James Swain - Super Con

They entered the lobby of the Octavius Tower and stepped onto a waiting elevator. His escort had just shared an interesting piece of information. The NFL commissioner’s office knew that Night Train was hanging out at Caesars right before the Super Bowl. Athletes prepared for major sporting events by practicing, getting plenty of sleep, and eating well-balanced meals. None of those things were going to happen while staying in a Vegas casino.

They got off on the second floor, their final destination a polished wood door. His escort knocked, and the door opened to reveal a giant Samoan wearing workout shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. For reasons unexplained, the Polynesian island of Samoa had produced more professional football players than any other foreign country. Billy had to think the place was dull as sin, and the young men were desperate to get off.

“Hello, Sammy,” the escort said pleasantly. “This is Mr. William Cunningham. I believe you’re expecting him.”

Sammy gazed at Billy. “You the real-estate guy?”

“That’s me,” he said.

“You bring lots of cash? We don’t take credit cards.”

Either Sammy was dumber than Miss South Carolina, or it was just an act. Billy produced the stacks of money from his sports jacket.

“Well, come on in,” Sammy said.

The escort departed, and Billy entered the villa. Vegas casinos boasted some of the most extravagant accommodations on the planet, and the villa had the feel of a collector’s well-kept home, with museum-quality Greek urns and life-size statues filling the foyer.

“Is this stuff real?” Billy asked.

“Beats me,” Sammy said. “Watch your step. We were throwing a football around earlier, and one of the urns bit the dust.”

Sammy escorted Billy through the villa to a spacious covered patio overlooking the hotel pool. Sammy walked with a pronounced limp and looked to be in pain.

“You okay?” Billy asked.

“I always limp after a game,” Sammy explained. “It will ease up in a few days.”

The patio was the villa’s showpiece and was drenched in expensive furnishings. In its center sat an antique poker table with four giant football players sitting around it. Sammy made the introductions. “This is Cunningham, the real-estate guy.”

Night Train was the first to say hello. He was Hollywood handsome and wore a white silk shirt unbuttoned to his navel and tasteful jewelry. He flashed his well-known smile and pointed at the empty chair at the table. “Have a seat. Guys, introduce yourselves to our guest.”

The others took turns identifying themselves. The lone white guy was named Assassin and had a shaved skull and tree-trunk arms. The Hispanic with the cauliflower ear was named Clete, and the black guy with the stoner smile was Choo-Choo. It was like entering the land of the giants, and Billy shook their hands before taking the empty seat. Placing his money on the table, he said, “Who’s the banker?”

“I am. How much you got there?” Night Train asked.

“Twenty thousand big ones.”

“That works.” Night Train turned the money into chips and slid the stacks to his guest. Two brand-new decks of Bicycle playing cards still in their boxes sat on the table. One deck was red, the other deck blue. Night Train also slid the decks to Billy.

“You can do the honors,” Night Train said.

Billy removed the decks from the boxes. The jokers and advertising cards were discarded and the cards shuffled. Billy made sure the shuffles were sloppy and uncoordinated. He had hustled other cheats before and knew the importance of presenting himself as a rube to his victims.

“First ace deals.” Billy dealt cards faceup around the table using the red deck. The ace of hearts fell to Night Train. “Your deal.”

He slid the blue deck to Night Train. Night Train presented the deck to Sammy to be cut. Sammy cut the cards and passed them back to Night Train. So far, the game appeared clean, although Billy knew it wouldn’t stay that way for very long.

“I don’t want to play any of that bullshit Texas Hold’em,” Night Train said. “Game’s seven-card stud with a five-hundred-dollar ante. You cool with that, Mr. Real-Estate Man?”

“I’m game,” Billy said.

Everyone threw $500 into the pot. Night Train dealt each player two facedown cards and one faceup card. By the time the game was over, each player would have seven cards from which they’d make their best hand using five cards. Billy glimpsed his facedown cards. He’d drawn two clubs. His faceup card was also a club. The odds of his pulling a flush were strong. Flushes usually won in seven-card stud.

“Raise,” he said when the bet came his way.

Sammy and Assassin dropped out. On the next round, Billy drew another club. He again raised when the bet came his way. Choo-Choo and Clete bowed out.

“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Night Train said.

Billy was dealt another club and made his flush. When it came time for the reveal, there was more than ten thousand in the pot. Night Train’s face crumbled upon seeing Billy’s hand.

“I didn’t think you had it,” his host said.

“Beginner’s luck,” he said.

“Way to go,” Sammy said.

“I think he’s a ringer,” Clete half joked.

He raked in the chips. This was starting out well, but it wouldn’t end that way. There was a science to cheating at cards that relied upon letting a victim win early to bring down their guard. When the victim was properly fattened, the cheats would go for the kill.

“How about a cold drink?” Night Train asked.

“I could use a brew,” Billy said. “I think congratulations are in order. You guys played a hell of a game yesterday.”

“Thanks. We played so good that our coaches gave us the afternoon off. Choo-Choo, how about a cold beer for our guest.”

Choo-Choo took a glistening Corona from a cooler and popped the cap with his teeth.

“That’s impressive,” Billy said.

The deal rotated to Clete. Clete announced the game was five-card draw and sailed the cards around the table. Billy watched intently but saw no sleight of hand. There were only so many ways to cheat at poker. Peeking the victim’s cards through a wall was a common method, marking the backs another. Playing on a patio ruled out peeking, and Billy had done a riffle test while shuffling and had not spotted any marks. So how was Night Train going to fleece him?

Ten minutes later, he found out.

The deal was back to Night Train. Sammy gave the red deck a cut, and Night Train slid the deck off the table and squared it. For a fleeting instant, the red deck was out of sight. Then Night Train started to deal. The hair stood up on the back of Billy’s neck.

“Seven-card stud with a thousand-dollar ante,” Night Train announced. “Let’s see if I can win some of my money back.”

Despite the move’s invisibility, Billy knew what had occurred. Night Train had switched a stacked deck in his lap with the red deck on the table. Long hours of practice had gone into the move, most likely in front of a mirror. Hustlers called this a cooler because it was thought that the switched deck was cooler to the touch.

Billy threw a thousand bucks into the pot and checked his hand. His faceup card was a jack and his two facedown cards were also jacks. Three jacks was a powerful starting hand, and he guessed the deck was stacked for him to get a full house, while another player would get four of a kind or a straight flush and clean him out.

Assassin started the betting, Clete raised, and Night Train raised him. By the time the bet came to Billy, it was up to four thousand bucks.

“Call,” he said.

As his chips hit the pot, his elbow deliberately brushed his Corona. The bottle fell over and splashed beer on the player’s hands as well as the blue deck sitting to the side, ruining everything. Night Train’s eyes flared. Billy played stupid and apologized up a storm.