Super Con

by James Swain

  “We were made to work together. I know it, and so do you.”

  Normally, he would have never had this conversation while on a job. But he’d decided it was now or never. If Mags didn’t join now, she’d leave town and he’d never see her again, and he didn’t think he could live with that. He wanted another chance to make things right and see what might happen. And he was willing to split the money just to give it a shot.

  She rose from the table. “The only thing I know right now is that I need a nice long vacation when this is over. You’re going to have to wait for your answer.”

  “Take all the time you need,” he said.

  “I will.”

  And with that, she entered the casino.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The last two stops on the victory tour were the Mirage and Aria. As with the three previous stops, the pit bosses were new to their jobs, and Mags painted the high cards at single-deck games in each casino without drawing any heat.

  They drove back to Billy’s place so Mags could pick up her car from the valet. Mags sensed that Billy wanted an answer, only she wasn’t prepared to make a commitment just yet. She needed to let her head clear before she jumped back into a life of thievery.

  Billy parked in front of the empty valet stand.

  “Does the valet have another business on the side he’s running?” she asked.

  “Everybody in this place has another business on the side,” he said.

  “When am I going to see my money?”

  “How about tomorrow night? I can drop by and deliver it, take you out to dinner.”

  And work her over some more.

  “Call me first,” she said.

  Mags drove to LINQ. She needed to collect her things from her suite and check out of the hotel. It was going to be tough leaving the life of a TV actress behind, but she could handle it. She’d walked arm in arm with bad luck and trouble for most of her life and had gotten used to the special brand of misery they created.

  She checked out at the front desk and said good-bye to the receptionist. Going outside, she pulled her wheeled suitcase to the curb where the valet had parked her car. Rand, her betrayer, stood a few yards away, chatting on his cell phone. Every man she’d ever known had done a number on her at one time or another; it seemed to be part of the male genetic makeup. But Rand was the ultimate destroyer of dreams, and she got right in his face.

  “Hey, asshole.”

  “Hold on a second,” Rand said to whoever he was talking to. “There you are. What’s with the crazy getup? You look like a street person.”

  Mags snatched the cell phone out of his hand and gave it a heave. It landed on the concrete with a sickening crash, its face going dark. Rand yelped like he’d been kicked.

  “That was the head of CBS I was talking to!”

  “You crummy shit, I should cut your balls off!”

  “What’s come over you? You’re acting like a demon.”

  “How do you expect me to act? You cancel the show and run out, and don’t even have the courtesy to tell me? You are the most two-faced bastard I’ve ever met.”

  “Who said the show was cancelled?”

  “It’s not?”

  “Hell no!” He paused to make sure she wasn’t going to attack him, then said, “We have a date with destiny, Mags. You and me.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Not here. I’ll tell you in a nicer setting, where we can celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “You’re going to be a star, my friend. And I’m going to be able to tell people that I was there when it happened.”

  Guy Fieri’s Vegas Kitchen & Bar had a respectable lunch crowd. Rand got them seated at a booth next to the window and ordered the signature Tattooed Mojitos and a plate of sliders.

  “Why did you run out on me?” she said, in no mood for games.

  “I got a call from the head honchos at CBS two days ago, telling me to jump on a plane and get back to LA on the double,” he said. “I figured they were going to drop the ax and cancel the show. It’s not the first time it’s happened to me.”

  “You could have told me that before.”

  “Wait, it gets better.”

  The drinks came, and he clinked his glass against hers and took a mighty sip. “Boy, that tastes good. Where was I? Oh right, in LA with the boys at CBS. I walk into a huge meeting room, and there are six of them huddled around a desk like a bunch of squirrels. They rush me, and I think, what’s going on? Are you going to leave your drink? It’s really tasty.”

  “Cut to the chase,” she said.

  “You don’t look happy. What’s wrong?”

  She nearly stuck a fork into his face, just to see if he’d bleed. “Everything’s wrong. Now tell me what the hell’s going on before I mutilate you.”

