Super Con

by James Swain

  A cocktail waitress appeared with a tray of shots. She served the four men at the table.

  “These are on me,” Mel said.

  Night Train took the shot, happy to play along. The four men clinked glasses and knocked back their drinks. Mel didn’t need any more liquor in him, his face so red that he appeared ready to explode. Mel dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Is it true you’re going to retire?”

  The words hit a nerve. Night Train scowled and put down his shot glass. “That’s just a rumor. Don’t go spreading that shit around.”

  “But I heard it on ESPN,” Mel said.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear on ESPN.”

  “You’re saying ESPN made it up? You know what they say, where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. Did ESPN find out you were retiring and decide to spill the beans? Come on, you can tell us the truth.”

  Mel and his buddies leaned in like a gang of schoolyard chums. It was all good fun, or so they thought. Night Train’s expression turned to menace. “Drop it. Right now.”

  “Whoa,” Mel said, feigning surprise. “Don’t get scary on us, big guy.”

  “You’re talking about my personal life. Let it go.”

  “No need to threaten. We’re just interested, that’s all.”

  “I answered your question. Now shut up.”

  Mel acted hurt and let the alcohol get a hold of his tongue. “What happened? Did your body quit on you? Happens to the best of them, pal.”

  The dealer dealt the round. Night Train was boiling and stared at his cards.

  “Winners never quit, and quitters never win,” Mel said.

  “I won’t ask you again,” Night Train said.

  Mel said it again, and his buddies started laughing. Night Train’s left fist shot out. Pop, pop, pop, it went, smacking Mel and his buddies on the jaw. Not a full punch, just a jab, but delivered with such accuracy and lightning speed that it sent each man sprawling to the floor.

  “Police! Somebody call the police!” Mel screamed, holding his face.

  Billy started backing up. He should have listened to his gut and called off the play after the bad scenes at the Luxor and the MGM Grand. But greed had gotten the best of him.

  Leaving the pit, he began to jog. Because Night Train had assaulted three patrons, Mirage’s security was required to review the game’s surveillance tapes. They would look at the events leading up to the altercation, and they’d also scrutinize Night Train’s play. They would see that Night Train had deviated from basic strategy several times, yet come out on the winning end. They would realize they’d been cheated, even if they didn’t know how.

  Night Train’s life was about to be turned upside down.

  The Mirage’s self-parking garage was on the north side of the hotel. Billy tossed his sunglasses over the wall and was starting to get into his car when two uniformed security guards caught up with him. They had their batons out and meant business.

  “Put your arms up,” a security guard ordered him.

  Billy raised his arms and was patted down. “What did I do?”

  A smack in the back of the head had him seeing stars.

  “Shut up and start walking,” the security guard said.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Being a celebrity had its privileges.

  In casino parlance, to backroom a person meant to place an undesirable patron in a small, windowless room while the casino’s security decided the next steps to be taken.

  The Mirage had two such rooms. Mel and his two buddies were put in one, while Billy and Night Train were placed in the other. To dissuade Night Train and Billy from talking, a muscle-bound security guard named Clyde occupied the room as well.

  Casino security was on the low end of the food chain. Not able to pass the entrance exam to become a cop, they toiled in the casinos, earning lousy pay and getting zero respect. As a result, most security guards had bad attitudes. Clyde was an exception and seemed to like his work. He was also a die-hard football fan and would have washed Night Train’s feet if asked. They talked football for a few minutes before Night Train requested a cold bottle of water.

  “I can do that,” Clyde said. “How about your friend?”

  “You want something?” Night Train asked.

  Billy declined. Clyde walked out of the room, leaving them alone.

  “Room bugged?” Night Train whispered.

  “Uh-huh. You’re going to need a good lawyer,” Billy whispered back.

  “I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “Yes you do. If they decide to arrest us, don’t talk to the cops.”

  Night Train laughed under his breath. He was so full of himself that he actually believed he could punch out three guys in a casino and not get charged. Maybe in his hometown he could get away with assault, but it wasn’t going to fly in Vegas. The casinos were the city’s lifeblood, and patrons who broke laws inside them were punished for their transgressions.

  “Cops won’t arrest me. Not part of the script,” Night Train said.

  “What are you talking about? What script?”

  “The script that calls for a happy ending as the baton is passed and everybody walks away a winner. That script.”

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

  “You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

  “I get reminded of that every day. What script? Come on, man, tell me.”

  The door opened, and Clyde entered holding a bottled water.

  “Bet you a hundred bucks nothing happens to me,” Night Train said.

  “You’re on,” Billy said.

  The minutes morphed into hours. Clyde ran out of memorable sporting events to talk about and lapsed into silence. The rattle of the air conditioner blowing through the clogged ceiling vent soon became torturous. The walkie-talkie clipped to Clyde’s belt came to life.

  Clyde took the call and hung up. “Judgment day, gentlemen. Let’s go.”

  Soon they were riding in a service elevator to the third floor of the casino. The doors parted, and they marched down a hallway lined with the offices of company executives. Night Train smoothed down his hair as he walked.

  “See. No cops,” Night Train said.

