Super Con

by James Swain

  “You rang?” he said under his breath.

  “False alarm,” Travis said. “I thought a security guy was watching us, but he split. What’s with the fez? You look like an Arab.”

  “There’s a Shriner’s convention in town. Everyone getting along?”

  “So far, so good. The Boswells are real pros.”

  Billy shifted his attention to the five blackjack tables closest to the entrance. At each table a member of his crew sat in the last seat, to the dealer’s right, in the position called third base. A member of the Gypsies sat to the dealer’s left, at a position called first base. The Boswells were betting a hundred dollars a hand, and they were winning big.

  That was because Billy’s crew was cheating. Each member had a small mirror concealed in their hand called a shiner. By holding the shiner against the table at an angle and slightly lifting that hand, his crew could secretly glimpse the cards as they came out of the dealing shoe. This let his crew know the value of the dealer’s hand before the dealer did.

  His crew signaled this information to the Boswell at their respective tables. The Boswell would play accordingly and rip off the joint. The advantage of having two cheats working a game was that the Boswells could play loose and draw no heat.

  Most scams had flaws, and playing the lights was no exception. If a shiner caught the light the wrong way, a reflection would hit the ceiling. These reflections resembled dancing fireflies and were easily spotted by pit bosses.

  It was Travis’s job to watch the ceiling. If a dancing firefly appeared, Travis would drop his beer bottle and curse. This was the signal for everyone to clear out.

  “You mind covering for me? I need to piss,” Travis whispered.

  “Go ahead.”

  Travis left. Moments later, a security goon wearing a polyester suit and a cheap tie appeared at Cory’s table. Billy stiffened, believing Cory had exposed the shiner, and the goon had been sent to bust Cory. The goon circled the table, bypassing Cory, and went straight to the Boswell at first base, which happened to be Nico, Victor’s favorite son, and demanded to see Nico’s ID. Nico had on his best choirboy face and handed over his driver’s license. Casinos didn’t interrupt a player unless there was good reason, and Billy got ready to run.

  Travis edged up beside him. “The older I get, the better that feels.”

  “Pull everyone off the game. Nico got made,” he whispered.

  “What did he do?”

  “The hell I know. Do it right now.”

  He headed for the front doors. He planned to hit the sidewalks on Fremont and find the nearest bar, where he’d make a hasty trip to the men’s room and lose his disguise. Then he’d meet up with Victor and decide how to deal with Nico’s fuckup.

  “Wait—the goon’s backing off,” Travis said.

  He stopped and turned around. The goon had returned the ID and was patting Nico on the shoulder like it was a big misunderstanding. The storm had passed, but his radar wasn’t coming down. Something was wrong with this picture, and he tried to determine what it was.

  Finally, it hit him. The goon was working without backup. That never happened.

  Every casino had procedures when dealing with problems. If a player needed to be checked out, two goons were sent. While one goon talked with the player, the second goon acted as backup. If the player tried to run, the second goon would knock him to the floor and sit on him.

  There was no backup with Nico. Just the goon in the polyester suit, asking for ID. That told Billy that surveillance had used the opportunity to take high-definition photos of Nico’s face with a pan-tilt-zoom camera. These photos would be run against a database of known cheats in the hopes of making a match. Nico was in surveillance’s crosshairs.

  But would they make a match? The Boswells were masters of evading the law, and he wanted to believe that there wasn’t an incriminating photo of Nico on any computer. But as he’d learned long ago, you could never be too careful when it came to stealing.

  “Give the signal anyway,” he said.

  “You sure?” Travis groaned.

  “Damn straight I’m sure. You got a problem with that?”

  “We haven’t made any money. I’m a little short this month.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  As Billy headed out the door, a beer bottle shattered on the floor.

  “Aw, shit,” Travis cursed loudly.

  THREE

  The Beauty Bar Saloon on Fremont didn’t know what it wanted to be. A claustrophobic space with crummy lighting, it had a bar in one corner and a nail salon in another, while against the far wall sat a makeshift stage that served as a showcase for local bands.