  “That’s funny. Okay, so the boys at CBS are shaking my hand and making nice. It’s a real love-in. And one of them says, ‘She’s amazing, Rand. We watched the tape of her doing the Savannah move and were blown away. Where did you find her?’ I told them that I met you playing poker and that you cleaned me out. That sealed the deal.”

  “What deal? What are you talking about?”

  “You sure you don’t want your drink?”

  Mags pushed her untouched glass across the table. Rand lifted it to his lips and took a healthy gulp. “Boy, that tastes good.”

  “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to poke your eye out.”

  “I was just getting to that part. It seems the boys at CBS weren’t sold on Night and Day. The plot was a little too esoteric for them, if you can believe that. They were planning to run the pilot next summer to see if anyone watched it. That all changed when they saw you doing the Savannah move. You rocked their world, Mags.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes! Strong female characters are driving broadcast TV, and you’re as strong as they come. They’ve cleared a slot in next fall’s lineup for the show. Tuesday night, nine to ten p.m. It doesn’t get any better than that. You’re going to be a major star, Maggie.”

  “If the show’s still on, why did you fire the crew?”

  “Not my call. The boys at CBS want a seasoned crew, so they instructed me to let everyone go, including that idiot director and screenwriter. They’re bringing on a whole new gang with tons of experience. We’re starting from scratch.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “In Hollywood it is.”

  Her head was spinning. Instead of pinching herself, she took her drink back and saw the glass was empty. Rand signaled the waiter for another round.

  “They liked me?”

  “They loved you.”

  “You’d better not be pulling a fast one.”

  “Come on, you know me better than that.”

  “Why didn’t you call me? Or send me a text? Why the radio silence?”

  “I wanted to tell you in person and see the look on your face. Texts are too impersonal, don’t you think?”

  Mags said nothing. She wanted to believe him, only his words weren’t ringing true. Her cell phone beeped in her purse, and she pulled it out. Amber had sent a text, saying she’d gotten home safe and what a great time she’d had. The message nearly made her cry.

  “You thought I’d left you high and dry?” Rand said. “Never in a thousand years would I do that to you. That day you fleeced me at poker, I knew you were special. That’s why I worked so hard to sell you to CBS. It’s the one network that appreciates talent.”

  The next round came. Mags took a healthy gulp of her drink. The alcohol hit her stomach like a hand grenade and made her nostrils burn.

  “They ordered twelve one-hour episodes,” he said. “You’ll be paid fifty thousand per episode, which works out to a cool six hundred grand. Not bad for a newbie actress.”

  It all sounded great, but it still didn’t change the fact that Rand had run out on her. What if the honchos at CBS had told Rand that Mags had zero talent?
Would the smooth-talking prick have bothered to fly back to Vegas to break the bad news? She didn’t think so. Instead, he would have left her high and dry, gone onto his next project, and wiped her from his memory. She pulled off her wig and tossed it on the table.

  “Tell them I want more money,” she said.

  “What? You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m dead serious. Tell them I want seventy grand an episode.”

  “Maggie, please, that’s not how the business works.”

  “Do it anyway. You can use my cell phone.”

  She gave him her cell phone and Rand made the call.

  “You’re way out of line, you know that?” he said as the call went through.

  “What else is new?” she said.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Like a play, cheating a casino had three distinct acts. The beginning, the middle, and the end.

  In the first act, the cheat sat down at a game and pretended to be a sucker. Since 99 percent of players in a casino were suckers, this was relatively easy and required little more than the cheat yucking it up and having a good time.

  In the second act, the cheat turned the tables on the casino and began to win. This was when the play became complicated. The cheat needed to stay in character and give the casino the false impression that his winnings would be returned in short order.

  In the final act, the cheat walked away with the casino’s dough. In many ways, this was the hardest act of all, for it was totally out of character for anyone who gambled to quit while ahead. Gamblers lived for lucky streaks, and a winning gambler rarely quit.

