Take Down

by James Swain

  No sign. Had she hit the Strip and run? That was a definite possibility, only there were a lot of tourists walking the Strip tonight, which meant a lot of uniformed cops as well, a pair on every corner. Billy avoided contact with the police whenever possible, even chance meetings on the street, and he didn’t think Lady Picasso was any different in this regard.

  Which meant she was still here. He decided to check out the line of people waiting to take cabs out of the casino. He counted seven couples, all dressed for a night on the town, the men looking impatiently at their watches, asking themselves if it would be faster if they walked. He approached a distinguished white-haired man at the front of the line.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I’ve lost my girlfriend. She has dark hair tied in a bun and is wearing black capris. Have you seen her?”

  The key to lying was to give the lie a ring of truth. The man bought the story and consulted with his wife, who was draped on her husband’s arm. The wife pointed a manicured finger at a concrete pillar behind the valet stand.

  “She’s over there,” the wife said. “I thought she looked a little upset.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  He cautiously approached the pillar. He could see a haze of cigarette smoke and figured Lady Picasso was on the other side, trying to calm down. He knew it would be awkward at first, but he was going to speak with her regardless. He wanted to do business with this woman.

  He took out his cell phone and held it the way people did while texting, and walked around the pillar. And there she was, sucking on a menthol cigarette. The smell did a number on his head, and the euphoric recall of that first encounter came back in a flood of memories that sped up his heart. He lowered the phone and stared, just to be sure.

  Mags stared right back at him. The years had been kind, and she was still as pretty as a magazine cover. She knew she’d been made, yet didn’t seem to be terribly upset. It made him dig her that much more.

  He’d been in love with her for as long as he could remember. Whenever he had sex, he imagined it was the magnificent Maggie Flynn that he was inside of. It was his fantasy, and so far, it hadn’t gotten old.

  Kismet, fate, whatever the hell you wanted to call it, they were together again. He was not going to let her go this time, at least not if he could help it.

  “I guess you don’t remember me,” he said.

  Mags ground her cigarette into the pavement. “Holy shit. You’re the paperboy.”

  He’d been hawking the Providence Journal in front of DelSesto’s Bakery on DePasquale Square when Mags’s sputtering Toyota had kissed the curb. Irish hot and exquisitely dressed, she could have been your best friend’s gorgeous sister, but in fact was a thief. The proof was the stacks of Yves Saint Laurent apparel boxes in the backseat. The easy narrative said she worked the floor at Macy’s and had swiped the clothes when her boss was on break.

  “Hey, cutie, want to make some money?” she asked.

  “You talking to me?” he said.

  “Who else would I be talking to?”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty bucks for a half hour’s work.”

  He threw a plastic sheet over his papers and hopped in. She hooked him no differently than the mythical Greek sirens who lured lovesick sailors to shipwreck on the rocky coast of their island, and they floated down the uneven road as if riding upon a magic carpet.

  She explained the deal. The boxes contained knockoff cashmere sweaters made out of fiberglass, cost zilch to manufacture. Folded nice and pretty, each had an impressive gold-foiled guarantee that read “Made in Ireland.” Just don’t light a cigarette near them, or they’ll blow up. His job was to hold the boxes and keep his mouth shut while Mags gave her spiel.

  They pulled into a construction site on Federal Hill, and Mags quickly gathered a crowd. It was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. The construction workers shoved money into her hands without a second thought. Most didn’t know what they were buying, just that it was hot, and they had to have one. Every line that came out of her mouth was designed to separate them from their hard-earned dough. Soon all the sweaters were sold.

  They hit it off, and Mags sprang for a chocolate shake at the Mickey D’s on Broad Street. They sat in her car while she sucked on a Kool. He tried to drag every piece of information about hustling out of her that he could. Finally she had enough of his questions.

  “I’ve got to beat it. You take care of yourself,” she said.

  “Take me with you. We’ll make lots of money.”

  “You’re a sharp kid. Do yourself a favor, go to college.”

  “You sound like my old man. He wants me to go to MIT.”

  “Do as he says. Father knows best.”

  “This is better. I like you. I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

  She smiled dreamily. Leaning forward, her lips brushed his, became a lingering kiss. Her breath tasted like a menthol cigarette. For the rest of his life, the smell would turn him on.

  She pulled away, lit up a fresh cigarette. She was all business now. Whatever had passed between them was gone.

  “You really want to fleece people?” she asked.

  Billy didn’t know if he wanted to fleece people or not. What he knew was that he wanted to make lots of money, wear fancy clothes, live in a beautiful house, drive an exotic sports car, date great-looking women, and he didn’t want to spend thirty years getting there.

  “Where do I sign up?” he said.

  “Sherwood Manufacturing on 75 Eagle Street. There’s no sign. Just go upstairs and bang on the door. A black guy will come out. Tell him you want to speak to Lou Profaci.”

