Super Con

by James Swain

  Native American casinos were considered soft targets among cheats. The dealers were rubes, and the heads of surveillance often got their jobs because of blood ties.

  “We think they’re part of a family called the Gypsies,” Grimes said. “They’ve been scamming the casinos for years but never caught. If I can bust the Gypsies, it will be a major feather in my cap. They’re in Vegas right now.”

  “You’ve spotted them?”

  “Two of them. They run in a pack, so we’re sure the rest are also here.”

  Mags tried to hide her discomfort. The scam Billy had asked her to be a part of involved the Gypsies. If they got taken down, Billy would certainly go down as well. She didn’t want Billy in her life, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to get hurt, either.

  Grimes jabbed the surveillance photo with his finger. “We made the short one down on Fremont Street at the Golden Gate Casino. The girl to his right was made at the Tropicana yesterday morning. We don’t know who the third one is yet, but he should be easy to spot.”

  The third member of the Gypsies in the surveillance photo had an enormous Adam’s apple and would be easy to make in a crowded casino.

  “We’ve distributed his photo all over town,” Grimes said. “The moment our friend with the bulging Adam’s apple enters a casino, the casino will call us, and we’ll come running.”

  “You’re going to bust him?”

  “Not right away. We’ll take photos and use our facial recognition software to see if he turns up on any other surveillance videos. We’re in the process of building a case against the family. When we take it to the grand jury, we want the charges to stick.”

  The gaming board busted hundreds of cheats every year, with the majority of cases being pleaded out and never going to trial. But this case was different. Grimes had a grand jury in his back pocket, which meant he’d already presented his evidence to the DA’s office and gotten their blessing to proceed and build a rock-solid case. Every so often, the DA made an example out of a cheat and put him away in prison for a long stretch. This sounded like one of those special cases, and Mags could not help feeling sorry for the Gypsies.

  Rand and Valles appeared at their table. Their arm-wrestling match was over, and they both looked satisfied with the outcome. Mags rose from her chair.

  “Good luck with your show,” Grimes said.

  “Thanks, Frank,” she said.

  Mags and her producer walked back to the trailer. Rand didn’t have the doctored shooting script in his hand, and Mags quizzed him with a glance.

  “Special Agent Valles has a nephew in LA who wants to get into directing,” Rand said. “Kid’s waiting tables till his big break comes along. I offered to help him, provided the gaming board stays out of our hair.”

  “Help him how?”

  “I’m going to arrange for him to get a directing fellowship at the American Film Institute. If the kid isn’t a total douchebag, it should lead to his getting work.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I sit on AFI’s board. I can pull a few strings and get him in.”

  “Does this kid have any talent?”

  Rand burst out laughing. “We’ll find out!”

  Mags could feel the apprehension that always came before she shot a scene. She didn’t have her lines down yet, and the fear of messing up in front of the camera was never far from her thoughts. She pecked Rand on the cheek and headed up the short flight of steps into her trailer.

  “We’re going to break early today. I’ll see you this afternoon at four,” Rand said.

  “What’s the special occasion?”

  “Special Agent Valles has agreed to give us a tour of LINQ’s surveillance room and show us how they catch cheats. It should give you real insight for your character.”

  Surveillance rooms were off-limits to everyone except for the handful of casino employees, and Mags had to believe that no hustler in town had ever been inside one.

  “How the hell did you arrange that?” she asked.

  “What can I say? I strike a hard bargain,” he said with a wink.

  EIGHTEEN

  Billy slept in and awoke at ten. Crawling out of bed, he spied his Droid wiggling like a snake on the night table. Caller ID said “Unknown.” He answered it anyway.

  “Hello.”

  “Cunningham? This is Night Train. I got your sixty K. You still got my daddy’s watch?”

  “Sorry, I lost it in a card game.”

  “That’s not funny,” his caller said.

  “Just kidding. I haven’t let it out of my sight.”

  “You like messing with people, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes. When do you want to meet up?”

  “Tuesdays are off days for the players. I’m going to rehab and then to get a massage. How about two o’clock at my digs. That work for you?”

  Night Train sounded anxious to get his father’s watch back. Or maybe he’d figured out Billy’s touch card scam and wanted to confront him. There was an urgency in his voice, and Billy realized he had Night Train right where he wanted him.

  “That works for me. Do me a favor and tell the front desk I’m coming. It will speed things up when I come back to your villa.”

  “I can do that. See you at two.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Breakfast was burned toast and coffee. Billy scrolled through e-mails on his cell phone while he ate. Most were from hustlers in town wishing to get together to talk business. Every hustler had a scam that they were working on to beat the joints. Many of these scams were designed to slowly bleed the casino, while others were heists and involved a conspiracy that often included dealers and pit bosses. None of the e-mails actually said this, but they used carefully crafted language that cloaked their author’s true meaning. Back in the days of the Mississippi riverboat gamblers, hustlers had developed a secret language that allowed them to openly talk about fleecing people without exposing themselves, and the e-mails were peppered with expressions like “rabbit hunting,” “been around the block,” and “playing both sides of the table.”

