James Swain - Super Con

“That would be an understatement,” Frank said. “The gaming board busted three hundred cheats last year, and all of them were small fries. The big ones almost always elude our net. But that’s about to change.”

Rand picked up the photo and stared at the faces in the group. “Who are they?”

“They’re a family of thieves called the Gypsies who prey on the casinos. They specialize in well-orchestrated scams that have netted them millions of dollars.”

“Millions? Wow.”

“Wow is right. The older lady in the photo is a retired school principal and in cahoots with the Gypsies. She claimed a jackpot from a slot machine that the Gypsies rigged and split the winnings with them.”

“I thought it was impossible to rig a slot machine.”

“So did we. But the Gypsies figured out a way to open a machine and nullify the antitheft device while adding a special code that made the machine pay a jackpot if played a certain way. That’s what makes the gaming board’s work so challenging. Even when we’re right on top of things, we’re still a step behind.”

“That’s a good quote. Can we use it in the show?”

“No.”

“Got it. Do you ever resort to unusual methods to catch cheats?”

Frank flashed a smile. “I’ll have to take the fifth on that one.”

“In the movies, the cheats get dragged to a back room and get the tar beaten out of them before they get turned over to the police,” Rand said. “Does that really happen?”

Every damn day, Mags almost said.

“Not anymore,” Frank said.

Blake leaped out of his chair like he’d been hit by a cattle prod. “Got him! Our boy just sat down at a hundred-dollar blackjack table.”

“Put him on the wall,” Frank said.

The twenty-eight wall monitors became filled with a live feed of the Gypsy with the pronounced Adam’s apple. He was dressed casually, his face hidden by a pair of cheap shades and a baseball cap. The disguise had flown by the other techs; only Blake’s trained eye had picked him up. Frank removed his wallet and slapped the bounty on Blake’s desk.

“Treat your girlfriend to a nice dinner tonight,” Frank said.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Blake replied.

Frank enjoyed busting cheats more than screwing. Mags knew this as fact, because Frank had once left their bed after getting a call about a cheat ripping off a casino.

Frank moved closer to the monitors with Rand glued to his side. Mags stayed by Blake’s desk, wishing she’d never agreed to take this little tour. She’d said good-bye to the grifter’s life and did not want to participate, even as a casual observer.

The Gypsy on the monitors didn’t have a prayer. Frank would catch him in the act, video the crime from every conceivable angle, and bust him. Frank would also interrogate him and ask him to give up the rest of the members of his family. If the Gypsy didn’t play ball, Frank would put him away for a long time.

The game was blackjack. On the monitor, the Gypsy was dealt a pair of aces. The Gypsy slid a second bet into the betting circle, indicating he wished to split the hand. Then a miraculous thing happened. The Gypsy’s original bet of two black chips grew to three. The new bet also contained three black chips. Black chips were worth a hundred bucks. The Gypsy had added $200 to his bet without the dealer being the wiser.

“We need a close-up of that,” Frank called over his shoulder.

“I’m all over it,” Blake said.

“Did something just happen?” Rand asked, clueless.

“Our thief had an extra chip palmed in his hand, which he added to his original bet. Hustlers call it capping a bet.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Rand marveled.

“He’s pretty slick. We’ll need to record him the next time he moves. That’s the only way we’ll be able to convince a jury that he was cheating.”

“Are juries hard to convince?” Rand asked.

“In this town they are. Without rock-solid video evidence, a jury will not convict.”

Frank went to Blake’s desk and used a house phone to call the head of casino security. “The guy sitting at first base on table seven is capping his bets. Once we have enough evidence, I’ll call you. Make sure you get his cell phone when you bust him.”

Hanging up, Frank glanced at Mags. “Having fun?”

Mags thought she might get sick. The Gypsies were in Vegas running a scam with Billy, and there was every likelihood that Billy’s number was logged on the guy’s cell phone. That would put Billy in a bad light and allow Frank to ask a judge for permission to tap Billy’s phones and put a tail on him. Eventually Billy would slip up, and Frank would nail him.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

Mags blinked awake. Billy had never used or abused her, and he would always occupy a special place in her heart, even if he was a devious little shit.

“Afraid not,” she said.

“I asked you if you’re having fun.” Frank stepped closer, his eyes burning a hole into her soul like he knew something wasn’t right.

“Time of my life,” she said.

“Why do I think you’re lying to me?”

“That’s because everyone lies to you, Frank. You should be used to it by now.”

Frank lifted his hand as if to slap her. He’d struck her several times when she was a snitch, then tried to make up for it with a shitty box of candy or flowers.

“Go ahead, try it,” she said.

Frank growled under his breath and moved back to the monitors. Seeing her chance, Mags turned to Blake. “Where’s the ladies’ room? I need to powder my nose.”

“It’s behind the file cabinets.” Blake lifted his bag of fries. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

Mags found the restroom and went in. What she was about to do was illegal and could land her in hot water. She was risking everything, yet her heart said do it.

Her hand shook as she typed a text message to Billy on her cell phone.

The Stage Door was the ultimate dive bar. Three-buck beers, two-dollar shots, and reanimated road kill served as hot dogs were its big sellers. The marquee advertised the number of years remaining on the lease as a middle-finger salute to the casinos that surrounded it.

It was also a hangout for casino people, and it was not uncommon to find Billy at the bar, buying rounds while listening to dealers blow off steam. Dealers who hated their bosses or who had financial problems could often be recruited to rip off their employers.

Today, it was Cory and Morris who joined Billy at the water-stained bar. Cory played a video poker machine built into the bar. Without looking up, he said, “We found one of Broken Tooth’s men.”

Billy drank a Corona out of a frosted mug. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then said, “I’m listening.”

“I took your suggestion and did a Google search for the best authentic Chinese food in Vegas. A restaurant called Joyful House popped up. Five stars. The menu’s in Chinese and serves shark fin soup and several dishes prepared with live fish. My gut told me this was the place, so Morris and I ate lunch there today.”

Cory went silent. He was one card away from making a royal flush, which would pay out two grand. He drew the wrong card and punched the machine.

“Loser,” Morris said.

“Shut up,” Cory said.

“The suspense is killing me. What happened then?” Billy asked.

Cory picked up his drink and took a sip. “We sat near the entrance and ordered lunch. Around noon, one of Broken Tooth’s goons came in and picked up two bags of food. The owner was working the cash register, and they talked in Chinese and were real chummy.”

“So the owner knew him,” Billy said.