by James Swain
“You got lucky, admit it.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it.”
An elevator car landed and its doors parted. The car was empty and they boarded. He spun around and watched the bellman slip the gun into his pocket, then draw a gilded knife with a pearl handle from a sheath hidden by his vest. The tip of the knife was dripping a substance the color of gold, and he guessed it was some kind of exotic poison. Elevators had surveillance cameras, only no one in the casino ever watched them. The doors began to close.
“Any final requests?” the bellman asked.
“Just don’t make me suffer,” he said.
SIXTY
A man’s foot stopped the elevator doors from closing all the way.
“Drop the knife and put your arms in the air,” a voice said.
The doors opened, and Grimes entered the car aiming his gun. The bellman was no fool and let the knife slip from his fingers before lifting his arms over his head. Billy spied a colorful scorpion tattoo beneath his starched shirt collar.
“You know this guy?” Grimes asked.
“Believe it or not, he’s Chinese and an assassin,” Billy said. “I guess the first one was a decoy. Be careful, he’s got a gun in his pants pocket and the knife is filled with poison.”
“Thanks for the warning. Okay, friend, step out of the car, real slow.”
The bellman stepped out of the car, and Grimes stuck his hand in the bellman’s pocket and relieved him of his weapon. He had the bellman put his hands behind his back so he could cuff him. Then he read the bellman his rights, which he recited from memory. It was all Billy could do not to give the special agent a hug, but he didn’t think the gesture would be appreciated.
“How did you spot us?” he asked.
“I’ve developed a sixth sense whenever you’re in a casino,” Grimes said. “The hairs on the back of my neck go straight up. Lucky for you, huh?”
“I’ll say. I could have been ripping off the joint.”
“Get the hell out of here,” Grimes said.
The Montecristo Cigar Bar was designed for private conversation. A hostess escorted Billy to a private room called the Vault, where Night Train sat on a leather couch puffing on a cigar and watching a wall of TVs. The room was otherwise empty, and Billy pulled up a chair.
“Cigars are bad for your health,” he said.
“Haven’t you heard? This is my last game. Might as well start enjoying myself.” Night Train picked up a box from the table and offered his guest one. Billy accepted and lit up.
“Tasty. What are they?”
“They’re called PGs. They’re from the Dominican Republic.”
He blew a smoke ring and watched it rise to the ceiling. “It took me a while to put the pieces together. Sometime after the playoffs, the NFL asked you to take it easy on Neil Godfrey, who’s playing injured. That would let your opponent win, because Godfrey can pick you apart if he has the time. You didn’t like it and started hanging out at Caesars to blow off steam.”
Night Train puffed on his cigar and said nothing.
“The NFL commissioner flew in to Vegas and had a meeting at your villa. The commish offered you sports-casting jobs if you agreed to throw the game, only you said no dice.”
“Who told you about the sports-casting jobs?”
“I found the contracts in the garbage in your villa. You thought the whole thing was settled, but then the NFL did something to you and your teammates that wasn’t right. It made you so angry that you threw a party at Caesars with hookers and blow and plenty of booze. Normally, you’d never do something that reckless before the Super Bowl, but this situation was different. The NFL fucked you, and you were mad as hell about it.”
“You don’t miss much,” Night Train said.
“Like I said, it took me a while to piece it together. But I’m still missing the important part. I don’t know what the NFL did that made you guys blow up. What do they have, photographs of you robbing a bank?”
“Worse. They kept files on us dating back to our rookie years, stuff so old that we’d forgotten about it. If we don’t do as they want, the stuff gets leaked to the press.”
“Must be bad.”
“It is. When we entered the league, the NFL let us think we could do whatever we pleased, that there were no consequences. But they were writing everything down in case they needed to use it as leverage someday.”
They smoked their cigars and watched the college basketball games playing on the TVs. Night Train had gotten away with crap his whole life, not realizing there were strings attached. Everyone needed to have principles, even thieves. Somehow, Night Train had lost sight of that.
“You ever play sports?” Night Train asked.
“I was in the math club,” he said.
“I played football the whole time I was growing up. Pop Warner, junior high, high school, college. I loved every game. Then I got drafted. My first year in the NFL was a real wake-up call. The amateurs were about winning and losing. Not the pros. It was all about TV ratings.”
“You’re saying the pros are fixed?”
“The games are scripted. Not all of them, but enough to drive ratings.”
“Do the owners know this?”
“Hah. It was their idea.”
“You’ve lost me. Why would the owners do that?”
“Because they have a revenue share with the TV networks that broadcast the games. CBS, NBC, ESPN, the NFL Network, they split the money they make with the owners. The amount is supposed to be a secret, except the Green Bay Packers released it in a financial report. Each team’s owner gets a quarter billion dollars a year just from the networks.”
He was starting to see the picture and nodded.
“Like I said, it’s supposed to be a secret,” Night Train said. “TV ratings drive revenue for the owners, so it’s in their best interest to broadcast games that generate big ratings.”
“How many games are you talking about?”
