James Swain - Super Con

“No, your take will be seven and a half million, give or take a few hundred grand. You’ll get a full accounting of every bet and every payoff. After the money is collected, your share will be wired to an offshore bank account, which I assume you have. Sound good to you?”

“I’d like to see some good faith money first. It will help me sell this to my boys.”

“How much do you need?”

“A hundred grand apiece up front.”

“Five hundred thousand bucks. I can do that.”

Night Train flashed a smile. Billy had said all the right things. The famous football player rose from the table and escorted his guest through the villa to the front door.

“Do we have a deal?” Billy asked.

“I’m sold, but my boys will need convincing,” Night Train said. “They usually do what I say, but I still need to say it. Clete and Assassin are playing golf and won’t be back until later. Let me huddle up and discuss. When do you need an answer?”

“Tonight. Sooner if possible.”

“I’ll call you once I have things nailed down.”

They shook hands. It was how business deals were done between hustlers — no contracts or fancy lawyers in pinstripes, just a pumping of the flesh.

“One more thing,” Night Train said. “I want you to teach me how you doctored the cards. I’d like to use that.”

“You got it,” Billy said.

He took the Strip home. It was late, and the sun had started to descend. As it did, partiers appeared on the Strip’s wide sidewalks like predators beginning their daily hunt. Rain or shine, the ritual was always the same; with daylight’s passing, the real adventure began.

Traffic crawled. Casino billboards ran continuous loops of the acts playing in their showrooms. Singers came and went, but it was the magic acts and impersonators who hung around the longest, their illusions more in keeping with the false dreams of wealth that the casinos pushed upon their customers. “Caller Unknown” lit up his cell phone’s screen. It was a fifty-buck fine to talk while driving. He decided to risk it.

“Hello?”

“This is Broken Tooth. Did you get this thing nailed down?”

“I just left Night Train’s villa. Night Train is on board but needs to talk to his teammates and convince them. We’re going to talk later and finalize the deal.”

“Night Train the boss. The others will go along, don’t you think?”

“They should. There’s been one change in plans. Night Train wants five hundred thousand in good faith money. I told him yes.”

Broken Tooth cursed up a storm at this unexpected change in plans. Billy smiled into the cell phone. The fact that Broken Tooth was going to get cut out of the deal didn’t mean that the Chinese gangster shouldn’t pay for Night Train and his pals’ signing bonuses. To Billy’s way of thinking, this was only fair, considering the crap Broken Tooth was putting him through.

“You think I’ve got that kind of money lying around?” Broken Tooth yelled.

“You want me to call him, tell him the deal’s off?” Billy said.

“I’ll get money, but if you pull a stunt like this again, I’ll put a bullet in your driver’s head. You want that?”

“No.”

“Then stop pulling shit with me.”

Leon’s life was on the line, and Billy needed to be careful. “Speaking of my driver, how’s he holding up?”

“Your driver’s got a big mouth. Real asshole.”

“You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“My bodyguards stuck his head in toilet and he nearly drowned. Guess he didn’t know how to hold his breath. You want to talk to him? He sitting right here.”

“Hey Billy, how’s it going?” a weakened Leon said moments later.

“You don’t sound good,” Billy said, regretting the exchange with Broken Tooth.

“I’ve been better. You really think you can pull this thing off?”

“I’m sure going to try.”

“Give me some odds.”

“I’d say I’ve got a sixty-forty shot at making it happen.”

“I can live with that.”

Broken Tooth came back on the line. “I’ll call you later to hear how things are going. Don’t let me down, Cunningham.”

“I’m going to make this happen. Just don’t kill my driver,” he said.

A bicycle cop appeared in his side mirror, pedaling fast. The sheriff’s department maintained hundreds of hidden surveillance cameras on the Strip, the cops doing their best to keep order. He pulled his registration and proof of insurance out of the glove compartment.

“I’m about to get a ticket for talking on my cell phone. Talk to you later.”

“Cut!”

Mags stopped in midsentence to stare at her director, a spoiled Hollywood brat named Hudson, Hud for short. Hud had a neatly trimmed goatee and an effeminate silver earring that she would have enjoyed ripping off his pink earlobe. They were on the twelfth take of a scene that a high school senior could have shot on a cell phone.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” Hud said.

“I’m feeling exhausted, that’s what I’m feeling.”

“I mean in the scene. You’re a blank canvas. I need emotion, Mags.”

She nodded tiredly. The scene called for her to walk across the floor of a busy casino while juggling two simultaneous calls on her cell phone. The first call was to her teenage daughter, with whom she was having a heated argument, the second to her meathead partner, who was constantly screwing up and the source of continual irritation. At the scene’s end, she would spy a casino patron dropping a slug in a slot machine and arrest him.

The scene had seemed easy when she’d read the script; now, not so much. She didn’t have another actor to play off and was struggling to stay in character.

“What are you feeling?” Hud asked.

“I don’t have a clue. Why don’t you give me a hint,” she said.

“You’ve run out of patience with your bitchy daughter, whom you suspect of slipping out at night to go clubbing with her hot boyfriend, and you’d like to take your male chauvinist pig of a partner and close a door on his head. That sound about right?”

“Anger and frustration.”

“There you go. Let’s take it from the top.”

Mags retreated to her starting point. A ponytailed grip stepped in front of her and held up a small board so it faced the camera. “ Night and Day , take thirteen, walking through the casino,” the grip announced.

“Action,” Hud said.

She raised the cell phone to her face and started walking toward the camera. If the pilot bombed, she’d have to go back to hustling suckers. She’d just as soon paint houses, and she played back Hud’s advice. Bitchy kid, asshole partner. That shouldn’t be too hard.

“Now you listen to me,” she said to her imaginary daughter. “I know what you’re up to, and I want it to stop. You can’t be going to clubs when you should be home studying. Hold on, I’ve got another call.” Without breaking stride, she punched a button on her phone that allowed her to switch calls. To her imaginary partner she said, “Speak of the devil. Look, Jake, I’m sick of covering for you every time you go on a bender and miss work. Get your sorry ass over here.” Ending the call, she punched the button and returned to her daughter. “You still there? Good. Now here’s the deal. If I catch you skipping out again, you’re grounded for six months.”

She halted at a spot on the carpet with an X made of silver duct tape. The camera was a few feet away, doing a close-up. She put on her best pissed-off mother’s face, then pretended to see a cheating patron putting a slug into a slot machine and said, “I need to run. I’ll bring pizza home for dinner. Good-bye.”