by James Swain
“Why are the hairs standing up on the back of my neck?”
“Maybe it was something you ate,” he said.
SIXTY-TWO
Sunday, the Super Bowl
If you weren’t living on the edge, you were taking up too much space.
By Sunday morning, the Rebels were fourteen-point underdogs. No one who followed football believed they had a chance to win. Billy got on the horn and persuaded a loan shark he knew to lend him half a million bucks, which he wagered on the Rebels with a local sports book.
Then he went to work on planning his Super Bowl party. The Flat Suites at the M Resort were his favorite accommodations in town, the views from the top-floor suites spanning more than 270 degrees. Securing one at this late date set him back thirty grand.
He checked in early Sunday afternoon. First job was to inspect the bar that came with the suite. He’d called in his order, and he wanted to make sure the hotel had gotten it right. There was a bottle of aged Glenlivet with Leon’s name on it. Pepper and Misty drank Porn Star cocktails made from Blue Curacao and Sour Puss raspberry liqueur, and the bar had enough to keep them happy. In the fridge was a six-pack of award-winning craft beers that he was looking forward to sampling. A short while later, room service delivered a tray of shrimp cocktail, lobster tails, and appetizers with exotic names. He sampled every item, wanting nothing but the best.
Misty and Pepper were the first to arrive. They’d driven five hours from LA and were exhausted. The food and drinks quickly brought them around. When they were finished, he explained the deal. “We’re rooting for the Rebels. If they win, you win.”
“How much do we win?” Misty asked.
He told them the number. It was the same amount they would have made with Victor’s super con. Misty let out a whistle. Pepper also approved.
“What if they lose?” Pepper asked.
“Then we go on food stamps,” he said.
Leon showed up not long after the girls. Billy’s driver looked like a new man. His broken ribs had healed, and he’d gotten his busted nose straightened.
Billy fixed everyone drinks, and they clinked glasses in a toast. A few minutes later, he received a text from Cory and Morris that included a selfie taken at University of Phoenix Stadium where the big game was being held. The accompanying message said they were in their seats on the fifty-yard line, ready to try out Gabe’s latest creation.
A minute later, Gabe texted him. Gabe had gone with Cory and Morris that morning to meet with the head referee and give him his final payment for switching in the gaffed coin. Gabe had decided to see the game and had bought a scalped ticket, so he was also in the stadium.
Everything was set. The game officially started at 3:18 Pacific Standard Time. At three o’clock, they hunkered down in front of the suite’s flat-screen TV and suffered through the tail end of the pregame show and a slew of really awful commercials.
“You sure this is a sure thing?” Leon asked.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Billy said.
“That’s strong,” his driver said.
The teams came onto the field and were introduced to the roars of the eighty thousand rabid fans packed into the stadium. Representatives from both teams met in the middle of the field for the coin toss. The head referee explained that it was the Rebels’ turn to call heads or tails this year. Night Train did the honors for his team.
“Heads,” Night Train said.
The head ref said, “Rebels call heads,” and flipped the coin high into the air. Billy held his breath. Gabe had claimed the gaffed coin was foolproof, but that was in practice. What if the transmitter in Cory’s cell phone died and the coin came up tails? Or the TV equipment on the field interfered with Cory’s cell phone’s transmission? Stranger things had happened, and it felt like an eternity before the coin hit the ground.
“Heads it is,” the head referee announced. “The Rebels have won the coin toss. Would you like to receive or kick?”
“Kick,” Night Train said.
“The Rebels have elected to kick. Good luck, everyone.”
The air trapped in Billy’s lungs escaped. While the players exchanged handshakes and wished one another good luck, the head referee slipped the gaffed coin into his pants pocket and switched it with a regular coin, which he’d later give to a celebrity attending the game, as was a Super Bowl tradition. All their bases had been covered.
True to Night Train’s word, the opening kickoff sailed out of the Volunteers’ end zone, and the game began with the ball on the Louisville twenty-five-yard line. On the very first play, Choo-Choo grabbed the Volunteer center’s face mask and committed the game’s initial penalty. On the next play, Sammy took a spill and did not get up, bringing the Rebels’ medical team to rush onto the field so they could help him to the sidelines. The game had just started, and Night Train and his boys had fixed three prop bets—the coin toss, the game’s first penalty, and the game’s first injury. The fourth fixed prop bet would be an accumulation of penalties by the Rebels’ defense and would not be completed until the end of the game.
