Super Con

by James Swain

  He glanced through the glass door into the villa. Night Train was still talking on his cell phone. Reaching across the table, he picked up Night Train’s wallet and did a quick search. Every fancy men’s wallet had a secret compartment that was nothing more than a clever fold of leather; Night Train’s wallet was no different, and he extracted a slip of paper and unfolded it. As he’d expected, it contained Night Train’s winning formula for seven-card stud, the same game in which Night Train had switched decks and tried to cheat him.

  Night Train was finishing his call. Billy placed the formula beneath the wallet so it was hidden from view. Night Train returned to the patio and took his seat at the table.

  “Where were we?” the famous football player said.

  “You were denying that you used a cooler on me yesterday.”

  “I never cheated anybody in my life, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

  The best way to catch a cheat was to paint him into a corner with his own lies. Billy reached across the table and dramatically lifted the fancy wallet off the formula.

  “What are you carrying this formula in your wallet for? Shits and giggles?”

  Night Train was not going down without a fight. “Give me a break, man. That’s a game the team plays during trips. I wrote it down because it’s complicated, that’s all.”

  “Nice try. Actually, it’s the stack you used in our game. There’s a code written across the top for easy reference: 6612. The first number tells you how many hands the deck is stacked for. In this case, it’s a six, which is how many players we had.

  “The second number in the code tells you which hand will be the winner. That number is six, the last hand, which happened to be yours.

  “The third number in the code tells you the strength of the winning hand. One is a four of a kind, two is a full house, three is a flush, four is a straight, and five is three of a kind. The third number in the formula is a one, meaning the winning hand will be a four of a kind.

  “The last number tells you which player will get fleeced. In this case the number is two, the second player to the dealer’s left, my seat. I was supposed to get a full house and bet all my money thinking it was a winner. Only things didn’t work out the way you planned.”

  Night Train stared at the formula before meeting Billy’s gaze.

  “You’re good.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  “How long you been in the rackets?”

  “Since I was fifteen. You?”

  “Twelve. My father ran crooked card games in our basement and taught me the ropes. So how the hell did you cheat us, anyway?”

  “I bought a few decks from the hotel gift shop and doctored the edges with a nail file. Then I convinced the girl working the counter to take the doctored decks back.”

  “So when I had the concierge bring up a couple of decks, he brought decks from the gift shop. That’s sweet. I didn’t suspect a thing.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  Night Train took the news in stride; he’d been beaten at his own game and wasn’t afraid to admit it. Billy pushed the paper bag across the table to his host, who acted surprised.

  “I don’t want your money,” he said. “But I do want to talk to you and your teammates. I have a business proposition for you.”

  Night Train scratched his chin. “And what would that be?”

  “I want you to fix the Super Bowl.”

  “You’re crazy. The league constantly watches for fixes. We’d all go down.”

  “No, we won’t. I want to fix some prop bets. The game’s outcome won’t be affected.”

  “Hey man, don’t think the players haven’t discussed fixing prop bets. Problem is, you don’t know who’s going to get the ball first.”

  “I have that covered. The coin toss will be rigged.”

  “Meaning you’ve got the head referee in your back pocket. Well, that’s an interesting angle. Our kicker always boots the opening kickoff out of the end zone, which takes special teams out of the picture. The defense could then commit the game’s first penalty from scrimmage and suffer the first injury, and no one would be the wiser. I like it. For the sake of argument, let’s say I get my boys to agree to your fix. What’s our take?”

  The deal that Billy had struck with Broken Tooth was that Night Train and his pals would receive four million to fix the game. But Billy had decided he didn’t like those terms. Broken Tooth couldn’t be trusted to hold up his end of the bargain, leaving Billy with little choice but to cut Broken Tooth out and offer Night Train a more lucrative arrangement.

  “Half,” the young hustler said.

  “Half of what?”

  “Of every bet we place with the Vegas sports books. Since I don’t know what the line on the prop bets is, I can only guess.”

  “Try me.”

  “Seven and a half million.”

  “You’re going to give us half of seven and a half million bucks?”

  “No, your take will be seven and a half million, give or take a few hundred grand. You’ll get a full accounting of every bet and every payoff. After the money is collected, your share will be wired to an offshore bank account, which I assume you have. Sound good to you?”

  “I’d like to see some good faith money first. It will help me sell this to my boys.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “A hundred grand apiece up front.”

  “Five hundred thousand bucks. I can do that.”

  Night Train flashed a smile. Billy had said all the right things. The famous football player rose from the table and escorted his guest through the villa to the front door.

  “Do we have a deal?” Billy asked.

  “I’m sold, but my boys will need convincing,” Night Train said. “They usually do what I say, but I still need to say it. Clete and Assassin are playing golf and won’t be back until later. Let me huddle up and discuss. When do you need an answer?”

  “Tonight. Sooner if possible.”

  “I’ll call you once I have things nailed down.”

  They shook hands. It was how business deals were done between hustlers—no contracts or fancy lawyers in pinstripes, just a pumping of the flesh.

  “One more thing,” Night Train said. “I want you to teach me how you doctored the cards. I’d like to use that.”