  “Let me guess. Cops aren’t part of the script,” Billy said.

  “You catch on fast.”

  A pair of polished double doors awaited them. They entered a conference room with an oval table surrounded by leather chairs. A gang of suits stood by the windows, framed by the blinking neon skyline.

  “It’s been an honor. Good luck next Sunday,” Clyde said before departing.

  Billy counted four suits. None wore badges or the trademark cheap haircuts that defined the town’s gaming agents.

  “Hey Cutler, fancy seeing you here,” Night Train said.

  One of the suits came forward. Tall and broad-shouldered with a receding hairline, he had the harried expression of a man at the end of his wits. “Excuse my French, but you are one stupid son of a bitch.”

  “What did I do?” Night Train asked innocently.

  “You cheated the Mirage along with your friend here,” the suit said.

  “Me? Cheat? Stop talking nonsense.”

  “I’d suggest you sit down. Both of you.”

  Billy and Night Train seated themselves at one end of the table. Night Train poured two cups of water using the pitcher and pair of glasses sitting on the table. “This is Scott Cutler, head of the NFL’s League Security. Me and Scottie go back a ways,” he told Billy.

  “Nice to meet you,” Billy said to Cutler.

  “Both of you, shut up,” Cutler said. “These three gentlemen standing behind me run the Mirage’s surveillance department. They told me that you and your friend rigged a blackjack game and stole two million dollars. I’m going to let Louis Falanga, the head of Mirage’s surveillance, explain exactly what you did.”

  Falanga stepped away from the window and cleared his throat. His ghostly pale skin be
spoke a man who spent daylight hours in front of a video monitor in a windowless room.

  “We reviewed your play frame by frame,” Falanga said. “It was highly suspicious, to say the least. You seemed to know what the dealer was holding, so we examined the cards. The backs of all the high cards were marked with luminous paint.”

  “How did that happen?” Night Train asked.

  “Shut up and let him talk,” Cutler said.

  “We couldn’t understand how the pit boss supervising the game didn’t spot the marks,” Falanga said. “The discard tray built into the table is made of red plastic and designed to let the pit boss stare through its back wall and detect luminous paint. Only the tray wasn’t working properly. Nor are any of the other discard trays in the casino. We think the manufacturer screwed up and added a dye to the plastic that destroyed its ability to spot luminous marks.”

  The cat was out of the bag. Mirage’s surveillance team had doped out the super con and would alert the other MGM properties to check the discard trays at their tables. By tomorrow, the faulty discard trays would be replaced by trays made to spot luminous paint.

  “What does this have to do with me?” Night Train asked.

  “Every high card at your table was marked,” Falanga replied. “Your accomplice stood nearby wearing sunglasses, which allowed him to read the marks on the dealer’s cards. Your accomplice then signaled you how to bet, which you did, and won. Cheaters call this scam the anchor, because it always gets the money. Except today. Today it blew up in your faces.”

  Falanga was gloating. He’d get a bonus for this bust, not that he deserved it. The Mirage would never have discovered they were being swindled if Night Train hadn’t blown his cool and punched out the drunks. But Falanga would take the glory anyway. “Your teammates pulled the same scam at the Luxor and MGM Grand earlier today,” Falanga said. “The cards in those games were marked with luminous paint as well.”

  “I didn’t mark any cards or rig any discard trays,” Night Train said.

  “That’s a clever choice of words,” Falanga said. “Maybe you didn’t, but your friends did. We have surveillance videos of two players, a man and a woman, who paid a visit to the Luxor, MGM Grand, the Mirage, and Aria earlier today. The man distracted the dealer while the woman expertly marked the backs of cards with luminous paint.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” Night Train said.

  “Everything,” Falanga said. “The man who came earlier in the day is the same man sitting beside you. We turned the videos over to the gaming board so they could make a definitive match.”

  Night Train gave Billy a hard stare. “This guy marked the cards?”

  “Correct. He helped the woman mark the cards, then returned a few hours later and read the marks while you and your teammates cleaned up,” Falanga said.

  “You sure it’s him?”

  “Ninety-nine percent sure.”

  “Same clothes, same hair, same everything?”

  “No, he changed outfits and hairstyles. But we’re sure it’s him. Your friend has a long history cheating the town’s casinos. The gaming board is reviewing the surveillance tapes right now and will soon give us the go-ahead to prosecute him.”

  “That’s all news to me.”

  Falanga acted flustered. He’d said plenty but accomplished little. Cutler took over. “The NFL wants this situation to go away,” Cutler said. “Your teammates stole one million five hundred thousand dollars from the Luxor and MGM Grand. If they give the money back, the Luxor and MGM Grand won’t press charges.”

  “I can’t speak for those guys,” Night Train said.

  “Then the three of you will go to jail.”

  Cutler had drawn a line in the sand. Night Train scratched his chin, as if deep in thought. “When you put it that way, maybe I can talk them into it.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yeah, it’s a yes.”

  Billy could not believe his ears. The NFL had cut a deal with MGM’s management to save Night Train and his pals from the ugly publicity that an arrest would bring. The MGM got nothing for playing nice, unless there was a piece of the puzzle that he wasn’t seeing.