So far, so good. These bets paid even money and would turn a nice profit. But the real payoff would be if the Rebels won the game. Billy had wagered every cent he had on this happening. In hindsight, it had to be the craziest thing he’d ever done. If the Rebels lost, he’d be flat broke and owe money all over town.
He realized he didn’t care. It was all about the action. Without it, life was hardly worth living. The Rebels got possession and drove the ball down the field to the Volunteers’ twenty-yard line, where the defense stiffened. The field goal team came out, and the kicker put the ball through the uprights. Rebels up by three.
His crew cheered.
On the Volunteers’ next drive, Neil Godfrey threw three perfect passes and scored the game’s first touchdown. No wonder the NFL was banking on him to be their next golden boy. He was a gifted athlete with plenty of poise.
Rebels down by four.
The teams alternated scoreless possessions. With three minutes left in the half, Godfrey dropped back, surveyed the field, and cocked his arm. From out of nowhere, Night Train blew past the coverage and ran Godfrey over.
Billy leaped out of his chair. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Night Train stood over Godfrey, gloating. A referee flagged him for unsportsmanlike conduct. The Rebels now had four penalties, the Volunteers only one. The final prop bet was looking good.
Godfrey was injured and did not get up. A motorized cart came onto the field and loaded him up. As the star quarterback was taken away, he waved weakly to the crowd.
The half ended with the Rebels still down four. Pepper knelt beside Billy’s chair.
“We’re losing,” she said.
“It gets better,” he said.
The halftime show was a bunch of country and western stars who would have been happier breaking beer bottles over one another’s heads than sharing the same stage. It mercifully ended, and a trailer promoting a new fall show came on. Maggie Flynn’s ravishing face filled the screen, her hair bouncing seductively on her shoulders. CBS’s newest hit show, Night and Day, would debut on Tuesday nights in September. Don’t miss it.
He’d been trying to reach Mags for days. There was still the matter of the half a million bucks he owed her. Texts and voice messages had produced no response. Now he knew why. Her ship had righted itself and she’d jumped on board, and he realized their paths would probably never cross again. He told himself that he’d get over her, but that was a lie. You never got over a woman like Maggie Flynn.
The second half began. The Rebels took the kickoff and scored a touchdown on a long drive. Rebels up by three.
Volunteers’ ball. Sycamore, their backup quarterback, fumbled the snap on the first play. The Rebels took over, but the Volunteers’ defense held, so they settled for a field goal.
Rebels up by six.
“Is Godfrey going to come back and play?” Pe
pper asked.
“He’s got a bad back. He’s probably at the hospital, getting X-rayed,” Billy said.
“You knew he was hurt, didn’t you?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
The Rebels scored another field goal and a touchdown, and the third quarter ended with them up by sixteen. Night Train was having a career-defining performance. Batting down passes, blowing by the defense, pressuring Sycamore, throwing running backs to the ground—it was the stuff of highlight reels. Of the twenty-two players on the field, Night Train was the one everybody was watching.
The fourth quarter was a defensive battle, with neither team scoring. With three minutes left in the game, the Volunteers finally reached the end zone and executed a successful two-point conversion, then went for an onside kick, got the ball back, and kicked a long field goal. The Rebels’ lead had been whittled to five points with a minute and a half on the clock.
The Rebels got the ball after the ensuing unsuccessful onside kick but fumbled on their first play from scrimmage. The Volunteers took over with no time-outs left. Sycamore completed a short sideline pass at midfield. Clock stopped. There were sixty seconds left in the game. If the Volunteers scored another touchdown, the Rebels would fall short, and Billy would lose every penny to his name.
Pepper covered her eyes. “I can’t watch this.”
Billy started to sweat. He had taken a gamble on another man’s ability to rise above the forces trying to suppress him. The odds were in his favor, but that didn’t mean he was going to win. Sycamore completed two quick passes—one up the middle, another to the sideline. Thirty seconds left. The Volunteers were on the Rebels’ ten-yard line. A field goal wasn’t good enough; only a touchdown would secure the win.
Volunteers in the shotgun. The ball was snapped and the wide receivers sprinted toward the end zone. Sycamore tossed the ball, his intended target a receiver in the corner of the end zone. Night Train blew past the coverage and leaped into the air, his fingertips nipping the football as it left Sycamore’s hand, causing it to gyrate straight up in the air.
The crowd jumped to their feet. So did Billy. When it came to athletics, there was no such thing as luck. This was especially true for professional sports. It was all about hard work and being in the right place at the right time.