  He drained his mug. It was a great time to be a hustler, with new casinos opening up every month and his friends cooking up schemes that would net them huge paydays down the road. To each one of them, he sent back the same reply.

  “I’m doing business right now. I’ll touch base when I come up for air.”

  Time to get cleaned up. Standing beneath the shower’s hot spray, he thought about Travis. They’d talked on the phone every day, and he realized he was going to miss those conversations. Travis understood casino people, most of whom were bitter souls who harbored grudges against their employers and were easily distracted while a scam was taking place.

  But those talks were a thing of the past. By betraying Billy, Travis had set himself on the path to ruin. Travis was going to pay for his sins.

  Billy had thought long and hard on how to accomplish this and had decided the best way would be to bide his time and wait. Travis would blow the money he’d made from the Super Bowl scam just like he’d blown the money he’d made running with Billy, and then he’d look for another crew to run with. Once Travis was with another crew, Billy would contact the crew’s captain and explain what Travis had done to him and how Travis was a liability. This would put Travis in a bad light, and his days would be numbered. Travis might last another year or two, but in the end he’d get a bullet pumped into his head or antifreeze injected in his veins. That was how it worked in the grifter’s world. Rats got drowned.

  He was getting dressed when Night Train called him again.

  “Change in plans. Come by my suite at two thirty.”

  He didn’t like it when people changed times for meetings. If you set a time, you had to stick to it. Otherwise, the other party might get suspicious.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Who said anything was wrong?” Night Train said.

  “I did. You still want your old man’s watch back?”


  “What kind of question is that? Of course I want it back. Look, I’ve got some people flying into town to meet me. We’ll be done by two thirty. Then we can hook up.”

  “Like a date?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, man.”

  “Change the time again, and I’ll throw your precious watch out the window.”

  “Do that, and I’ll hunt you down.”

  “I bet you will.”

  He ended the call and continued dressing. The words were slow to sink in. When they did, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared into space. People flying into town to meet me. Wasn’t Night Train’s stay at Caesars a secret? Night Train had made it sound that way when Billy had tried to snap a photo of him signing the IOU. It didn’t smell right.

  It was time to play detective. Opening his dresser, he rummaged through his collection of binoculars that he’d used to scam suckers at poolside card games. He decided on a pair of Canon Image Stabilization binoculars. They were the latest in innovation and offered active image stabilization for superb clarity.

  Calling downstairs, he told the valet to bring up his car.

  A half hour later, he pulled into Caesars and went inside. The pool was one of the hotel’s star attractions and featured eight different swimming areas. He bribed a pool attendant into letting him rent a private cabana even though he didn’t possess a room key.

  Kicking off his shoes, he parked himself on a chaise longue. In his lap was a copy of USA Today he’d bought at the gift shop; beneath it was the binoculars. When he felt certain none of the other guests were watching, he lifted the binoculars and searched for Night Train’s villa on the other side of the pool. He spotted the crooked football player sitting on the balcony with Sammy and Choo-Choo. The three men were engaged in a heated discussion, with Night Train doing most of the talking. It wasn’t going well, and Choo-Choo disgustedly tossed a bowl of pretzels in the air.

  “Cocktails?” a female voice called out.

  He returned the binoculars to their hiding place. Caesars’s waitresses wore skimpy outfits and ponytail hairpieces like go-go dancers. Her name tag said GINGER/SAN FRANCISCO.

  “Can I interest you in a signature cocktail or an appetizer?” Ginger asked.

  “I could use a drink,” he said.

  She recited the house specialty cocktails. He picked a drink called the Rattlesnake because he liked the name, and a bowl of salted peanuts.

  “You a reporter?” she asked.

  His face reddened and he mumbled, “No.”

  “What’s with the binoculars if you’re not a reporter?”

  “I’m a private detective,” he lied.

  “My boss said if we see anything suspicious by the pool area to report it immediately.”

  “You going to report me?”

  “That all depends on you.”

  Money talked in the desert, and he stuffed a crisp C-note into the tip glass on her tray.

  “Keep going,” she said.

  “You strike a hard bargain,” he said.

  “You ain’t seen nothing, buster.”

  He stuffed another hundred into the glass, and she nodded approvingly.

  “I’ll be right back with your drink,” she said.

  The pool billed itself as being European, which meant that women went topless. While he waited for his drink, a buxom lady wearing nothing but bikini bottoms rose and strolled the pool’s perimeter, the sight spectacular enough to snap every male head and a few female heads as well. An elephant with a screaming monkey on its back could have rushed past, and no one would have cared. He whipped out the binoculars and resumed spying on Night Train’s villa.