“It’s different every year. The season starts, and the teams play for a few weeks, and the NFL looks at the ratings. Maybe Buffalo has an explosive running back who’s breaking all sorts of records. Or the Dolphins’ quarterback is on fire. The NFL looks for good story lines, and those are the teams that get the help. Happens every year.”
“What kind of help?”
“A ref calls back a crucial play during a tight game. Or a placekicker is told to miss an extra point. I played a game where the other team’s defense had microphones hidden in their helmets that picked up our offense’s plays. The referees could hear static coming out of the helmets but ignored it.”
“Did you ever do that?”
Night Train gave him a look. “I’ve shaved points a few times. But I’ve never gone into the tank.”
“You’ve never deliberately lost a game.”
“Never.”
“But why would the NFL do this? The Super Bowl is the most watched sporting event in the world. People are going to tune in regardless. They don’t need to fix it.”
“That’s not how the NFL sees it. Neil Godfrey is a rising star. Time to pass the torch and make him a superstar. It will be good for ratings next season.”
“Is that what the commissioner told you?”
“In so many words. When we said no, the NFL manufactured broadcasting jobs for us. When we said no to that, the front office leaked a story to ESPN saying we were retiring.”
“Weren’t you?”
“It was up in the air. Our contracts were up, but there were plenty of teams that would sign us. Once the NFL leaked the story, the decision was out of our hands. No team will sign a player who’s thinking about spending Sundays mowing the lawn. Our careers were done.”
“But you still said no.”
“Yes, we did. That’s when the NFL told us they had files with every bad thing we’d ever done. If we didn’t play along, they’d release stuff to the media and screw us over. It made me feel so shitty that I put a brace on my knee so I
could sit out the game and not be a part of it.”
It was as ugly as it got, and they stopped talking for a while.
“What’s Godfrey’s deal?” Billy asked. “Is he a phony?”
“Hell no. Neil Godfrey’s legit. He’s the next big superstar. That’s why the owners want him to shine this Sunday.”
“Can the Rebels’ defense stop Godfrey if you’re not playing?”
“Probably not.”
“So you’re still throwing the game even if you sit out.”
The words were slow to sink in. When they did, Night Train shifted uncomfortably on the couch. He had allowed a group of filthy-rich owners to compromise his principles so they could line their pockets with gold, and it was tearing him up.
“Makes you feel like a slave, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Watch it,” Night Train warned.
“You were a slave the day you signed your first contract; you just didn’t know it.”
“Shut up, or I’ll rip your fucking head off.”
“What would your old man say if he knew?”
“Leave my daddy out of this, or I’ll hurt you. I mean that.”
“What are you getting in return for selling out? A crummy broadcasting job? Does that come with another script with your lines spelled out for you? You’re at the end of your career. Be your own man, and walk away on your own terms. Make your old man proud.”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Do it for him. You won’t regret it.”
Night Train backhanded him in the mouth. It was like having a door slammed in his face, and Billy tumbled out of his chair. His head banged against the floor and he momentarily blacked out. When he came to, the couch beside him was empty.
He left the cigar bar rubbing his chin. The people he cared about were ending conversations by smacking him in the face. He was only being honest with them, which maybe was the problem. The truth hurt, so they took their pain out on him.
But had he broken through? Would Night Train see reason and not sit the game out? He didn’t know Night Train well enough to hazard a guess.
He walked through the lobby of Caesars. The promenade of shops was lined with windows overlooking the hotel swimming pool, and he spotted the figure of a man sprinting across the grass, his legs pumping furiously. It was Night Train, and he was running like a man possessed.
SIXTY-ONE
Thursday, three days before the Super Bowl
He went into seclusion in his condo at Turnberry. Each morning before hitting the exercise room, he tuned in to ESPN to hear the latest scuttle about the Super Bowl. The Rebels defense’s wild times at Caesars continued to be a hot topic. Every day, a new tantalizing piece of information emerged, with stories about all-night parties, illegal drugs, and high-priced call girls. The Rebels were now a twelve-point underdog, and the announcers were spending more time discussing this year’s star-studded halftime show than the game itself.
He was lacing up his sneakers when there was a news flash from the Rebels’ practice facility. A breathless female sportscaster filled the screen. Next to her stood his old pal Night Train. Night Train had his uniform on, and his brow was beaded in sweat.
“I’m here with Night Train McClain, captain of the Rebels’ defense,” the sportscaster said. “Night Train, I’m told you have some news to share with our viewers.”
“We took the brace off last night and tested my knee. It’s still a little tender, but I should be good to go,” Night Train said.
“That’s fantastic. Will you be starting on Sunday?”
“I told Coach I was ready, so yeah, I’m starting.”
“Any truth behind the rumors that this will be your last game?”
“I’m not thinking that far ahead.”
“Your team is a heavy underdog with the odds makers. How do you feel about that?”
“We’re going to give it our best shot and see what happens.”
“Good luck on Sunday.”