  Despite its identity crisis, the Beauty Bar was one of Billy’s favorite spots to retreat to after pulling a heist. The clientele was an eclectic mix, with lots of tattoos and piercings. If any undercover cops or gaming agents came in, they’d get made right away.

  The Beauty Bar also had an outdoor seating area where name acts were often booked. It wasn’t being used tonight, and Billy bribed the manager for the privilege of sitting beneath the stars with Victor. They sat at a picnic table, far away from the surveillance cameras on the side of the building. The young hustler drank a beer, the older man a bourbon and water.

  “Why did you call off the play? Nico didn’t get made,” Victor said.

  “It didn’t smell right. The casino sent one security goon to check Nico out. Normally, they send two,” he explained.

  “Maybe they were shorthanded. The casino was packed.”

  “That could be. But my gut told me surveillance wanted to get a closer look at Nico so they could run his picture against a cheater database.”

  Victor’s face turned to stone. “I talked to Nico. The goon came over because Nico looked like a guy who had given them trouble last night. When the goon realized it was a case of mistaken identity, he apologized and walked away. It was nothing.”

  “You’re saying I shouldn’t have called off the play.”

  “I wouldn’t have.”

  Billy didn’t like to be challenged and put his beer on the table. “Nico read the situation wrong. The goon had already made him before he came over.”

  “What are you talking about? Nico didn’t screw up.”

  “I never said he screwed up. But the goon knew Nico wasn’t clean. A tech up in surveillance sent him to talk to Nico so the tech could take a clean shot of Nico’s face.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “I’m positive, Victor.”

  Victor stared into his drink. Victor had been thieving well before Billy was a gleam in his daddy’s eye, and he deserved respect. Billy would give him that respect, but he still had to explain the situation, even if it meant bruising Victor’s feelings.

  “Can I tell you how I figured it out?” Billy asked.

  The older man lifted his gaze. “Go ahead.”

  “The Golden Gate’s a dump. Most people playing blackjack are sweating out their Social Security checks. Nico was betting a hundred a hand and deserved preferential treatment. When the goon told Nico it was a case of mistaken identity, he should have given Nico a free meal coupon or sent over a cocktail waitress to refresh his drink. The goon didn’t do that because he’d been told Nico wasn’t clean.”

  Victor thought about this. A knowing look spread across his lined face.

  “I missed that. Are we screwed?”

  “Hard to say. They didn’t bust your son, which in my book is a happy ending.”

  “Should I pull Nico off the job, send him back home?”

  “We need Nico. Let’s put him in a disguise instead. We’ll dye his hair, stick glasses on him, and paint a mole on his puss. We’ll set him up with a fake ID that matches his new look. He’ll fly under the radar, no problem.”

  “I like it,” Victor said. “I’ve made it a point to move around a lot. We hit a casino on an Indian reservation, we don’t go back for a few years. There are enough joints for us to do that. You’re st
rictly working Vegas, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. Most hustlers spent a chunk of their lives staring at the double white line in the highway while driving between jobs. That had never sounded appealing to him, so he’d planted his stakes in the neon city and seldom strayed.

  “You ever rip off the same joint twice?” Victor asked.

  “There are joints in town I’ve ripped off a dozen times. They just don’t know it.”

  “Most guys wouldn’t have the balls.”

  “It’s an acquired skill.”

  Victor raised his eyebrows, wanting to hear more.

  “Back in Providence, I dealt a rigged blackjack game in an illegal casino. One Saturday night, two hoods came in with their girlfriends and sat at my table. The hoods were part of a local crime family and not guys to screw with. The game had six decks. All the high cards had their backs roughed with sandpaper, which I could feel by touching them. The dealing shoe had a special lip, which let me invisibly hold back the top card. Even though the cards were shuffled, I could control the hands by holding back high-value cards from the players when I wanted.”

  “And since the players can’t touch the cards in a multideck game, the scam flew by them,” Victor said.

  “Correct. Lou Profaci, the owner, comes to my table and tugs on his ear, which means, ‘Let them win.’ Now, this makes no sense to me. But Lou’s the boss, so I let the hoods win.

