James Swain - Super Con

“They wouldn’t do that, either. They just want to know what they’re getting involved with. They might back out if your super con uses electronic equipment. The casinos have developed new ways to detect that stuff.”

“There’s no electronics involved,” Victor assured him. “Want to come over? I’ll give you another demonstration, then we can hammer out the details of how this is going to work.”

Any time spent with Victor was always an education in the fine art of cons and grifts. Billy said yes, and Victor gave him the address of the rented house on the north side of town where his family was staying.

“I’ll be there in thirty,” Billy said.

“Hundred bucks says you can’t figure out what I’m doing,” Victor said.

“You’re on.”

Billy pulled into the driveway of the Boswells’ rental house and killed the engine. Many crews that traveled for jobs had switched from staying in hotels to renting houses. Owners of rentals rarely keep records, and for a thief, that was always a good thing. The Boswells’ rental was a testament to suburbia, with a basketball hoop over the garage door and an artificially green lawn. He texted Victor to say he’d arrived.

He got out of his car and had a look around. Like a bad penny, gaming agents had a habit of turning up, usually in the form of a stakeout. The car parked across the street was empty, as well as the SUV down the block. He decided it was safe and crossed the lawn.

Victor greeted him at the front door. His host wore a starched white shirt and black dress slacks, and he had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Victor was getting on in years, but instead of trying to hide his age, he owned it and was the epitome of class. Leaning on his cane, he escorted Billy to a gaming room in the rear of the house with a felt blackjack table in its center.

“Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot,” Victor said.

“I’m good. Did the blackjack table come with the house?”

“I bought it from the Gambler’s General Store. Wanted to be ready for the big day.”

“Are you practicing the super con on your family?”

“Every day. They still can’t figure out how it works.”

“You like keeping them in the dark, don’t you?”

“Come to mention it, I do. This might be the best play I’ve ever come up with. Ready to take another shot at the champ?”

“You bet I am.”

Billy walked behind the table and took the dealer’s position. Victor took the chair across from him and stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth. Victor had smoked since he was a kid but had quit after one of his children had pointed out that his lips trembled whenever he got nervous, sending a smoke signal to observant pit bosses.

The game was handheld, single deck. Billy shuffled the cards and had Victor cut them with a plastic cut card. He placed the deck into his hand in preparation to deal.

“Place your bets,” Billy said.

Victor had three denominations of play chips stacked in front of him. Thousand-dollar chips, five-thousand-dollar chips, and ten-thousand-dollar chips. He slid three ten-thousand-dollar chips into the betting circle.

“That’s a big bet to start with,” Billy said.

“I’m feeling lucky,” Victor said.

Billy’s cheeks burned. Victor wouldn’t make a bet that large unless he knew what the outcome was going to be. Yet he had done absolutely nothing to compromise the game.

Billy dealt the hand. Victor got a blackjack, which paid three-to-two.

“Would you look at that,” Victor said with a grin.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Deal another round. You’ll catch on eventually.”

“What are you saying — that it’s right in front of my nose?”

“You know what I’m doing, you just don’t recognize it.”

Billy dealt another hand, which Victor won with a huge bet. Then Billy dealt three more rounds. Victor won the first but lost the next two. On the hands that Victor lost, smaller bets were placed, indicating that he knew which cards were going to be dealt to him.

“What happens if a pit boss smells a rat and stops the game?” Billy asked.

“He won’t find anything,” Victor said.

“Can I look anyway?”

“Be my guest.”

Billy gave the deck a thorough examination. Because players were allowed to touch their cards in single-deck games, cheats had resorted to marking the backs of the cards with secret substances, allowing the cheat to learn the values of the cards as they were dealt. By knowing the dealer’s cards, the cheat had a huge edge over the house and cleaned up.

The deck was normal. Victor said, “I bought the cards with the table.”

“You like rubbing it in, don’t you?”

“Just being honest with you.”

“What if the pit boss pulled you into a back room and patted you down?”

“You think I’ve got a camera up my sleeve?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Victor cuffed his shirtsleeves. Cheats often strapped cameras to their wrists to spot the dealer’s hole card. The information was transmitted to the cheat’s partner, who sat in a cocktail lounge, looking at a live feed on a laptop. The partner signaled the information to the cheat using a device called a thumper, which was strapped to the cheat’s leg.

Victor’s sleeves were clean.

“I can do this in my birthday suit, in case you were wondering,” the older man said.

Billy was starting to feel stupid. After taking the cards out of the discard tray, he added them to the deck and reshuffled.

“Let’s try it now,” he said.

“Trying to mess me up? I like your spunk,” Victor said.

The next round was Victor’s as well. Victor had won $30,000 of the house’s money in the amount of time it took to drink a beer. Billy noticed something he hadn’t seen before. The corners of Victor’s eyes narrowed as the cards were dealt. That was a tell, and Billy picked up a card and examined its back.

“You’re using luminous readers. The cards are marked with luminous paint, which you’re reading with a special pair of contact lenses. That’s your scam.”

“That’s as old as the hills, Billy. No one uses luminous readers anymore.”

“Which is why you resurrected it. Marking cards with luminous paint is so old that pit bosses in Vegas have stopped looking for it.”

“But a pit boss can look for it,” Victor reminded him. “And if the pit boss finds the marks, I’m screwed.”

“If you’re not using luminous readers, why did you squint?”

“Allergies. Check the tray if you don’t believe me.”

Every blackjack game had a discard tray that the dealer placed cards into after the hand was over. The trays were made of translucent red plastic, which acted like a filter and let the pit boss look through the rear wall of the tray and spot luminous paint on the backs of cards.

Billy placed a card into the tray and stared through the rear wall. No secret markings popped up. He did this with more than a dozen cards. They were all clean.

Billy took a C-note and gave it to Victor. “You win. I have no clue what you’re doing.”

“That’s high praise coming from you,” Victor said.

They heard the front door slam. “That must be one of my kids,” Victor said.

“Hey, Dad,” a female called from the front of the house.

“Kat? I thought you went to the Tropicana to practice your strong-arming,” Victor said.

“That was the plan,” she called back. “I got made and had to leave.”

“You got made? What happened?”

“I need a drink. Can I get you something?”

“I’m good.”

A moment later, Kat Boswell came into the room holding a can of diet soda. She was barely legal and wore blue and purple streaks in her hair to make herself look older. She said hello to Billy before sitting down beside her father at the blackjack table.