by James Swain
“That’s me,” he said.
“You bring lots of cash? We don’t take credit cards.”
Either Sammy was dumber than Miss South Carolina, or it was just an act. Billy produced the stacks of money from his sports jacket.
“Well, come on in,” Sammy said.
The escort departed, and Billy entered the villa. Vegas casinos boasted some of the most extravagant accommodations on the planet, and the villa had the feel of a collector’s well-kept home, with museum-quality Greek urns and life-size statues filling the foyer.
“Is this stuff real?” Billy asked.
“Beats me,” Sammy said. “Watch your step. We were throwing a football around earlier, and one of the urns bit the dust.”
Sammy escorted Billy through the villa to a spacious covered patio overlooking the hotel pool. Sammy walked with a pronounced limp and looked to be in pain.
“You okay?” Billy asked.
“I always limp after a game,” Sammy explained. “It will ease up in a few days.”
The patio was the villa’s showpiece and was drenched in expensive furnishings. In its center sat an antique poker table with four giant football players sitting around it. Sammy made the introductions. “This is Cunningham, the real-estate guy.”
Night Train was the first to say hello. He was Hollywood handsome and wore a white silk shirt unbuttoned to his navel and tasteful jewelry. He flashed his well-known smile and pointed at the empty chair at the table. “Have a seat. Guys, introduce yourselves to our guest.”
The others took turns identifying themselves. The lone white guy was named Assassin and had a shaved skull and tree-trunk arms. The Hispanic with the cauliflower ear was named Clete, and the black guy with the stoner smile was Choo-Choo. It was like entering the land of the giants, and Billy shook their hands before taking the empty seat. Placing his money on the table, he said, “Who’s the banker?”
“I am. How much you got there?” Night Train asked.
“Twenty thousand big ones.”
“That works.” Night Train turned the money into chips and slid the stacks to his guest. Two brand-new decks of Bicycle playing cards still in their boxes sat on the table. One deck was red, the other deck blue. Night Train also slid the decks to Billy.
“You can do the honors,” Night Train said.
Billy removed the decks from the boxes. The jokers and advertising cards were discarded and the cards shuffled. Billy made sure the shuffles were sloppy and uncoordinated. He had hustled other cheats before and knew the importance of presenting himself as a rube to his victims.
“First ace deals.” Billy dealt cards faceup around the table using the red deck. The ace of hearts fell to Night Train. “Your deal.”
He slid the blue deck to Night Train. Night Train presented the deck to Sammy to be cut. Sammy cut the cards and passed them back to Night Train. So far, the game appeared clean, although Billy knew it wouldn’t stay that way for very long.
“I don’t want to play any of that bullshit Texas Hold’em,” Night Train said. “Game’s seven-card stud with a five-hundred-dollar ante. You cool with that, Mr. Real-Estate Man?”
“I’m game,” Billy said.
Everyone threw $500 into the pot. Night Train dealt each player two facedown cards and one faceup card. By the time the game was over, each player would have seven cards from which they’d make their best hand using five cards. Billy glimpsed his facedown cards. He’d drawn two clubs. His faceup card was also a club. The odds of his pulling a flush were strong. Flushes usually won in seven-card stud.
“Raise,” he said when the bet came his way.
Sammy and Assassin dropped out. On the next round, Billy drew another club. He again raised when the bet came his way. Choo-Choo and Clete bowed out.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Night Train said.
Billy was dealt another club and made his flush. When it came time for the reveal, there was more than ten thousand in the pot. Night Train’s face crumbled upon seeing Billy’s hand.
“I didn’t think you had it,” his host said.
“Beginner’s luck,” he said.
“Way to go,” Sammy said.
“I think he’s a ringer,” Clete half joked.
He raked in the chips. This was starting out well, but it wouldn’t end that way. There was a science to cheating at cards that relied upon letting a victim win early to bring down their guard. When the victim was properly fattened, the cheats would go for the kill.
“How about a cold drink?” Night Train asked.
“I could use a brew,” Billy said. “I think congratulations are in order. You guys played a hell of a game yesterday.”
“Thanks. We played so good that our coaches gave us the afternoon off. Choo-Choo, how about a cold beer for our guest.”
Choo-Choo took a glistening Corona from a cooler and popped the cap with his teeth.
“That’s impressive,” Billy said.
The deal rotated to Clete. Clete announced the game was five-card draw and sailed the cards around the table. Billy watched intently but saw no sleight of hand. There were only so many ways to cheat at poker. Peeking the victim’s cards through a wall was a common method, marking the backs another. Playing on a patio ruled out peeking, and Billy had done a riffle test while shuffling and had not spotted any marks. So how was Night Train going to fleece him?
Ten minutes later, he found out.
The deal was back to Night Train. Sammy gave the red deck a cut, and Night Train slid the deck off the table and squared it. For a fleeting instant, the red deck was out of sight. Then Night Train started to deal. The hair stood up on the back of Billy’s neck.
“Seven-card stud with a thousand-dollar ante,” Night Train announced. “Let’s see if I can win some of my money back.”