  Night Train and his buddies knew these things. They’d been cheating at poker for years, and a poker scam was structured the same as a casino scam, with three distinct acts. This was why Billy believed the football players would pull through with the super con.

  After parting with Mags, Billy took the elevator to his condo and donned a new disguise. This time, he opted for jeans, a lime green polo shirt, a navy blazer with mother-of-pearl buttons, and cowboy boots that made him three inches taller. Cotton balls were shoved into both sides of his mouth to widen his face. To further trick the cameras, he treated his hair with a product called Caboki. Derived from a plant, Caboki instantly bonded to his existing hair and erased any visible spots in his scalp. His hair looked like a lion’s mane.

  He applied gel and spiked it. The face in the mirror didn’t look anything like the guy who’d just helped Maggie Flynn paint cards in five MGM casinos.

  In his dresser were a dozen pairs of shades, ranging from cheap to expensive. He chose a pair of Ray-Ban Predators. Dark sunglasses were needed to read luminous marks, the darker the better. Some cheats preferred shaded contact lenses, but Billy had found that they impaired his vision.

  He got a call from Night Train. Yesterday at the villa, he’d instructed Night Train to stop communicating via phone calls until the super con was over. It had obviously escaped Night Train’s memory.

  “We finished practice early. Coaches had us in full pads in this heat. Guys were passing out,” Night Train said. “I was just calling to see if the blackjack scam was all set.”

  “It is indeed,” Billy said. “Do yourself a favor and don’t call me anymore. If we get caught, the police will confiscate our cell phones and look at our calls. If they see we’ve been talking, we’re screwed. We’ll communicate by text message from now on. When we’re done, you erase the texts, and the evidence disappears.”

  “That’s smart. You know all the angles, don’t you?”

  “It’s all in the details. Hang up, and I’ll send you the schedule.”

  The call ended. Billy sent a text to Night Train with the names of the five MGM properties they were going to rob, along with the times Night Train and his teammates needed to arrive at the casinos.

  Luxor 4:00 p.m.

  MGM 6:30 p.m.

  MB 9:00 p.m.

  Mirage 11:30 p.m.

  Aria 2:00 a.m.

  Night Train sent him a reply. Got it. Will you be in disguise?

  Smart question. Billy took a selfie and sent it to Night Train. This is what I look like. I’ll be standing by the blackjack game that we’re going to scam.

  Who you want at each casino? Night Train replied.

  Your call

  He waited a minute to see if Night Train needed any more clarification. Mags telling him about the baseball players screwing up her play in Atlantic City had planted a seed of doubt in his mind, and that was never a good thing.

  All good? he texted back.

  Another minute passed.

  Yeah, we’re good, Night Train finally replied.

  Where did you go?

  Had to take another call

  He started to steam. He had half a mind to walk away and not look back. Only millions of dollars were waiting to be stolen from Luxor, Mandalay Bay, MGM Grand, the Mirage, and Aria, and he was willing to work with dumb jocks to make it happen.

  No problem, he texted back.

  Luxor was their first target. At 3:40, Billy parked in the two-story garage behind the hotel and strolled down a covered walkway to the rear entrance. Taking an escalator to the casino, he got a beer at the bar and headed over to the blackjack pit. The casino was quiet, and he took a chair at a slot machine across from the rigged blackjack game and slapped on his Ray-Bans. It was like having X-ray vision, and he knew exactly what the dealer was holding.

  At four o’clock, one of the football players would appear and start playing blackjack. It would take roughly ninety minutes to steal the desired amount. Once the money was won, he’d head down the street to the MGM for the six-thirty start, steal their money, walk to Mandalay Bay, scam them, then retrieve his car and hit the Mirage, then drive to Aria. By early tomorrow morning, they would have seventeen million bucks of casino money. It got him excited just thinking about it.