  “Who’s he? What do they do?”

  “Lou owns the place. They make knockoffs that street hustlers sell to suckers. The big movers are the fake sweaters and counterfeit Rolex watches called one-lungers. The watches last about a week before falling apart, even though there’s a lifetime guarantee on the box. Lou will pair you with a pro, and you’ll learn the ropes before he turns you out. In six months, you’ll be making a grand a week easy.”

  “Turn me out where?”

  “On the street. Every street hustler in Providence rents his turf from Lou. Some guys work the malls, others the train stations; my turf is the construction sites.”

  “Can he teach me how to cheat at cards and dice? My old man won’t.”

  “Sure. Lou knows all the angles. Now, let me go.”

  He slurped down the last of his shake. It washed away the taste of her kiss but not the euphoric rush that had gone with it. She had opened his eyes to so many things; letting go wasn’t going to be easy. “Eagle Street’s on the other side of town, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Lou Profaci.”

  “That’s the man’s name.”

  “You sure he’ll do it?”

  She reached across the seat and tousled his curly hair.

  “Just tell him Maggie Flynn sent you,” she said.

  “That’s right. I’m the paperboy. Let me buy you a drink,” Billy said.

  Mags knew better than to set foot back inside Galaxy. She shook her head.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about. They grabbed another blond,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not a blond.”

  “You were back inside the casino.”

  “I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”

  “I saw you at the table painting the cards.” He held up four fingers and wiggled them playfully. “Your chops are outstanding.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You have a can of daub in your purse. You were sitting at third base, painting the ten-valued cards. A guy in the surveillance room made you, so the casino sent me to take a look.”

  Fear crept into
the corners of her eyes. “You work for the casino?”

  “I’m doing a job for them. Now, let me buy you a drink. I’ve got a business proposition to discuss with you.”

  “A business proposition.”

  “That’s right. One that involves making lots of money. Does that sound appealing?”

  Mags looked confused and a little scared. She hadn’t figured out what Billy’s deal was and didn’t know if he was friend or foe.

  “You’re not going to bust me?” she asked.

  “Hell no,” he said.

  She glanced furtively at the valet stand, as if weighing an all-or-nothing dash down the sidewalk to the Strip. Taking her arm, he steered her toward the entrance.

  “You’re safe with me,” he said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  He found a bar off the lobby with TVs showing mindless sporting events whose outcomes only bookies cared about, and steered Mags to a corner table where they could talk in private. She fired up another cigarette after they sat down, and he detected a slight tremble in her fingers. She was doing a good job of hiding her emotions. For all she knew, Billy was working undercover with the gaming board and could make her life miserable in so many ways.

  A waitress dolled up like Marilyn Monroe took their drink order. The hotel’s celebrity theme was wearing thin and in a few months would probably get scrapped, the employees forced to wear the same tired uniforms that every casino in town made their employees wear.

  “Your name is Billy, isn’t it,” she said.

  “You’ve got a good memory. It’s Billy Cunningham.”

  “What’s mine?”

  “Maggie Flynn. Your friends call you Mags.”

  “You sent that cocktail waitress over to give me the brush, didn’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I didn’t want you to get busted.”

  Their drinks came. Mags stirred her club soda with a straw and watched the bubbles explode. He could almost hear the gears shifting in her head as she tried to figure out his deal.

  “I always wondered what happened to you,” she said. “Did you make your old man happy and go to MIT?”

  “Sure did. I split after two semesters.”

  “So what do you do now? Catch hustlers for casinos? You’re sure good at it.”

  She’d been caught red-handed, yet still was trying to control the conversation and get him to warm up to her. Lou Profaci had taught her that little trick, along with every other hustler who’d worked for him.

  “You need to stop asking so many questions, and listen to what I have to say,” he said.

  “I’m just interested. No harm in that, is there?”

  She flashed a smile. She had perfect rows of teeth, bee-stung lips, and soft emerald eyes that he could have stared into all night long without getting bored. All the feelings bottled up inside him for so long bubbled to the surface and he gazed down at his drink.

  “There are two things I need to tell you,” he said. “The first is, don’t ever come back to this place. These aren’t casino people running this joint. They’re drug dealers, and they’ll beat you to death with baseball bats and no one will ever see you again. Got it?”

  “Shit. Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just don’t come back here. Okay?”

  “Sure, Billy.”

  Mags had been in the game a while and knew that self-preservation was the most important thing of all.

  “You said there were two things,” she said after a moment had passed.

  “I have a business proposition for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I put together a crew after I moved out here. We’ve been raking in the dough, taking down ninety grand a week. I’ve been thinking of expanding and working a few new scams. I’m going to need help.”

  Her reaction was a slow one. She teetered ever so slightly in her seat.

  “You’re a cheater,” she said under her breath.

  “It sure took you long enough.”

  “Jesus H. Christ. I thought you were an undercover cop.”