Despite the move’s invisibility, Billy knew what had occurred. Night Train had switched a stacked deck in his lap with the red deck on the table. Long hours of practice had gone into the move, most likely in front of a mirror. Hustlers called this a cooler because it was thought that the switched deck was cooler to the touch.
Billy threw a thousand bucks into the pot and checked his hand. His faceup card was a jack and his two facedown cards were also jacks. Three jacks was a powerful starting hand, and he guessed the deck was stacked for him to get a full house, while another player would get four of a kind or a straight flush and clean him out.
Assassin started the betting, Clete raised, and Night Train raised him. By the time the bet came to Billy, it was up to four thousand bucks.
“Call,” he said.
As his chips hit the pot, his elbow deliberately brushed his Corona. The bottle fell over and splashed beer on the player’s hands as well as the blue deck sitting to the side, ruining everything. Night Train’s eyes flared. Billy played stupid and apologized up a storm.
“I am so damn clumsy it isn’t funny. I’m sorry, guys.”
Nobody spoke. Without cards, there was no game. That was fine, except Billy had $15,000 of the football players’ money, most of which he’d won off Night Train. If they ended the game now, he’d leave with that money. Night Train was having none of that, and he placed a call to the concierge on his cell phone.
“I need two brand-new decks of cards brought to my villa. One red, one blue. Hurry up.”
Billy engaged in small talk while they waited for the cards. Night Train was quietly fuming and not happy with this change of events. He had been cheating other athletes since college and probably had never been cheated himself. That was about to change. There was a paddle for everyone’s ass, and the famous football player was about to get royally spanked.
THIRTEEN
A uniformed bellboy delivered two brand-new decks to the villa. The cards were in a plastic bag from the Emperor’s Emporium along with a receipt. Billy smiled to himself, feeling confident that at least one of the decks in the bag had his secret scuff marks on it.
Night Train paid the bellboy for the decks and gene
rously tipped him.
“Can I get your autograph?” the bellboy asked.
Night Train scribbled his name on a napkin using the bellboy’s pen. Night Train was a different person around the bellboy, with a broad smile creasing his face and a friendly demeanor. He went back to being a prick when the bellboy was gone.
“Let’s get this game going,” Night Train said.
The new decks were removed from their boxes and shuffled. Billy assisted in this ritual and felt his secret scuff marks on the edges of both decks.
“My deal. Let’s change things up and play Texas Hold’em,” Night Train said. “Thousand-dollar ante, boys, no blinds.”
Earlier, Night Train had called Texas Hold’em a bullshit game. The fact that he’d chosen to play it now was an indication that he had a method of cheating specific to Texas Hold’em that he planned to use. Employing specific scams for different games was done to confuse victims and was common among hustlers who cheated at poker.
Night Train dealt the round. Billy got crummy cards but played them anyway. Night Train began toying with his chips. As if on cue, the others dropped out. Night Train kept raising and Billy kept calling. Night Train triumphantly revealed a pair of kings. Billy threw his cards into the muck without showing them.
“Good hand,” Billy said.
“What did you have?” Night Train asked.
“Rags.”
“Hah. I knew you were bluffing.”
The scam was called playing top hand. By toying with his chips, Night Train was telling the others his cards were strong. The others folded, letting Night Train play heads up against Billy. Over the course of the night, the player in the game with the best hand would go up against Billy and would drain Billy’s bankroll until he was flat broke.
The deal came to Billy. It was payback time.
“Texas Hold’em, thousand-dollar ante, no blinds.”
The football players tossed their chips into the pot, and Billy dealt the cards while feeling the edges. Of all poker scams, using touch cards was one of the strongest. The cheat didn’t have to stare at the cards while reading the marks but let his fingers do the work.
In Texas Hold’em, each player got two cards. By feeling the cards, Billy knew that his opponents had weak hands, except for Night Train, who’d been dealt an ace and king, known as Big Slick. Night Train again toyed with his chips and the others dropped out.
“Five thousand,” Night Train said.
Billy peeked at his two cards. He had a pair of sevens. He decided to call Night Train’s bet and threw chips into the pot. Picking up the deck, he burned the top card and dealt three community cards, called the flop. Ace, seven, king. Night Train had two pair, while he had three of a kind. He couldn’t have scripted it better and put on his best poker face.
“Ten thousand,” Night Train said.
“Call,” he said.
He threw more chips into the pot, picked up the deck, burned the top card, and dealt another community card, called the turn. It was a deuce. Nothing had changed.
“How much you got left?” Night Train asked.
He counted his remaining chips. “Twenty thousand, two hundred.”
“Twenty thousand, two hundred it is.”
He hesitated. Night Train had to believe his hand was best. He didn’t want to act too quickly and tip off his winning cards.
“What do you have, an ace in the hole?” he asked.
“Call me and find out,” Night Train said.
He made the call. He burned the top card and dealt the final community card, called the river. It was a four, another meaningless card. He’d won the hand.
“What have you got?” Night Train asked.
“Hold on. We’re not finished betting,” he said.
Night Train’s eyebrows arched suspiciously. “You’re out of chips. We don’t take checks or IOUs in this game, Mr. Real-Estate Man.”