  “You got it,” Billy said.

  He took the Strip home. It was late, and the sun had started to descend. As it did, partiers appeared on the Strip’s wide sidewalks like predators beginning their daily hunt. Rain or shine, the ritual was always the same; with daylight’s passing, the real adventure began.

  Traffic crawled. Casino billboards ran continuous loops of the acts playing in their showrooms. Singers came and went, but it was the magic acts and impersonators who hung around the longest, their illusions more in keeping with the false dreams of wealth that the casinos pushed upon their customers. “Caller Unknown” lit up his cell phone’s screen. It was a fifty-buck fine to talk while driving. He decided to risk it.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Broken Tooth. Did you get this thing nailed down?”

  “I just left Night Train’s villa. Night Train is on board but needs to talk to his teammates and convince them. We’re going to talk later and finalize the deal.”

  “Night Train the boss. The others will go along, don’t you think?”

  “They should. There’s been one change in plans. Night Train wants five hundred thousand in good faith money. I told him yes.”

  Broken Tooth cursed up a storm at this unexpected change in plans. Billy smiled into the cell phone. The fact that Broken Tooth was going to get cut out of the deal didn’t mean that the Chinese gangster shouldn’t pay for Night Train and his pals’ signing bonuses. To Billy’s way of thinking, this was only fair, considering the crap Broken Tooth was putting him through.

  “You think I’ve got that kind of money lying around?” Broken Tooth yelled.

  “You want me to call him, te
ll him the deal’s off?” Billy said.

  “I’ll get money, but if you pull a stunt like this again, I’ll put a bullet in your driver’s head. You want that?”

  “No.”

  “Then stop pulling shit with me.”

  Leon’s life was on the line, and Billy needed to be careful. “Speaking of my driver, how’s he holding up?”

  “Your driver’s got a big mouth. Real asshole.”

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “My bodyguards stuck his head in toilet and he nearly drowned. Guess he didn’t know how to hold his breath. You want to talk to him? He sitting right here.”

  “Hey Billy, how’s it going?” a weakened Leon said moments later.

  “You don’t sound good,” Billy said, regretting the exchange with Broken Tooth.

  “I’ve been better. You really think you can pull this thing off?”

  “I’m sure going to try.”

  “Give me some odds.”

  “I’d say I’ve got a sixty-forty shot at making it happen.”

  “I can live with that.”

  Broken Tooth came back on the line. “I’ll call you later to hear how things are going. Don’t let me down, Cunningham.”

  “I’m going to make this happen. Just don’t kill my driver,” he said.

  A bicycle cop appeared in his side mirror, pedaling fast. The sheriff’s department maintained hundreds of hidden surveillance cameras on the Strip, the cops doing their best to keep order. He pulled his registration and proof of insurance out of the glove compartment.

  “I’m about to get a ticket for talking on my cell phone. Talk to you later.”

  TWENTY

  “Cut!”

  Mags stopped in midsentence to stare at her director, a spoiled Hollywood brat named Hudson, Hud for short. Hud had a neatly trimmed goatee and an effeminate silver earring that she would have enjoyed ripping off his pink earlobe. They were on the twelfth take of a scene that a high school senior could have shot on a cell phone.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re feeling,” Hud said.

  “I’m feeling exhausted, that’s what I’m feeling.”

  “I mean in the scene. You’re a blank canvas. I need emotion, Mags.”

  She nodded tiredly. The scene called for her to walk across the floor of a busy casino while juggling two simultaneous calls on her cell phone. The first call was to her teenage daughter, with whom she was having a heated argument, the second to her meathead partner, who was constantly screwing up and the source of continual irritation. At the scene’s end, she would spy a casino patron dropping a slug in a slot machine and arrest him.

  The scene had seemed easy when she’d read the script; now, not so much. She didn’t have another actor to play off and was struggling to stay in character.

  “What are you feeling?” Hud asked.

  “I don’t have a clue. Why don’t you give me a hint,” she said.

  “You’ve run out of patience with your bitchy daughter, whom you suspect of slipping out at night to go clubbing with her hot boyfriend, and you’d like to take your male chauvinist pig of a partner and close a door on his head. That sound about right?”

  “Anger and frustration.”

  “There you go. Let’s take it from the top.”

  Mags retreated to her starting point. A ponytailed grip stepped in front of her and held up a small board so it faced the camera. “Night and Day, take thirteen, walking through the casino,” the grip announced.

  “Action,” Hud said.

  She raised the cell phone to her face and started walking toward the camera. If the pilot bombed, she’d have to go back to hustling suckers. She’d just as soon paint houses, and she played back Hud’s advice. Bitchy kid, asshole partner. That shouldn’t be too hard.

  “Now you listen to me,” she said to her imaginary daughter. “I know what you’re up to, and I want it to stop. You can’t be going to clubs when you should be home studying. Hold on, I’ve got another call.” Without breaking stride, she punched a button on her phone that allowed her to switch calls. To her imaginary partner she said, “Speak of the devil. Look, Jake, I’m sick of covering for you every time you go on a bender and miss work. Get your sorry ass over here.” Ending the call, she punched the button and returned to her daughter. “You still there? Good. Now here’s the deal. If I catch you skipping out again, you’re grounded for six months.”