This was Night Train’s place and his time. The football landed in Night Train’s outstretched hands, and he cradled it like a baby and sprinted to the opposite end zone.
Game over.
Outside the suite, a glorious display of fireworks lit up the sky. Leon started yelling like he’d won the lottery, and the girls started dancing. Billy pulled up the calculator app on his cell phone and did the math. All totaled, he’d just won twenty million bucks on the prop bets and the Rebels’ win. With half going to Night Train and his teammates and another three million for his crew, he’d clear seven million. It was a monster score, and he should have felt on top of the world, but the realization that he’d never see Mags again was haunting him. He’d won the game but lost the prize.
He dropped into his chair. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this bad after pulling a heist. The money was worthless without someone to share it with. His crew decided to take the party downstairs to the M’s bar. Pepper stopped in the doorway. “You going to join us?”
“Not tonight,” he said.
“Why so down in the mouth? We won.”
“I’m just worn out. It’s been a long couple of weeks. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Pepper started to say something but decided not to and left. He continued to watch the TV. The scene on the field was bedlam. A small stage was wheeled out, and the Rebels were presented with the Lombardi Championship Trophy while brightly colored confetti filled the air. After the ceremony was over, a reporter cornered Night Train and stuck a microphone in his face.
“Congratulations. You’ve just been named the game’s most valuable player,” the reporter said. “How do you feel about that?”
“It’s a real honor.” Night Train paused. “I’d like to dedicate this game to my father. He sacrificed a lot for me. This one’s for you, Pop.”
“What are you going to do next?” the reporter asked.
That was a good question. Night Train’s playing days were over, and the NFL would surely take the broadcasting job off the table. Every professional athlete had to walk away from the game they loved, and few knew where that journey would take them. But Night Train got to depart with the gift of knowing that he’d played his last game the right way, without resorting to compromising himself or the sport that he loved. Night Train flashed his famous smile.
“That’s easy. I’m going to Las Vegas.”
He killed the picture with the remote. Had this been a movie, he would have walked off with the beautiful girl on his arm and lived happily ever after. Instead, he was going home alone.
“I want my money,” a female voice said.
His head snapped. Mags had materialized in the doorway wearing a leather skirt and red blouse. She’d cut her hair short and dyed it blonde and wore a pair of owlish glasses. The new look was different enough to beat the surveillance cameras, and he wondered why she’d done it.
He rose from his chair and approached her. It was a mirage, or maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. He placed his hand on her arm, just to see if she was real.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“You once said the M was your favorite place to watch sporting events. I convinced the guy at the front desk I was your girlfriend, and he gave me a room key.”
“That was clever. What’s with the new look?”
“I’ve decided to quit show business and go back to stealing.”
“But I just saw a trailer for your show.”
“It’s a secret. Filming starts Monday morning. I want that prick Rand to come to the set and not find me there. Let him twist in the wind for a while.”
“Rand really hurt you, huh?”
“He most certainly did. Not as bad as you hurt me but damn close. The difference was, you said you were sorry and tried to make things right. That fucker never apologized. Rand doesn’t care what happens to me, and he never will.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I’ve never been more sure in my life. Now where’s my money from the super con?”
“It blew up in our faces. The good news is, I just made seven million bucks off the Super Bowl, which you can help me spend. Sound like a plan?”
“Seven million? And to think I met you selling newspapers on the corner in Providence.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “What did you do, fix the game?”
“It’s a long story.”
Her heel caught the door, shutting it. Her eyes were on fire, and her hand started to undo the buttons on his shirt.
“Those are usually the best kind,” she said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Most writers are fortunate to have a good editor in their corner. For this book, I had three editors helping me, the brilliant Jacque Ben-Zekry, the always patient Liz Pearsons, and the incomparable Kevin Smith. I would also like to thank my wife, Laura, whose enthusiasm has never waned. Brian Touhy, whose writing on sport fixing opened my eyes to an area of cheating that I knew little about. And to the crew of cheaters I met in Las Vegas who agreed to let me tell their story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2007 Robert Allen Sergeant
James Swain is the national bestselling author of Take Down, Bad Action, and the Tony Valentine Series. His books have been translated into a dozen languages and have been selected as Mysteries of the Year by Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews. Swain has received a Florida Book Award for fiction, and in 2006 he was awarded France’s prestigious Prix Calibre .38 for Best American Crime Writing. When he isn’t writing novels and screenplays, he enjoys researching gambling scams and cons, a subject on which he’s considered an expert.
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James Swain, Super Con
