James Swain - Super Con

He refreshed his cup and went onto the balcony. He lived on the thirty-second floor of a luxury condo with a breathtaking view of the Strip. Not bad for a kid who’d arrived on a Greyhound bus with two hundred bucks in his pocket.

He gripped the railing and stared at the distant Spring Mountains. Night Train hung out with bookies. That meant he had inside information on games that he was betting on. Night Train was breaking the law and putting the sport that employed him in jeopardy. Yet the guy hadn’t been punished. Either he had photos of the league’s commissioner in bed with a farm animal, or something else was in play here.

He went inside. On the desk in his study was an old-fashioned Rolodex that contained the names and phone numbers of more than fifty concierges employed by the town’s casinos. He personally knew all of them, some on a first-name basis. And he knew what made them tick.

He placed a call to Tito Gonzalez at Caesars Palace. Tito was a thirty-six-year-old divorced father of two pulling down forty-five grand a year and driving a ten-year-old Buick LeSabre. Every casino worker had a dream that motivated them to put up with the daily grind of their thankless jobs. For Tito, it was to one day play poker professionally. To accomplish that, Tito needed a stake, and as he’d demonstrated on many prior occasions, Tito was more than willing to compromise his customers’ privacy to raise the money.

“Hey, Billy, long time no hear from. How you been?” Tito greeted him.

“I’m doing great. You still playing poker?”

“You bet. I placed sixth in a WPT satellite event last week.”

“I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

“I’m at my stand. Let me call you back.”

The line went dead. In his mind’s eye, Billy saw Tito walking outside Caesars and finding a secluded spot from which to call him back. Billy’s cell phone rang a minute later.

“Lay it on me,” Tito said.

“Night Train McClain is staying in one of your pool villas,” he said. “Rumor has it he likes to play poker. I’d like to make his acquaintance. Can you arrange that?”

“Who told you Night Train had a villa here?”

“A little bird. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Night Train’s off-limits. Listen, I’ve got to run.”

“Why is he off-limits?”

“I can’t tell you that. Nice talking to you.”

Billy believed that the negotiation began with the word no and was not about to throw in the towel. “How much did you make for coming in sixth in your poker tournament?”

“Seven thousand three hundred and fifty bucks.”

“I’ll match it.”

“Sorry, Billy, but that’s not enough. I could get in serious hot water.”

“I thought you wanted to quit your job and play cards for a living.”

“I’m not there yet.”

“I’ll give you ten grand for your trouble. Does that float your boat?”

“Still not going to cut it. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“No, you don’t. What you need to do is chase your dreams, Tito. You check your bank account every day, and every night you dream of telling your boss to go fuck himself. What’s the figure? You have to be getting close.”

“I am close. Fifteen thousand eight hundred and forty-six bucks, and I’m out of here.”

“Done.”

“Don’t screw with me, Billy. I’m not in the mood.”

“Have I ever messed with you before? Have I?”

“There’s always a first time. There’s no way in hell you’ll pay me that much to set up a meeting with Night Train. You’re blowing smoke up my ass, and I don’t like it.”

Billy pulled Tito’s card out of the Rolodex. “You still have an account with PayPal? The last time we did business, I wired you the money.”

The line went still, and for a moment Billy thought Tito had run on him.

“I’ve still got my PayPal account,” Tito said.

“I’m wiring you the money. Check in a few minutes, then call me back.”

“I’ll do that,” Tito said, unconvinced.

Tito was singing a different tune when he rang Billy back. “I can’t believe you just did that,” the concierge said, unable to hide his excitement.

“Neither can I. You haven’t done anything yet,” Billy said.

“On the contrary, I made a call and spoke to the great one himself. I set up Night Train and his posse with some lovely ladies last night, so he owes me. There’s a card game in his villa this afternoon and a seat with your name on it. Be prepared to lose your money.”

“The game’s rigged?”

“You bet. A cleaning lady overheard Night Train talking to his pals about fleecing a guy they’d invited over to play and reported it.”

Cheating at poker was difficult when only one person was doing the stealing. Team play was a lot easier. A guest would be invited to the game, and the players would orchestrate a scam and take every last cent the guest had. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and Billy had all the information he needed to play in Night Train’s game. But he was still curious as to why Caesars was letting cheating take place.

“Why do you let that go on? Aren’t you afraid of people finding out?” Billy asked.

“Night Train is bulletproof,” Tito replied. “That fucking guy can do just about anything he wants short of murdering someone, and management’s going to look the other way.”

“Why?”

“In my job, you don’t ask questions like that. It only leads to finding out stuff you shouldn’t know. I told him you were a hotshot real-estate salesman. That’s the cover you’re using these days, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“Bring plenty of cash. A word of warning. Don’t ask Night Train if you can get a selfie with him. He’ll get ugly with you.”

“Doesn’t like to get his picture taken?”

“No sir. The NFL prohibits the Rebels from hanging out at the casinos during the season. If word leaked out Night Train was gambling and whoring at Caesars when he was supposed to be preparing for the Super Bowl, all hell would break loose with the NFL’s head office.”

“He’s not preparing for the Super Bowl?”

“I didn’t say that. He’s at a team meeting right now. He’ll be back in the afternoon. Poker game starts at three.”

“Does his team know he’s at Caesars?”

“I’m sure they do.”

“And they let that kind of crap go on?”

Tito guffawed into the phone. Billy didn’t like being laughed at and bristled.

“What’s so damn funny?”

“I thought you were a sharp guy.”

Billy nearly said Sharper than you but bit his tongue. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said instead.

“It means that you don’t understand what you’re getting yourself into, my friend,” Tito said. “The NFL isn’t about football, and it never was.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“Show biz.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be. Get here early so an employee can escort you to the villa.”

Billy didn’t like ending the conversation being left in the dark. “You going to explain yourself, or do I have to beg?”

Tito laughed again, and the line went dead.

Billy’s next call was to Victor Boswell. He had decided not to tell Victor about the unpleasantness with Broken Tooth for fear that Victor would call off the super con.

“Hello, Billy, how are we doing today?” Victor asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” the young hustler said. “My crew is itching to know the secret of your super con. Are you ready to tell me?”

“Not yet.”

“Afraid I might go and pull it myself?”

“I know you wouldn’t do that. But I can’t say that about your crew.”