Every interview Night Train gave to the media ended with him flashing his famous smile. But not this time. Today, he was all business, and he gave the camera a cold shoulder before walking away. He acted like a man with something to prove.
Billy killed the picture with the remote. It was all he could do not to start dancing. He used the landline to call downstairs to the exercise room and speak to Bridgette, his personal trainer. “Hey, Bridgette, it’s Billy. I’m afraid I have to cancel this morning’s session,” he said.
“Would you like to reschedule for tomorrow?” Bridgette asked.
“I’ll let you know.”
Going outside onto the balcony, he found a shady spot and waited fifteen minutes before placing a call to Night Train on his cell phone and getting sent to voice mail. “I saw you on ESPN. Glad you’re feeling better. Let me know if our deal’s back on.” A minute later, he got an answer in the form of a text. Can’t talk. Deal’s on. Sorry I smacked you.
The deal was on. It made every bad thing that had happened in the past two weeks seem worthwhile. His next call was to Cory and Morris. They’d gone to Cancun to work on their tans and had e-mailed him photographs of the bikini-clad women they’d met on the beach.
“Hey, Billy, long time no talk,” Cory answered. “How’s it going?”
“Great. You guys still hanging in Mexico?”
“We are. It’s boring. You’ve seen one perfect body, you’ve seen them all.”
“Did you scalp those fifty-yard-line tickets for the Super Bowl?”
“We’re trying to. We put them on Craigslist.”
“Don’t sell them. Get on the next plane to Phoenix. The fix is on.”
“It’s on? That’s awesome.”
“One more question. Is your web still good?” A web was a network of gamblers spread around the country who placed bets on fixed sporting events. By using a web, a cheat could place large sums on an event and spread the pain around without drawing heat to himself.
“They’re good,” Cory said. “Do you want them to bet on the prop bets we discussed?”
“Yes. We’ve got a new bet to add. The Rebels to win.”
Cory howled disapprovingly. “Have you watched TV recently? The Rebels’ defense is like something out of Animal House. They’re going to get wiped off the field.”
“No they’re not.”
“You know something I don’t?”
“Yes I do.”
“This is huge. How much do you want to bet on them?”
“The farm,” he said.
His next call was to Victor Boswell. Victor ran a bowling alley in Sacramento that acted as a front for the family’s illegal activities. It was here that Billy found Victor working the front desk, the thunder of crashing pins filling the background.
“How’s it going, Billy? Did things work out with the super con?”
“Afraid not. We got caught.”
“Let me put you on hold. Kat, take over for me.” Victor came back on the line a few moments later. “You got caught? Are you calling me from jail?”
“I managed to wiggle my way out of it. I’ll tell you the bloody details over a drink someday. I wanted to pass along a hot tip. You should bet on the Rebels this weekend.”
Victor whistled into the phone. “Can they make the spread?”
“Screw the spread. The Rebels are going to win the game.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
“I’m looking at the Vegas odds on my computer,” Victor said. “The Rebels are a huge underdog. The Vegas bookmakers have been right in picking the winner for fifteen of the last sixteen Super Bowls. They’re not dummies, Billy.”
“I didn’t say the bookmakers were dummies. They just don’t know the deal for this particular game. If you don’t want in, just say so, and I’ll call someone else. No hard feelings.”
“Of course I want in. I just want to make sure this is on the level. What do you want us to
cover? I know plenty of bookies in Northern California we can hit, and I can send my kids to Reno and Lake Tahoe and have them place wagers with the sports books there.”
“That works. I’ve got Vegas covered, and my guys have a web that will cover the bookies in the rest of the country. We’re going to make a killing, Victor.”
“I would say so. Let me jump on this. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“Anytime, my friend.”
His last call was to Grimes. He would have liked to be in Phoenix this weekend to make sure nothing went wrong with the rigged coin toss, but there was a chance that his face might show up on a camera during the game, and that would look bad, considering he was going to testify in front of a judge about the game being fixed. The smart call would be to stay home, and he decided to rent a suite at a fancy Strip hotel and party with the members of his crew not at the game, so they could dine on great food and drink the best booze. But before he made preparations, he needed to be sure no more men with scorpion tattoos were looking for him.
A receptionist answered Grimes’s line. The special agent was in a meeting and could not be disturbed. Billy told her it was urgent. Grimes called him back within seconds.
“Lay it on me,” Grimes said.
“Is it safe for me to leave my condo?”
“It’s safe. We interrogated the bellman and got him to confess. The first hit man was a decoy, just like you thought. The bellman was the real assassin. I took the precaution of putting Broken Tooth in solitary so he can’t make any more phone calls and hire another killer.”
“You’re my hero.”
“Up yours, Cunningham.”
Billy tried to end the call but Grimes stopped him.
“Before you step foot outside of your building, I want you to promise me that you’ll keep your nose clean until Broken Tooth is charged with trying to fix the game,” the special agent said.
“I already told you I would,” he said.
“I want to hear you say it again.”
“I promise to stay out of trouble until Broken Tooth is charged.”
