James Swain - Super Con

Grimes and his posse were closing in. Billy flipped open the newspaper box and grabbed a handful of flyers. The cover read BUST YOUR NUT IN A CLASSY SLUT. Only in Vegas was that shit acceptable, and he walked with the crowd.

“Free newspaper. Who wants a free newspaper?”

At the block’s end he stole a glance over his shoulder. The gaming agents were at the newspaper box, searching for their man. Grimes was on his cell phone and looked livid. Grimes was many things; stupid wasn’t one of them. Thieves did not disappear without a trace, and Grimes knew the wool had been pulled over his eyes. But would he figure out that it was Maggie Flynn who’d betrayed him?

Yes, he realized, Grimes probably would.

Mags stood at the window in her suite in LINQ and stared down at the scene on the Strip. She’d watched a man run into the busy street and jump into a black SUV and the vehicle burn out. The guy could have been anyone; only her gut told her it was the same cheat she’d seen in LINQ’s surveillance room ten minutes ago. Her text to Billy had saved the guy’s neck.

She buried her face in her hands. She should have felt elated, yet all she wanted to do was slip into bed and pull the covers over her head. She wasn’t a grifter anymore, she was an actress, and if she didn’t start behaving like one, her new career would go off the rails faster than a runaway freight train.

She mixed herself a drink. Raising the glass to her lips, she heard a knock on her door. She stuck her eye to the peephole and spied Rand in the hallway.

“What’s up?” she asked, letting him in.

“Can you believe we actually got to see a real live cheat ripping off a casino?” Rand said. “Amazing. Do you think the gaming board caught that guy?”

Mags parked herself on the couch and worked on her drink. “Who knows.”

“Grimes said they were going to put the heavy on him. What does that mean?”

“If they got the chance, they’d knock the guy to the ground and pile up on him.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because it hurts.”

Rand got a light beer from the bar. He did his best thinking when he had a prop in his hand. “That maneuver the guy was doing with his chips. What’s it called again?”

“Capping. The cheat adds a chip to his bet if his hand’s strong. The opposite is pinching. That’s when the cheat steals a chip if the hand’s a loser. The ultimate is the Savannah, when you switch the entire bet under the dealer’s nose.”

“How does that work?”

“The Savannah employs reverse psychology. The cheat bets two five-dollar chips with a five-thousand-dollar chip hidden on the bottom. If the cheat wins the bet, the house has to pay the cheat off. If the cheat loses the bet, he switches the bet for three five-dollar chips.”

“Is that possible?”

“Yeah, with the right distraction.”

“Wouldn’t the dealer notice?”

“That’s where the reverse psychology comes in. The dealer is trained to watch winning bets, not losers. The switch flies right by. It’s a perfect move.”

“I want to work that into the pilot.”

“When?”

“First thing tomorrow.”

“My daughter’s flying in tonight. Can’t this wait a few days?”

“It won’t take thirty minutes. The Savannah. I love it. Get some sleep. You’re looking a little rough around the edges.”

“I didn’t say yes,” Mags reminded him.

Rand smiled like it was a done deal and left the suite. Mags hated when men played her. She poured herself a refill. There was another knock on her door. Through the peephole, she spied Billy in the hallway wearing a Vietnam vet cap. She pulled the door open without undoing the chain. “I don’t want to see you anymore. Go away.”

Billy’s face caved. “Then why the text?”

“I did it for old time’s sake. We’re done, Billy. You have to accept that.”

“But we could make a killing together.”

“You’re probably right. I just don’t want to be a thief anymore.”

“You sure don’t act like it.”

She tried to slam the door in Billy’s face, but his foot kept it open.

“There’s a reason I came,” he said. “Grimes is going to figure out that you stuck a knife in his back. You need to be ready for him.”

“I can handle Grimes. You need to leave, Billy. But before you do that, you need to promise me something. I want you to leave me alone. No more unexpected calls. I have enough drama in my life.”

He looked hurt. Mags hated treating him this way but didn’t see that she had any other choice.

“I’ll leave you alone, but I want something in return,” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“The Gypsies have never been busted. How did Grimes make my friend this afternoon?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Stay right there.” Mags got her purse and removed the photo of the Gypsies having breakfast with the claimer that she’d swiped off Blake’s desk, which she passed through the door to him. “The woman with the white hair is a claimer who your friends used to steal a jackpot from Galaxy. Grimes made the connection and has distributed the photo to every surveillance department in town. The Gypsies are screwed. You can keep the photo.”

He slipped the photo into his breast pocket. “What else does Grimes know?”

“Grimes knows that they’re the Gypsies and that they’ve been ripping off joints for a long time. Grimes is trying to get his boss’s job, and he thinks that busting them will be his ticket to the big time. He’s determined to arrest your friends and put them away.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“You think you can save them?”

“I’m sure going to try.” He stepped away from the door and gave her a smile that would have melted most women’s hearts. “Thanks for the save.”

He was making the parting easy. Mags appreciated that, and she said a tender good-bye and shut the door. A bad feeling made her pull it open and stick her head into the hallway.

“Hey! What about our deal?”

Now at the elevators, he turned to look at her. “What deal?”

“You promised to leave me alone. I want to hear you say it, Billy.”

The elevator doors parted. He got in without answering her.

“You dirty little shit!” she yelled after him.

Billy stuffed the vet’s cap into a wastebasket before coming out of LINQ and heading north on the Strip’s crowded sidewalk. The party was in full swing, and the smells of booze and weed were as pungent as a cheap hooker’s perfume. Weed was legal in Vegas, but it was a crime to do it inside a casino or in public, and that included having it in your bloodstream if a traffic cop pulled you over, but that didn’t stop the stoners from lighting up whenever the mood suited them. He didn’t have a problem with people getting stoned, unless they worked for him.

He came to the Venetian and glanced over his shoulder before going inside. He didn’t think he was being followed, but he’d learned it never hurt to be careful. The Grand Canal Shoppes lined the Venetian’s famed canals and sold everything from Salvatore Ferragamo to New York pretzels. The Rockhouse was a popular joint, with cute waitresses who got paid to dance whenever the music came on. Tommy Boswell, Cory, and Morris were sharing a plate of Dirty Jersey sliders in a corner booth. Billy took the empty spot next to Tommy and got hit on by a waitress in shorts and a bikini top.

“Hey, hey, the gang’s all here,” she said. “What’s your pleasure, handsome?”

“You still have Big Dog on draft?” Billy asked.

“It’s our biggest seller. Sixteen or twenty-two ounce?”

“Sixteen. And a glass of water.”

The waitress left, and Tommy Boswell pushed the last slider Billy’s way. The Boswells had ice cubes running through their veins, and you would never have known that Tommy had just escaped by the skin of his teeth from the law.