The others laughed. Billy made a show of removing his wristwatch and tossing it into the pot. “That little baby is a Rolex Presidential eighteen-karat-gold watch with a retail value of twenty-five thousand bucks. Check it out if you don’t believe me.”
Night Train examined the watch, then passed it around the table. Assassin seemed to know a thing or two about jewelry and said, “It’s the real deal.”
Night Train tapped his fingertips on the table. Billy had tried to bluff him earlier and lost. This felt no different, and he flipped over his cards. “I call. Aces and kings.”
He showed his cards. “Three sevens. I win.”
Night Train stared in disbelief at the cards. Billy raked in the pot and counted his chips. He’d won $60,000 of the football players’ money.
“Sixty grand. Pay up.”
Night Train slowly shook his head.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“It means I don’t have the money. I’ll have to owe you.”
“You said this game didn’t take IOUs.”
“Look, man, I’m good for it. I’ll have the money wired from my bank. You’ll have it tomorrow.”
“Fair enough. You got a pen and something to write on?”
“Choo-Choo, help our friend out here,” Night Train said.
Choo-Choo fetched a ballpoint and a notepad from inside. Billy used them to write up an IOU for sixty large, which included the date, names of participants, and where the game had taken place. Up until now, they’d been playing a friendly game of poker; that was about to change in a negative way, and he stood up from his chair in case he needed to take off running, then slid the IOU and pen across the table to Night Train’s spot.
“Here you go,” he said.
Night Train lowered his head to read the IOU. As he did, Billy took out his cell phone. It was a Droid, and it had a unique feature not available on other cell phones. If the user forcefully snapped his wrist, the Droid’s photo app came to life. Lowering the cell phone to his side, he snapped his wrist below the table, then raised the phone to chest height and snapped a photograph of Night Train putting his John Hancock on the bottom of the IOU. The Droid’s flash was like a bomb going off, and Night Train leaped out of his chair. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Memorializing our agreement,” he said.
“No photographs.”
“Then how’s anyone going to know that IOU came from you?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Not really.”
Night Train came around the table. The look on his face betrayed real apprehension. “Listen, man, I’m going to be straight with you. We’re not supposed to be at Caesars right now. If that photograph ever got out, the media would destroy us and we’d all get hurt. You don’t want that to happen, do you? So just make it go away.”
“All right. But I want some collateral with this IOU,” he said.
“If I give you my father’s watch, will you erase that picture?”
“Let me see the watch first.”
Night Train retreated into the villa and returned holding an old wristwatch with a cracked leather band and a faded inscription on its back.
PRESENTED TO FRANK MCCLAIN
FOR THIRTY-FIVE YEARS OF SERVICE
1975 TO 2010
BY
THOMAS H. WILSON CO.
“My daddy gave this watch to me before he died,” Night Train said. “It’s worth more to me than all the tea in China. Is that good enough for you?”
“That works.” Billy slipped the timepiece into his pocket. Holding the Droid so Night Train could see the screen, he deleted the incriminating photo. Night Train visibly relaxed.
“Happy now?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Night Train said.
Night Train and his pals were veteran cheats and had probably never lost this much before, and he wondered how long it would take before it kicked in that they’d been swindled. He wrote down his cell phone number on the notepad and left it on the table.
“That’s my number. Call me when you have the sixt
y grand,” he said.
Then he got the hell out of there.
FOURTEEN
Billy was flying high as he left Caesars. There was an art to swindling another cheat that required a delicate level of finesse. The fact that Night Train hadn’t threatened to throw him off the balcony told Billy that he’d handled things just right.
Traffic barely moved. A show was being filmed at the LINQ Hotel and Casino, closing a lane to accommodate the production trucks. Vegas should have been a natural location for TV shows and movies, but most production companies avoided the town. The amount of red tape required to film was a nightmare and required sign-off from the dreaded gaming board.
It gave him an idea. If the production at LINQ continued, maybe he could rip the joint off. Films and movies required plenty of people and equipment, all of it a distraction to the casino’s surveillance department. Using his cell phone, he got on the Internet and typed Las Vegas film production into Google. He got a hit and followed the link to a story in the local paper. A company called Bad Dog Productions was filming a pilot called Night and Day at the LINQ starring an actress named Maggie Flynn. How ironic was that? Mags had left Vegas for the bright lights of Hollywood and, like an escaped convict, had gotten caught and sent right back. LINQ’s entrance was a block away, and he decided to pay her a visit.
LINQ was a no-frills joint, the lobby without furniture. A receptionist smiled as Billy approached, happy to have another person to talk to. “Good afternoon and welcome to LINQ.”
“Hi. I need to use a house phone,” he said.
“House phones are across from the elevators. Are you looking for someone?”
“Maggie Flynn. She’s an old friend.”
“Ms. Flynn the actress? I spoke with her a few moments ago. Would you like me to ring her room and announce your arrival?”
Maggie had done a number on him before breaking things off, and he decided to repay the favor. “That would be great. Tell her Rand Waters is here to see her.”
“Rand Waters the TV producer? I totally love your shows. Sweet and Sassy’s my fave.”
“Thank you. Those are words I never get tired of hearing.”