James Swain - Super Con

Grimes showed her the photos. Three of the people had swarthy complexions and looked related. The fourth was an attractive woman with snow-white hair.

“Is Snow Cone the claimer?” Mags asked.

“That’s Olson. I was wondering if you’d ever seen the other three.”

The faces weren’t the least bit familiar, and Mags shook her head.

“Never seen them before. Why do you think they’re dirty?”

“Their faces have shown up at several Native American reservation casinos when large sums of money were lost. My boss met with the head of tribal gaming last year, and they decided it was time to start sharing information. The Indians have gotten taken for some major scores.”

Native American casinos were considered soft targets among cheats. The dealers were rubes, and the heads of surveillance often got their jobs because of blood ties.

“We think they’re part of a family called the Gypsies,” Grimes said. “They’ve been scamming the casinos for years but never caught. If I can bust the Gypsies, it will be a major feather in my cap. They’re in Vegas right now.”

“You’ve spotted them?”

“Two of them. They run in a pack, so we’re sure the rest are also here.”

Mags tried to hide her discomfort. The scam Billy had asked her to be a part of involved the Gypsies. If they got taken down, Billy would certainly go down as well. She didn’t want Billy in her life, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to get hurt, either.

Grimes jabbed the surveillance photo with his finger. “We made the short one down on Fremont Street at the Golden Gate Casino. The girl to his right was made at the Tropicana yesterday morning. We don’t know who the third one is yet, but he should be easy to spot.”

The third member of the Gypsies in the surveillance photo had an enormous Adam’s apple and would be easy to make in a crowded casino.

“We’ve distributed his photo all over town,” Grimes said. “The moment our friend with the bulging Adam’s apple enters a casino, the casino will call us, and we’ll come running.”

“You’re going to bust him?”

“Not right away. We’ll take photos and use our facial recognition software to see if he turns up on any other surveillance videos. We’re in the process of building a case against the family. When we take it to the grand jury, we want the charges to stick.”

The gaming board busted hundreds of cheats every year, with the majority of cases being pleaded out and never going to trial. But this case was different. Grimes had a grand jury in his back pocket, which meant he’d already presented his evidence to the DA’s office and gotten their blessing to proceed and build a rock-solid case. Every so often, the DA made an example out of a cheat and put him away in prison for a long stretch. This sounded like one of those special cases, and Mags could not help feeling sorry for the Gypsies.

Rand and Valles appeared at their table. Their arm-wrestling match was over, and they both looked satisfied with the outcome. Mags rose from her chair.

“Good luck with your show,” Grimes said.

“Thanks, Frank,” she said.

Mags and her producer walked back to the trailer. Rand didn’t have the doctored shooting script in his hand, and Mags quizzed him with a glance.

“Special Agent Valles has a nephew in LA who wants to get into directing,” Rand said. “Kid’s waiting tables till his big break comes along. I offered to help him, provided the gaming board stays out of our hair.”

“Help him how?”

“I’m going to arrange for him to get a directing fellowship at the American Film Institute. If the kid isn’t a total douchebag, it should lead to his getting work.”

“Can you do that?”

“I sit on AFI’s board. I can pull a few strings and get him in.”

“Does this kid have any talent?”

Rand burst out laughing. “We’ll find out!”

Mags could feel the apprehension that always came before she shot a scene. She didn’t have her lines down yet, and the fear of messing up in front of the camera was never far from her thoughts. She pecked Rand on the cheek and headed up the short flight of steps into her trailer.

“We’re going to break early today. I’ll see you this afternoon at four,” Rand said.

“What’s the special occasion?”

“Special Agent Valles has agreed to give us a tour of LINQ’s surveillance room and show us how they catch cheats. It should give you real insight for your character.”

Surveillance rooms were off-limits to everyone except for the handful of casino employees, and Mags had to believe that no hustler in town had ever been inside one.

“How the hell did you arrange that?” she asked.

“What can I say? I strike a hard bargain,” he said with a wink.

Billy slept in and awoke at ten. Crawling out of bed, he spied his Droid wiggling like a snake on the night table. Caller ID said “Unknown.” He answered it anyway.

“Hello.”

“Cunningham? This is Night Train. I got your sixty K. You still got my daddy’s watch?”

“Sorry, I lost it in a card game.”

“That’s not funny,” his caller said.

“Just kidding. I haven’t let it out of my sight.”

“You like messing with people, don’t you?”

“Sometimes. When do you want to meet up?”

“Tuesdays are off days for the players. I’m going to rehab and then to get a massage. How about two o’clock at my digs. That work for you?”

Night Train sounded anxious to get his father’s watch back. Or maybe he’d figured out Billy’s touch card scam and wanted to confront him. There was an urgency in his voice, and Billy realized he had Night Train right where he wanted him.

“That works for me. Do me a favor and tell the front desk I’m coming. It will speed things up when I come back to your villa.”

“I can do that. See you at two.”

“I’ll be there.”

Breakfast was burned toast and coffee. Billy scrolled through e-mails on his cell phone while he ate. Most were from hustlers in town wishing to get together to talk business. Every hustler had a scam that they were working on to beat the joints. Many of these scams were designed to slowly bleed the casino, while others were heists and involved a conspiracy that often included dealers and pit bosses. None of the e-mails actually said this, but they used carefully crafted language that cloaked their author’s true meaning. Back in the days of the Mississippi riverboat gamblers, hustlers had developed a secret language that allowed them to openly talk about fleecing people without exposing themselves, and the e-mails were peppered with expressions like “rabbit hunting,” “been around the block,” and “playing both sides of the table.”

He drained his mug. It was a great time to be a hustler, with new casinos opening up every month and his friends cooking up schemes that would net them huge paydays down the road. To each one of them, he sent back the same reply.

“I’m doing business right now. I’ll touch base when I come up for air.”

Time to get cleaned up. Standing beneath the shower’s hot spray, he thought about Travis. They’d talked on the phone every day, and he realized he was going to miss those conversations. Travis understood casino people, most of whom were bitter souls who harbored grudges against their employers and were easily distracted while a scam was taking place.

But those talks were a thing of the past. By betraying Billy, Travis had set himself on the path to ruin. Travis was going to pay for his sins.

Billy had thought long and hard on how to accomplish this and had decided the best way would be to bide his time and wait. Travis would blow the money he’d made from the Super Bowl scam just like he’d blown the money he’d made running with Billy, and then he’d look for another crew to run with. Once Travis was with another crew, Billy would contact the crew’s captain and explain what Travis had done to him and how Travis was a liability. This would put Travis in a bad light, and his days would be numbered. Travis might last another year or two, but in the end he’d get a bullet pumped into his head or antifreeze injected in his veins. That was how it worked in the grifter’s world. Rats got drowned.