”
“Dead center. You going to tell me what’s going on?”
“Later. Keep the faith.”
He had no trouble finding the empty lot where Morris and Cory had buried the murder weapon. Parking at the curb, he popped the trunk and got out with Grimes. He grabbed the tire iron from beneath the spare tire and tossed it to the special agent. Grimes tossed it right back.
“You want me to dig it up?”
“Yeah. I want to see you sweat,” Grimes said.
He found a collection of trash in the center of the yard and took a picture on his cell phone, which he texted to Morris with a note. Is this the spot? Morris texted him right back and said it was. He kicked away the trash, then used the tire iron to break away the dirt, which was packed down hard. As it became soft, he switched to using his hands and pawed away like a dog.
“This had better be the right spot,” Grimes said.
The sun was brutal and perspiration poured off his brow. It occurred to him that if this wasn’t where the gun was buried, they had a serious problem that he couldn’t fix.
“Does the judge know that Broken Tooth tried to fix the Super Bowl?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Grimes said, working his gum.
“Why don’t you tell him and get the ball rolling?”
“Can’t. We have our orders, and I’m not going to break them. Do you know how much money the Super Bowl generates for this town? More than a hundred million bucks is wagered at the sports books alone. Nothing is going to be said about the fix until the game’s over. Can’t you work any faster? I’m getting hot.”
