James Swain - Super Con

“You want to go to the ER, get your stomach pumped?”

Cory grunted in the negative. When the catharsis was over, he spoke. “The next time we go out, remind me not to drink tequila.”

“You said that the last time you puked your guts out.”

“This time, I mean it.”

Morris unlocked the front door and went to deactivate the security system. To his surprise, it was already turned off. “Didn’t you set this when we left?”

“I thought I did.”

The house had a sprawling free-flow design with partial walls separating the rooms. In the center of the living room was a giant fish tank filled with exotics. Morris suffered from insomnia, and late at night when he couldn’t sleep, he’d sit in front of the tank and watch the fish. The chair he used had a reclining feature, and he often dozed off in it.

Travis sat in that chair now, waiting for them.

“Hey guys, hope you don’t mind, but I let myself in,” the big man said. “Still had the key you gave me when you went on vacation and had me feed the fish.”

A half-finished bottle of beer sat on the floor. Travis picked it up and took a swig. Cory started to walk toward their intruder. Morris grabbed his friend’s arm and restrained him.

“You don’t look too happy to see me,” Travis said.

“You broke into our house,” Cory seethed.

“I used a key. We need to talk.”

“Get the hell out, right now.”

Travis didn’t budge. The tank’s bright lights danced across his rugged features. Morris spied a bulge beneath Travis’s shirt and guessed the big man was packing heat.

“I have a business proposition that’s going to make you bookoo bucks,” Travis said, as slick as a used-car salesman. “Sit down and take a load off your feet. You won’t be disappointed by what I have to say.”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Cory spit at him.

“And a traitor,” Morris chimed in.

“I won’t deny it. But I’m not small-time anymore. And you both are. I found this little beauty on your kitchen table. What are we talking about, fifty years old?”

Travis removed a horse booster kit from the pocket of his shirt. The kit consisted of a miniature battery pack, a solenoid, and a radio receiver, the whole thing designed to be woven into a racehorse’s tail. The cheat sat in the grandstands with a radio transmitter disguised as binoculars. During the race, the cheat would press a button that activated the solenoid and triggered a needle that jabbed the horse in the ass, making it run faster.

“It gets the money,” Morris said defensively.

“It’s bush league,” Travis said. “You could drug the horse to run faster or shock it through the jockey’s saddle. But stick it with a needle? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The horse booster was primitive, but sometimes primitive was okay. When the race was over, the jockey could tear the kit from the horse’s tail and dispose of it. There was no telltale evidence, which couldn’t be said for the other ways to fix the ponies.

Cory looked ready to jump their visitor. A capital idea, only Travis would draw his gun and shoot him. Morris dragged Cory over to the couch and made his best friend sit down beside him.

“Explain your deal,” Morris said.

“Broken Tooth uses a network to place his bets for him,” Travis said. “This network is in Asia and Europe, but no one in the good ole US of A. That’s where you boys come in. You’ll place his bets in the States and clean up. Broken Tooth had hoped to strike a deal with Billy, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why not? What did Billy do?” Morris asked.

“Broken Tooth thinks Billy’s a snake. Billy wants five hundred grand in good-faith money to give to the Rebels’ defensive players. Broken Tooth said it’s too much. He thinks Billy’s pulling a fast one.”

“And you agreed with him,” Cory blurted out.

Travis sucked his beer, his eyes never leaving Cory’s face. “Broken Tooth wants to move on. I’m hoping you’ll be smart enough to see what a great opportunity this is.”

“Billy made you rich, and this is how you repay him?” Cory asked, the booze thickening his tongue. “What fucking rock did you crawl out from beneath?”

“Watch your mouth.”

“What did Billy do to make you betray him? Did he say Karen was ugly? Or that your sleight of hand sucks? Come on, I want to know.”

Travis’s eyes flared, and he leaned forward in his chair. “You’re going down the wrong road, Cory. Keep it up, and I’ll make you eat those words.”

“Answer the fucking question.”

Travis touched the handle of his gun through the fabric of his shirt. “All right, I’ll tell you what that asshole Billy did. He kept criticizing me, told me I needed to work on my dice and card switches, like I wasn’t good enough. I got the money, didn’t I?”

“You want to know the truth? Your technique sucks. If Pepper and Misty weren’t distracting the pit bosses, we would have been caught by now, you stupid shit.”

“Is that so?” Travis lifted his shirt, exposing his weapon. “Say it again, I dare you.”

One of the advantages of learning to shoot at MGV was the staff. All ex-military vets from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, they’d drummed into Morris’s head the importance of getting the draw on your opponent. Anyone could fire a gun and hit a target; the key to battle was getting off the first round. Reaching under the couch, Morris drew a Beretta M9 and took careful aim at their unwanted guest. The M9 had been the standard handgun across the military for twenty years and was absolutely lethal at close range.

Travis froze. His arms went into the air. “Morris. Please.”

With his free hand, Morris picked up the remote off the couch and turned on the TV. The voices of two announcers broadcasting a basketball game filled the room, and he jacked up the volume.

Then Morris shot Travis dead.

Vegas never slept, and neither did its airport. Flights into McCarran arrived at all hours, with suckers pouring off the planes eager to blow their hard-earned cash.

Mags stood in the main terminal listening to the endless loop of promotional ads for the casinos play over the PA. It was worse than Chinese water torture, and if she could have found a live human being in the terminal, she would have bribed him to turn it off.

The big board flashed. Amber’s flight had landed, and Mags nervously chewed her fingernails. Her baby had flown across the country to visit a mother she hardly knew. Maybe it was the start of a beautiful relationship, or maybe they’d end up at each other’s throats. It really didn’t matter. It was about to happen, and she’d never been more excited in her life.

Her trajectory was changing. She was starring in a TV show and getting paid to be an actress. And she didn’t have the cops breathing down her neck. Life was good.

She got a text.

I’m here!

Suddenly, she felt scared. Amber was twenty-one years old! Her daughter had slept with boys and knew how to survive in this cruel world. What the hell did Mags think she was going to tell Amber that her daughter didn’t already know?

Nothing, that’s what.

Mags hadn’t been around for the important stuff. Her parents had raised Amber and molded her into the person she was today. Mags had sent checks and called on the important dates, but what good was that in the scheme of things?

Nothing, that’s what.

The main terminal had a bank of slot machines. Mags sat down in a chair in front of one and buried her head in her hands. This was all wrong. She’d made a terrible mistake.

A hand touched her shoulder. “Mom?”

She slowly rose. The terminal was swarming with travelers wearing puffy jackets lined with down. Her baby stood before her dressed in a black leather jacket and a wool cap, and could have stepped out of the pages of a yuppie clothing catalog.