  “I go on break. Lou catches up with me in the back room. I tell him the hoods are up eight grand, isn’t he afraid of them leaving with the house’s money? Lou pulls back the curtain to the window. It’s snowing outside. Lou says, ‘Those ugly mopes ain’t going anywhere. Go back there and take their money.’ I’m getting nervous, so I say, ‘You think they won’t notice?’ And Lou says, ‘Let their girlfriends win.’

  “It was pure genius. The girls are betting ten bucks a hand, the hoods two hundred a hand. I start dealing so the girls win and the boys lose. An hour later, the hoods are down twenty grand while the girls are up three. The girls are having a great time, and no one’s complaining.”

  “The hoods didn’t catch on?”

  “Naw. Dumb mutts even tipped me. It was a great lesson. Anything’s possible if you play it right.”

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me. Nico gets a makeover and stays. I’ll let you and your team do the honors.”

  They picked up their glasses and headed for the entrance into the bar. Billy got a text from Leon, telling him that he needed to come outside. Billy guessed that Leon had parked his limo illegally and was about to get towed. It wasn’t the first time it had happened.

  Victor stopped a few steps from the door and faced Billy. “I’m sorry I doubted you. You know this town better than I do. I hope it won’t affect our doing business together.”

  “It hasn’t so far,” Billy said.

  FOUR

  Billy’s crew was inside the Beauty Bar, the ladies getting pedicures and drinking martinis, the guys chugging beer and watching sports on the assorted TVs. Travis had departed, and Billy guessed the big man had Ubered it home. He hadn’t appreciated Travis’s comment about needing money. It was bush league, and it hinted at bigger problems.

  “Leon needs us,” he told his crew. “Let’s go.”

  The sideshow that was Fremont Street was in full swing, and they sifted through the human carnival and made their way to the elevated parking garage where the limo was parked. Billy climbed to the first landing and waited until his crew had joined him.

  “What do you think of the Boswells?” he asked.

  “They’re smooth. I like them,” Pepper said.

  “The girls rock,” Misty added. “The one named Kat told me she’s been thieving since she was six years old, if you can believe that.”

  “The guys are good, too. I can work with them,” Cory said.

  “They have my vote,” Morris said.

  Gabe was the last to reach the landing and spent a moment catching his breath. “Have they told you how this super con works? Or is that still a secret?”

  “Victor hasn’t tipped his mitt yet,” Billy said.

  “Does his family know?” Gabe asked.

  “Victor hasn’t revealed it to them, either. He wants everyone kept in the dark. I can’t say that I blame him. You know what they say, loose lips sink ships.”

  Most cheats would never agree to a scam whose secret was unknown to them. Had Billy and his crew not traveled to the Boswells’ home base of Sacramento and been given a live demo of Victor’s super con, they probably would have turned down the job. But Victor had baffled them so thoroughly with his ability to win at blackjack that they’d signed on.

  “Victor liked the way you guys worked as well,” Billy said.

  He continued up the stairs. At the second-floor landing, he opened the door and stepped outside. The black stretch limo was parked on the far side of the garage with the windows down, only its driver was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Leon?” Pepper asked.

  “Beats me. Hey Leon, where you hiding?” Billy called out.

  No answer. It wasn’t like Leon to go AWOL during a job. Billy didn’t like it and took out his cell phone and called his driver. Seconds later, he heard a muted ringing.

  “Where’s that coming from?” he asked.

  His crew surrounded the limo. Gabe pointed at the trunk.

  “It’s coming from there,” Gabe said.

  Billy put his ear to the trunk. The sound of a ringing cell phone was indeed coming from the trunk’s interior. He ended the call, and the ringing abruptly stopped.

  “Hey Leon, are you in there? Make some noise if you can hear me, man,” he said.

  A muffled plea for help escaped from the trunk.

  “You hurt?” he asked.