  She halted at a spot on the carpet with an X made of silver duct tape. The camera was a few feet away, doing a close-up. She put on her best pissed-off mother’s face, then pretended to see a cheating patron putting a slug into a slot machine and said, “I need to run. I’ll bring pizza home for dinner. Good-bye.”

  “Cut!” Arms extended, Hud came out of his chair. “Perfect—perfect! That’s what I call acting. Mark my words, you’re going to be a star.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” she said.

  Filming a TV show was exhausting, and Mags went to her trailer and lay down on a cot. Amber was arriving tonight, and she wanted to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when her daughter stepped off the plane. A tapping on the door lifted her eyebrows.

  “Come on in.”

  Rand entered wearing his best smile. The first time they’d met, Mags had fleeced Rand at poker. Instead of getting pissed, Rand had turned on the charm and offered her work. He was a phony, through and through, but he was her phony, so she put up with him.

  “Hud said you were fantastic,” Rand said.

  “Doing the best I can. What’s up?”

  “We have a date with the gaming board. They’re going to give us a tour of the surveillance control room of LINQ’s casino.”

  “I’m beat. Why don’t you go, let me get some rest?”

  “No can do. You’re playing a gaming agent in the show, and you need to see what these people actually do. Come on, it will be a good learning experience.”

  “But I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, the gaming board is the key to our show’s success. If they decide they don’t like us, we’ll have to switch locations.” A plastic bag dangled in his hand, which he placed on the cot. “This was delivered by courier, courtesy of Special Agent Grimes. There was a note asking that I personally give it to you.”

  She sat up and had a look inside the bag. The breath caught in her throat.

  “What is it?” her producer asked.

  “A chip tray,” she said.

  “And what is a chip tray?”

  Casinos gave chip trays to customers who purchased large amounts of chips, making it easier for the customer to carry around the chips, as opposed to stuffing them in their pockets.

  The chip tray Grimes had couriered over had five tubes designed to hold twenty chips, a hundred chips in all. This was the standard size for every Vegas casino. The tray in her hands was altered. Each tube had been ground out with a router so it could accommodate an additional chip.

  Mags had once lived in an apartment on the south end of town. Down the hall lived a Mexican girl named Louisa who worked as a cashier at Circus Circus. One night they’d gotten drunk on cheap wine, and Mags had persuaded Louisa to steal a chip tray and bring it home. The next night, Mags had gaffed the tray while explaining the scam to her new partner.

  Louisa would keep the tray at her station in the cage. Mags would enter the casino and approach the cage when things were quiet, then pass $2,500 through the bars to Louisa. Louisa would exchange the money for a hundred green chips, which were worth twenty-five dollars apiece. But instead of putting twenty green chips into each tube, Louisa would put twenty-one.

  Mags would visit the ladies’ room with the tray, enter a stall, and deposit the five stolen chips into her purse. Then she’d enter the casino and play a slot machine. After an hour, she’d exchange the chips at the cage and leave $125 ahead.

  The scam shouldn’t have worked, yet it did. Every transaction i
nside the cage was videotaped and scrutinized. Only the dopes working surveillance thought a chip tray could hold only a hundred chips, so the scam flew right by them.

  They’d pulled the scam twice a week for a year. Mags called it the Rent Scam, since the money went to covering their monthly rent. Every scam had a shelf life, and Mags had decided to retire the scam while they still were ahead.

  Or so she’d thought.

  If the gaffed tray was any indication, Louisa had found a partner and continued the scam until she got caught. That was how the gaffed tray had ended up in Grimes’s possession.

  But how had Frank tied the scam to her? Had Louisa grown a tail and ratted out Mags? That was the logical explanation, and since any videos of the theft from Circus Circus were long gone, Grimes had sent Mags the tray just to rattle her cage.

  Frank was being a prick. Nothing new there.

  A garbage pail sat in the corner of the trailer. The gaffed tray made a loud bang before falling inside. Mags checked her makeup in the vanity and went to the door.

  “Are you going to explain?” Rand asked.

  “There’s nothing to explain,” she said. “Let’s go see what the inside of a surveillance room looks like, shall we?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Back when the mob ran Vegas, lifeguard chairs could be found on casino floors, in which sat cigar-smoking gangsters who’d stared down at the tables, trying to catch cheats. After the corporations took over the town, these chairs were replaced with catwalks, letting security experts with binoculars watch the action through two-way mirrors in the ceiling.

  Over time, cameras replaced catwalks. These cameras had pan-tilt-zoom lenses and were wired to the casino’s surveillance room, where heavily caffeinated techs sat zombielike in front of monitors, hoping to nail a bad guy. These surveillance rooms were also above casinos, on floors with restricted access.

  This arrangement had changed with modern casinos. Today’s surveillance rooms were in basements and had special cooling systems so the equipment ran properly. They also had their own elevators, which eliminated any social contact with the casino’s employees.