  By 4:10, none of the football players had arrived.

  What’s going on? he texted Night Train.

  Sammy’s on his way, Night Train replied.

  What’s the holdup?

  A commotion lifted his head. Sammy had arrived with all the bluster of a professional wrestler entering the ring and was stopping to sign autographs. Billy got out of his chair and took his position next to the blackjack game with the painted cards.

  Sammy spotted him and sauntered over. His legs were wobbly, and he grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself. Right then Billy realized the problem. Sammy was drunker than a sailor on a navy payday. Sit down before you fall down, he thought.

  “Hey!” Sammy said.

  A small mob of people had gathered around the table, and the remark could have been directed at anyone. Billy played stupid and sipped his beer.

  “This table?” Sammy asked.

  Billy nearly ran. But that would have drawn suspicion, and right now, no one else in the casino knew the game was rigged. He decided to use that to his advantage and salvage the situation. “Sit down and enjoy yourself,” he replied.

  The crowd laughed. A sloppy grin creased Sammy’s face.

  “I think I will,” the big Samoan said.

  At first, the scam went like clockwork. Sammy lost every hand by making boneheaded decisions, just like Billy had instructed him to do the day before. Then came the critical part when Sammy asked the pit boss to raise the table limit. Billy gave him the chin.

  “Got it,” Sammy said.

  Again, the remark caused no problems. Sammy asked the dealer to summon the pit boss. A man wearing a tailored suit came to the table and introduced himself as the pit boss.

  “I’m losing my ass. Can you raise the limits?” Sammy asked.

  Each shift was judged by the amount of money it made. Sammy was about to put the shift ahead, or so the pit boss mistakenly thought. “How about a minimum thousand-dollar bet, maximum twenty thousand,” the pit boss suggested.

  The crowd oohed and aahed. This was big time.

  “Works for me,” Sammy replied.

  T
he table had a small LED display with the table limit displayed in red digital numbers. The pit boss punched the buttons and changed the limits to $1,000–$20,000.

  “Good luck,” the pit boss said.

  Sammy made a twenty-thousand-dollar bet and the dealer dealt the round. Using his glasses, Billy read the dealer’s cards and saw a weak hand. With the beer bottle, he signaled Sammy to take a card. Sammy said, “Hit me,” and was dealt a ten, giving him a total of nineteen. Billy gave the signal to stand pat. Sammy said, “I’m good.”

  The dealer showed his hand, a seventeen, a loser. The crowd cheered.

  Within twenty minutes, Sammy had half a million dollars of the house’s money. The crowd was now five deep, with people straining to see. A cute cocktail waitress appeared and placed a hand on Sammy’s shoulder.

  “Can I interest you in a drink?” she asked.

  “Gimme a rum and Coke,” Sammy said.

  Billy smelled a rat. The rap against the Luxor was the sparse number of cocktail waitresses, and his gut told him the cute cocktail waitress had been sent over by the pit boss. Soon she would return with a drink made with 150-proof rum and light on the Coke, aka a mickey. And before you knew it, it would be lights out for the big Samoan. It was one way to stop a winning streak, and the casinos did it constantly.

  It was decision time. End the play or keep stealing until the final curtain went down. Greedy bastard that he was, he decided to keep stealing.

  The cute cocktail waitress returned holding Sammy’s beverage on a tray. Billy considered tripping her but couldn’t get close enough.

  The glass was huge and contained a lot of booze. The pit boss wasn’t taking chances. The bloodshed had to be stopped, one way or another.

  Sammy sucked the beverage down like a runner on a hot summer day. A magical look spread across his broad face. Billy stepped back, knowing what was about to happen.

  “Place your bets,” the dealer said.

  As Sammy reached for chips, he froze, his eyelids flickering like a dying light bulb before closing. Pitching forward, his body hit the table and he slid to the floor. A Good Samaritan rushed to his aid and attempted to revive him.