  The answer was yes. He guessed a street gang had mugged Leon. Vegas gangs were not content to rob their victims, but also preferred to beat them to scare the victim from filing a police report. A hospital visit was in order for Leon. Billy saw no reason for all of them to go.

  “Pepper and Misty, I want you to cab it home,” he said. “Gabe, you go with them. Cory and Morris, you stay here with me.”

  Pepper looked upset. “Will you call us later? I want to know if Leon’s okay.”

  “You have my word. Now get moving.”

  As Gabe and the girls headed for the stairwell, three Asians jumped out of a car and blocked their path. The smallest, who appeared in charge, wore a linen shirt adorned with Hawaiian ukuleles and had goose bumps clustered under his eyes like those on the belly of a toad. In his hand was a Batman lunch box. His henchmen were built like sumo wrestlers and wore navy sports jackets. Colorful tattoos poked out of their shirt collars, suggesting a greater array of body art hiding beneath. They drew guns. Pepper, Misty, and Gabe retreated back to the limo.

  “Who are those guys?” Cory asked.

  “Beats me.” Billy held up his hands to show he wasn’t armed. “Take our money. Just don’t hurt us.”

  The diminutive one scowled. “You Cunningham?”

  “That’s me. Who are you?”

  “Broken Tooth.”

  “Your tooth doesn’t look broken to me.”

  The Asian stuck his hand into his mouth and extracted the crown covering his upper front incisor, revealing the sharpened stump of a real tooth. “We need to talk. Get in limo with your friends, and one of my men will drive to your house.”

  Billy lived in a penthouse condo in Turnberry Towers. His neighbors and the condo staff believed he sold high-end real estate for a living and had no idea of his criminal activity. If he brought Broken Tooth and his henchmen to his place, his cover would be blown.

  “Can we use your place?” he asked the girls.

  “I guess,” Pepper said.

  “The fridge’s bare. We can’t offer them anything,” Misty said.

  “I’m sure they’ll understand.” To Broken Tooth, he said, “Let’s use my friends’ place instead. It’s inside the Las Vegas
Country Club.”

  Broken Tooth scowled. “You trying to set me up?”

  “Not at all. My place is small, that’s all.”

  “You pull shit, I hurt your friends, make you watch.”

  “I won’t pull any shit. Why did your men put my driver in the trunk?”

  Broken Tooth stuck the crown back in. The facial recognition software used by the Vegas cops to spot criminals was second to none, and Billy guessed Broken Tooth had gotten the crown made so he wouldn’t be recognized during his visit.

  “Your driver has a big mouth. My men shut it,” Broken Tooth said.

  “His name’s Leon. There was no reason to hurt him.”

  “This isn’t starting out right. You don’t question me, understand?”

  “You want to do business, don’t hurt my people. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  “You don’t call the shots. I call the shots. Get in the car, or my men will blow your brains out.”

  The henchmen took aim at Billy’s head. Pepper let out a squeal.

  “Do what he says, Billy.”

  Billy knew a bluff when he heard one. Broken Tooth hadn’t come here to kill him, and he crossed his arms and stood his ground. Broken Tooth caved and had his henchmen lower their guns. The trunk was unlocked, and Leon climbed out, his face a bloody mess.

  “You okay?” Billy asked him.

  “I’ll live,” Leon said.

  The limo raced down the exit ramp. Broken Tooth followed in a rental, tires squealing.

  The henchman in the backseat was not friendly. His neck was wider than his head, and he wore a permanent frown. Billy tried to small talk him.

  “You got a name?” Billy asked.

  “Ah,” the henchman replied.

  “How about your partner?”

  “His name Ah, too.”

  “Is that short for something?”

  “Not short for anything. It means little one.”

  The little ones. That’s just great, Billy thought.

  Soon they were stuck in traffic, the harsh streetlights bouncing off the limo’s tinted glass. Billy leaned back in his seat and stared at the swirling mass of humanity flowing past. Broken Tooth was a wild card; the rules he played by were different from the code that he and his crew adhered to, and he felt certain that a business relationship would end badly. Pepper dropped her hand on his knee and gave it a squeeze.