James Swain - Super Con

Amber Flynn also pulled up a chair. She was a softer version of her mother, with short-cropped brown hair and a face that made you want to buy her a drink. She’d graduated college not long ago and had the self-assured air of a person who thought anything was possible.

“Nice to meet you,” Billy said. “You guys want something to drink? Or a burger?”

“We didn’t come here to eat,” Mags said. “I’m going to get right to the point. Frank Grimes wants me to help him find the Gypsies. If I do that, he leaves me alone. If not, he’s promised to turn my life upside down and destroy me.”

“Is Grimes serious?”

“Dead serious. My producer knows.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if I don’t get Grimes off my back, Night and Day will be shut down, and I’ll be out of work.”

Billy glanced at Amber, then back at her mother. “How much does she know?”

“I don’t keep secrets from Amber.”

“You need to help my mother,” Amber said, breaking her silence. “That asshole suit from the gaming board has it out for her.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Billy said.

“That’s not good enough.” Amber sounded so much like her mother that it was scary. She put her elbows on the table and leaned in. “My mother helped out your friends, and you dropped a piece of evidence that’s put my mother in a bad situation. I know you didn’t do this intentionally, but you were still responsible, and you’ve got to own up to that.”

Mags had told Billy that Amber had majored in criminology with a minor in psychology, making Billy think that Amber believed she might plumb the recesses of the criminal mind and learn what made people turn bad. In the meantime, she needed to be straightened out, so he said, “I didn’t ask for your mother to give me that photograph. She didn’t tell me that it could be traced back to her or that I needed to destroy it, which I would have been more than happy to do. So don’t throw a guilt trip on me, okay? Shit happens, especially in our line of work.”

That shut the kid up but fast. A waitress hit the table. Billy ordered three Sculpin IPAs before Mags or her daughter had a chance to read the menu. The waitress departed.

“I don’t like IPAs,” Mags said.

“Neither do I,” her daughter echoed.

“It’s an acquired taste.” He paused to let that set in, then said, “Why does Grimes have it out for the Gypsies? There are other thieves he could chase who would land him a promotion.”

“Frank said the Gypsies are special, that no one’s ever caught them,” Mags explained.

“He wants the recognition,” Billy said.

Mother and daughter stared at him, not understanding.

“Grimes wants to be recognized by his superiors,” he said. “It’s what drives most people in law enforcement. They need a superior to tell them they’re better than average.”

“You’re good,” Amber said.

“Call it whatever you want,” Mags said. “Grimes is hell-bent on nailing your friends to the wall. So what the hell are we going to do?”

Their beers came. Mags and her daughter sipped and winced. IPAs were a creation of the British army in their desire to bring beer to soldiers stationed in India during the 1800s. The beer’s unusually strong hops were not for more sensitive palates or the faint of heart.

“We’ll send Grimes in another direction,” he said.

A spark of hope lit up Mags’s face. Acting was draining the life out of her, and the bewitchingly beautiful creature who had seduced him into a life of crime was a shadow of her former self. It broke his heart, but he didn’t see how he was going to get her back.

“How are you going to do that?” Mags asked.

The germ of an idea was forming in Billy’s head. The Gypsies were a big fish, but there was an even bigger fish to be caught, one that would all but guarantee Grimes a promotion and get him the praise of his peers. He finished off his beer.

“Tell me,” Mags insisted.

“I can’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t entirely figured it out yet. But I will. You have to trust me on this. I’ll get Grimes off your back, and you can go back to being a TV star.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes, it’s a promise.”

Amber shot him a murderous look. “Well, aren’t you Mr. Fucking Wonderful? ‘You have to trust me on this.’ Right. Like anyone is going to trust you. You don’t have a plan at all. You’re just bullshitting us.”

“Amber, that’s enough,” Mags said.

“I don’t care. He screwed up and needs to make things right.”

Billy started to steam. He’d given Mags his word, and in this town that was better than a contract witnessed by a dozen high-priced lawyers. Only Amber wasn’t buying it, and he wondered if his hundred-dollar haircut or the crease in his trousers had turned her off.

“We’ll probably never hear from you again, either,” Amber added.

She had called him a snake. Billy didn’t like it and decided to set Amber straight. “Your mother came to me because she knows I can fix this. How isn’t important. Once I put my mind to something, I’ll get it done.”

“You’re not that smart.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

Amber shook her head; she had no faith in him at all.

“If I told you I was going to steal two grand from the casino, would you believe me?”

“Steal it how?”

“That’s beside the point. Would you?”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“So you don’t trust me when I say I’m going to do something.”

“Not in the least,” Amber said.

“Two grand in sixty minutes.”

“Is he being serious?” Amber asked her mother.

Mags rose from the table. Her daughter had picked this fight, and Mags wasn’t going to get in the middle of it. “I’ll be outside in the car. Come out when you’re done.”

“But Mom...”

“Start timing me,” Billy said.

Billy entered SLS’s casino with Amber hot on his heels. Mags had spoken so highly of her daughter that he’d expected a polished young woman possessing loads of subtle charms. Amber was barely out of diapers and hardly knew the score.

The blackjack pit was hopping, the dealers smiling and friendly. He did a slow trawl of the tables, looking for a game that could be easily scammed. There were dozens of ways to cheat at blackjack that ranged from the obvious to the sublime. Billy had cut his teeth with these scams but over time had graduated to bigger things.

He zeroed in on a female dealer whose name tag said KENYA/CLEVELAND. Kenya was as pretty as a picture and all dolled up, her long fingernails perfectly manicured. No casino in town would have let Kenya deal blackjack, but SLS was brand new, and management didn’t know better.

He turned to Amber. “Are you legal?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Amber said.

“Are you twenty-one? Otherwise, you can’t sit down at the table with me.”

“Yes, I’m legal.”

“They’re going to want to see ID.”

“I have a driver’s license and my student ID.”

“That should work. How much time do I have left?”

“Fifty-two minutes.”

They took chairs at Kenya’s table. Billy threw down $500 and Kenya turned it into chips. He placed a fifty-dollar bet for himself, another fifty for Amber.

“Is it okay if I coach my girlfriend?” he asked. “She’s never played before.”

“Coaching’s allowed,” Kenya replied. “Good luck.”

Kenya dealt the round. Blackjack required that the dealer take the second card and slip it facedown beneath her first card, which stayed faceup. This facedown card was called the hole card. Its identity would be revealed only after the players had played their hands.