  “Hardly. I’ve been scamming casinos in Vegas for ten years, and I’ve seen a lot of hustlers. I dug what I saw back in the casino. You’ve got the routine down pat. I want you to join my crew.”

  At first, she didn’t know what to say.

  “You can think about it, if you want to,” he said.

  “It’s just . . . I’ve never worked with a crew before.”

  “It’s different than running solo. You’ve got people covering your back all the time, so there’s less chance of getting busted. The money’s also stronger. You’ll never have to worry about making your rent or car payment again. You’ll clear three hundred grand the first year, more as we grow. We can talk about the rest of the details later, if you’re interested.”

  “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “I’m flattered. Yeah, I’m interested. I’ve never made that kind of money in my life.”

  He paid for the drinks. “Give me your number, and I’ll touch base in a couple of days.”

  “Do you have something to write with?”

  “I’ll memorize it.”

  She recited her cell number and he committed it to memory. She’d been working solo when they’d first met, and he was surprised she was still going it alone. It was a tough world to survive in by yourself.

  “I need to go,” he said. “It’s been a blast seeing you again.”

  “You, too. I’m looking forward to this. It’ll be fun running together.”

  They stood up at the same time. Mags came around the table and gave him a kiss that made his toes tingle, then left the bar faster than someone trying to catch a train. He started to leave as well and spied a piece of paper lying on the floor beneath her chair. It hadn’t been there when they’d sat down, and he guessed it had dropped out of her purse.

  He picked the scrap of paper up and was introduced to a gorgeous teenage brunette. The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. The pretty girl in the photo had to be Mags’s daughter.

  He slipped the photo into the billfold of his wallet. That day in Providence was forever etched in his memory, their conversation at the McD’s in her sputtering Toyota as clear as a recording. Puffing on a cigarette, she’d claimed that she was leaving Providence for the greener pastures of New York. Had she been wishing out loud, and was she stuck in Providence with a daughter to raise? It made sense, and if the photo was any indication, it had worked out okay. He didn’t want her to get home and find the photo missing, and he hurried outside.

  She wasn’t in the waiting line for cabs. That left the street, and he took the handy moving sidewalk to the Strip. Leaving the property was a bad idea, but he didn’t care. Every guy had a dream girl that he fantasized about, and Maggie Flynn was his.

  The Strip was the usual freak show of tourists and stumbling drunks. He walked up and down the block, bumping shoulders and taking sharp elbows, until he spotted her on the corner of Sahara, jabbering on a cell phone. Out came the photo while he worked on a clever line to say.

  A black Jeep Cherokee with tinted windows lurched up to the curb, and she hopped in. He stuck his hand out with the photo just as the Cherokee pulled away. The passenger door wasn’t closed, giving him a glimpse of the driver. It was definitely a man.

  The Cherokee disappeared in a sea of headlights. Mags had a partner, and that put a different spin on things. He needed to find out what the guy’s deal was and if he was cool and could be trusted. It would be a good way to start the conversation the next time they got together.

  He took the moving sidewalk back to the hotel. A valet approached, holding a cordless phone. He raised the phone while gazing up at the surveillance c
amera over the valet stand.

  “You left the property. I should have you beaten up for doing that,” Shaz said.

  “Friends don’t hurt friends,” he said.

  “With you, I’d make an exception. We nailed the wrong bitch coming out of the restroom.”

  “I told Crunchie it wasn’t her, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Crunchie’s a fucking moron. Marcus wants to talk to you. Get your ass inside, and go to the craps pit. Ike and T-Bird are waiting for you.”

  “Got it.”

  He tossed the phone to the valet and headed inside. He’d been on the job a few hours, and his employers were already at each other’s throats. If he played his cards right, they just might end up killing each other.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ike and T-Bird were by the craps pit, their faces filled with bad intentions. Billy said, “I didn’t know I needed a hall pass to leave,” expecting they’d buy the line. Only Ike cuffed him in the head, making Billy see a bunch of stars that weren’t on Hollywood Boulevard.

  They pulled him into the employee lounge and slapped him around. A handful of dealers on break got up and left. When Billy had taken enough punishment, they took him down a hallway to a room, threw open the door, and shoved him inside.

  Doucette, his crazy bride, and Crunchie stood in front of a two-way mirror, their faces showing collective despair. In the next room was the seething blond who’d been mistakenly pulled off the floor. Hell hath no fury like a woman with a torn blouse.

  Doucette cast Billy a scornful gaze. He wore a pin-striped suit, a silver necktie, and had slicked his hair back, and looked every bit the casino boss.

  “You seem to have a problem following instructions,” Doucette said.

  “I went outside for a breather. I didn’t realize I was breaking the rules.” The line wasn’t getting him anywhere, and he decided to steer the conversation in another direction. “You grabbed the wrong woman, didn’t you? I told Crunchie to back off.”