  Night Train had company. A distinguished-looking male wearing a navy suit and a red necktie sat at the table with the football players. He had corporate written all over him and was doing the talking. If Night Train’s expression was any indication, the guest was laying some heavy news on them. The guest kept fingering his tie clasp while he spoke, and Billy focused on it with his binoculars. It was made of gold and displayed the NFL logo.

  He shifted the binoculars to Choo-Choo and Sammy. Their lips were tightly shut. Like Night Train, they didn’t like what the suit was saying, but instead of talking back, they were being good soldiers and keeping their mouths shut.

  He had seen enough and put the binoculars away. The suit was from the NFL, no doubt about that, and probably had been sent to talk with Night Train and his pals about their wayward behavior. The last thing the NFL wanted was news to leak out that a group of star players was partying at Caesars right before the Super Bowl.

  Ginger appeared with his order. “That will be thirty dollars, please.”

  He paid her and added more money to her tip glass. “Thanks for not reporting me. Does Caesars always toss suspicious-acting people they find hanging around?”

  “Heck no. We get people snooping around the property all the time,” she said. “Just last Saturday I caught a reporter from TMZ secretly videotaping a famous actress kissing a guy inside the casino. I alerted management, and they didn’t do a thing.”

  “So why this week? What’s going on that warrants tossing people?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “But you know.”

  “Of course. There are no secrets in this place. You’re not really a detective, are you?”

  “You’re right, I’m not. What tipped you off?”

  “You’re way too cute.”

  “There’s a suit from the NFL visiting the hotel right now. Who is he?”

  “Sorry, but that’s going to cost you.”

  Another hundred found its way into her tip glass.

  “His last name is Butz, first name Chester.”

  “Chester Butz, the NFL commissioner?”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  Chester Butz ran the NFL with an iron fist and did not take crap from the players. Billy was having a hard time believing the suit in Night Train’s suite was the same person. Using his cell phone, he typed Butz’s name into Google and did an image search. A montage of head shots appeared. Each matched the face of the guy talking to Night Train and his teammates.

  “Believe me now?” Ginger asked.

  “What’s Butz doing here?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  In Vegas, it was about being in the know, and it irritated Billy that Ginger knew the score while he was in the dark. She gave him a flirtatious wink.

  “See you around,” she said.

  NINETEEN

  It was time to go see Night Train. Billy left the cabana and went to the front desk, where the manager on duty had already been alerted of his pending arrival. The manager said, “Mr. McClain said you’d be coming. Do you know the way?”

  “Yes, I’ve been here before,” he said.

  While Billy took the long walk back to the villas, he tried to figure out why the head of the NFL had flown to Vegas to meet with Night Train and his teammates. There had been no agents or lawyers in attendance, which would have suggested that it was a friendly gathering, only the looks on the football players’ faces had suggested the meeting was anything but that.

  Choo-Choo greeted him at the door. “I’m not playing cards with you anymore. Night Train’s on the patio waiting for you.”

  He made his way back to the patio. Night Train sat at the head of the table with a shopping bag before him. He guessed the bag contained his winnings and took a chair.

  “Want something to drink?” Night Train asked.

  “I’m good,” he said.

  Night Train slid the loot toward him. He opened the bag and had a look inside. Money made the world go round, and there was enough inside the bag to make it go around several times. From his pocket he removed Night Train’s father’s watch and placed it on the table.

  “Here you go.”

  “Don’t you want to count your money?”

  “I just did.”

  “You’re a hustler, aren’t
you?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  Night Train picked up the watch and gazed at the inscription on the back. It was a cheap watch, but that didn’t diminish its value. Night Train’s old man had toiled for years to earn that watch, and his son kept it to be reminded of the sacrifices his father had made.

  “I’ve been beaten at cards before, but never so quickly,” Night Train said. “You cheated us.”

  “Takes one to know one,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You rang in a cooler on me, and I spotted it and spilled my drink on the cards.”

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

  Night Train’s cell phone rang. The famous football player cursed and dug through his pockets. Out came a fancy alligator-skin wallet, which was dropped onto the table, followed by the cell phone, which Night Train answered. He frowned and rose from the table.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Night Train went into the villa and shut the door, leaving Billy to wait. Night Train’s denial didn’t shock him; the first rule of getting caught cheating was to deny it and make the accuser prove the allegation. Most people didn’t have the courage and would back down.

  Ringing in a cooler during a card game required skill and timing, plus stacking the deck to be switched into the game. If one card was out of order in the stack, the scam wouldn’t work, and the victim might end up winning the money. Hustlers who used coolers relied on formulas to set up the cards. These formulas were written down and kept hidden in the hustler’s wallet. During the game, the hustler would take a bathroom break and use the time away from the table to set up the deck to be switched in. The formula would calculate the game that was being played, along with the number of players, thus ensuring that the hustler got the money.

  Every hustler who employed coolers used formulas to stack the deck, and Billy had to believe that Night Train did as well. The formula was written on a piece of paper in the event there was trouble during the game and the hustler had to get rid of the evidence. This was done by crunching the formula into a ball and swallowing it.