  “What about the gentleman next to me?” Night Train asked.

  “We’ll let the gaming board deal with him.”

  “You have to cut him loose, too.”

  Cutler’s jaw went hard. “I don’t think so.”

  The room grew quiet, with neither side budging. The cheater’s code required Night Train to do whatever necessary to help his partner out of a jam, even if it meant putting his own neck on the chopping block. But it occurred to Billy that if Night Train and his teammates did get arrested for their involvement with the super con, they wouldn’t be able to pull off the Super Bowl fix next Sunday, and he’d be out two major scores instead of just one.

  He kicked Night Train under the table. “Save yourself,” he whispered.

  Night Train gave him a look. Billy returned the look and gave him the chin.

  “You sure?” Night Train whispered.

  Billy nodded. He’d dealt with the gaming board before and always came out on top.

  “You win,” Night Train said to Cutler. “I’ll talk to my guys and tell them to return the money. And for the record, this gentleman next to me is completely innocent.”

  The deal had been struck. Night Train rose from his chair and went to the double doors with Cutler on his heels.

  “Hello.”

  Grimes filled the doorway, his silver badge pinned to his lapel. Gaming agents only wore their badges when they were about to make an arrest.

  “Who are you?” Night Train asked.

  “Special Agent Frank Grimes with the gaming board. I should be arresting you, along with your teammates. Count your blessings and get out of here before I change my mind.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Night Train shot a parting glance at Billy before departing. The NFL’s reputation had been saved. America’s favorite pastime would survive another Sunday.

  Grimes closed the doors and came around the table, bumping Billy’s chair as he did.

  Shit, Billy thought.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The Nevada Gaming Control Board was nobody’s friend. Over the course of a year, it busted just as many casinos for not paying taxes and money laundering as it did cheats for stealing. Nobody in Vegas liked the gaming board, and that included Falanga and his cohorts. Grimes came around the table to where Mirage’s surveillance team stood. No one shook hands.

  “Hello, Special Agent Grimes,” Falanga said, striking a formal tone. “I was just explaining to our suspect how you were reviewing the surveillance tapes and would link him to the card-marking scam at the MGM’s casinos.”

  “That was stupid,” Grimes said.

  “Is there something wrong?” Falanga said, taken aback.

  “Our suspect is a known cheat. The less he is told about our investigation, the better.”

  “Sorry,” Falanga said.

  Grimes turned his attention to Billy. The special agent’s face was filled with hostility born from a decade of fruitless investigations and botched stakeouts. Ten years of wasted effort was enough to bring out the worst in a man, and Grimes looked bent on revenge.

  “This little prick has ripped off every casino in town,” Grimes said. “You name the game, he’s scammed it. Our file on him is as thick as a high school yearbook. We’ve gotten close to nailing his sorry ass plenty of times but always come up short. He’s a goddamn plague.”

  Grimes put his hands on the table and let a moment pass. His stare was unrelenting.

  “Which is why I’m sorry to tell you he’s not the guy who helped the bag lady mark the cards in your casinos,” Grimes said.

  Falanga’s jaw flapped open. “He’s not?”

  “No sir. I reviewed the surveillance tapes myself, frame by frame. It’s not him.”

  Falanga angrily balled his hands into fists. “But he has to be involved. He was
standing behind the table wearing sunglasses each time our casinos got ripped off by one of the football players. He was reading the marks and signaling his partners.”

  “Have you been in your poker room lately? Everyone wears sunglasses,” Grimes said. “The fact that this little rat was in your casinos wearing shades doesn’t prove a damn thing. And without proof, I can’t arrest him.”

  “You’re letting him go?”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  The air trapped in Billy’s lungs slowly escaped. Grimes’s story was total bullshit. The gaming board’s file included Billy’s weight, height, how he walked, shape of his ears, and other salient physical features. Grimes could have matched Billy to the ranch hand seen on the surveillance videos with Mags but had chosen not to, knowing that if Billy got busted, his case against Broken Tooth would get flushed down the toilet, along with his promotion.

  Billy rose from his chair. “Can I go?”

  “Sit down. We’re not done with you,” Falanga barked.

  “Yes we are,” Grimes said.

  “But he cheated us!” Falanga said.

  “You can’t prove that,” Grimes said. “If you detain him any longer, he’ll have grounds to sue you for false imprisonment.”

  If there were a group of people that hated Billy more than the gaming board, it was the town’s surveillance directors. Their efforts to nail Billy had left them with nothing but egg on their faces.

  “Get out of here, before I throw you out,” Falanga said, reduced to threats.

  An elevator took Billy to the main level. His feet sprouted tiny wings as he walked the concrete sidewalk to the parking garage where his car awaited. He’d once read that getting married and having a kid was the strongest bond two people could share. He didn’t think that was true. The strongest bond two people could share was committing a crime together. When two people broke the law, they shared a singular experience that was theirs and theirs alone. It was a bond stronger than love or blood, and it would never fade. He and Grimes now shared such a bond, and he could only imagine where it would take them.