James Swain - Super Con

Morris suddenly punched the dashboard and yelped in pain.

“Why did you do that?” Cory asked.

“I never should have shot Travis. I should have just let him shoot his mouth off and he would have left. Killing him proved nothing.”

“Travis had it coming. If I’d gotten my hands on the gun, I would have shot him. That asshole was destined to die in our house, so stop flogging yourself.”

More silence. They both were craving a joint. Getting high was how they calmed themselves down. But they’d sworn off the dope, and neither wanted to be the first to bend.

“What are we going to do in Mexico besides get sexually transmitted diseases?”

“A couple of weeks ago, Travis told me about a project he was working on for Billy,” Cory said. “I’m going to ask Billy if we can take it over. It will give us something to do.”

“What kind of project?”

“Travis called it the Same Key project. It’s based upon the principle that companies will cut corners by putting out duplicates under the belief that no one will know. Ford did it years ago when they only put out four keys for their station wagons. Word eventually got out, and Ford got in trouble, but it still goes on.”

“In the casino business, too?”

“Especially in the casino business. Back in the old days, each slot machine needed a key to open it. Several manufacturers cut corners by having a skeleton key that could open all their machines. It worked great, until a gang of cheats made a copy and went around rigging jackpots. The casinos lost a bundle.”

“But that can’t happen now,” Morris said. “Can it?”

“Billy thinks it can. There are more than a hundred thousand slot machines in Vegas and another fifty thousand video poker machines. By law, each machine is required to have its own source code embedded in the EPROM chip that keeps the game from getting corrupted. Billy thinks there are machines out there that share the same codes.”

“These machines would be made by the same company.”

“Correct. It would save them a fortune by sharing codes. The machines would be vulnerable, but they’re banking on the belief that no one will realize what they’ve done.”

“Like Ford.”

“Exactly. Just like Ford.”

Morris was feeling more like himself and sucked on his swollen knuckle. “So how are we going to figure this out while we’re sitting on the beach in Mexico?”

“That’s the fun part. The companies that manufacture the games are publicly held. We look at their quarterly reports and see if any have been reporting unusually high profits. If one is making more money than the others, they’re probably cutting corners and sharing codes.”

“Stock reports,” Morris said.

“You don’t believe me.”

“It sounds far-fetched.”

“Travis said this was the way Lumber Liquidators got caught.”

“Those were the guys who put embalming fluid in the flooring.”

“Right again. A hedge-fund manager analyzed their stock report and didn’t understand why profits were so high. He investigated and found they were putting bad chemicals in their products. Stop sucking your hand. It makes you look like a baby.”

“What happens if we find a company that’s making more money than the others?”

“Billy will buy two of their machines and have Gabe pull out their EPROM chips and see if the codes match. If they do, it’s off to the races, my friend.”

It all sounded fine and dandy, but it didn’t explain how they were going to dispose of Travis without being spotted and going to prison. They were in a heap of trouble if Billy didn’t come to their rescue.

Cory’s cell phone chirped. “It’s Billy,” he said.

Morris tried to eavesdrop, and Cory pushed him away. The call was a short one. Cory hung up and started the car.

“Lock the unit,” Cory said. “Billy’s come up with a plan.”

Gabe’s home in Silverado Lakes was the crew’s unofficial meeting place. The neighborhood was sleepy, and the nearby pizza joint delivered.

After his wife split, Gabe had chosen to redecorate with expensive grown-up toys. An elaborate train set filled the living room; a slate pool table was in the den; and Ping-Pong, foosball, and pinball were in the family room. It was the perfect man cave, and his crew usually enjoyed a few games before getting down to business.

Not today. They sat at the kitchen table, as still as an oil painting. It was weird without Travis. The big man was the life of the party, and his loss left a void. Wanting to lift the mood, Billy said, “Show us the gaffed coin you created for the Super Bowl coin flip.”

Gabe produced a gold coin from his shirt pocket. The size of a silver dollar, it had the Vince Lombardi Trophy on one side, the participating teams’ helmets on the other. Gabe explained how the coin’s extra thickness had allowed him to insert a capsule of mercury and a micro-transmitter in its center. On Gabe’s iPhone was a special app with two buttons. The red for tails, the green for heads. Pepper was given the honors and flipped the coin into the air.

“Heads,” Billy said.

Gabe pressed the green button. The coin hit the table showing heads. “I’ve tested it a thousand times. The micro-transmitter shifts the mercury to the opposite side, producing the desired result. It never fails.”

“How far away can Cory and Morris be with your iPhone to make it work?”

“Three hundred feet max. If they sit in the first few rows of the stadium, no problem.”

“Call a scalper and buy two front-row seats on the fifty-yard line,” Billy said to Cory. “You and Morris are going to the Super Bowl next Sunday.”

“Not Mexico?” Cory asked.

“No. I came up with a way to dispose of Travis’s body that will leave you and Morris in the clear.”

“Cool,” Cory said.

The words cast a pall over the others. Billy studied their faces before speaking again. “Travis was a dumb bastard, but that doesn’t change the fact that we all liked him. If you have something you’d like to get off your chest, do it now.”

“I just don’t understand why Travis broke bad on us,” Misty said. “We were his friends. His situation was different having a wife and kids, and we went out of our way for him.”

“I know you did,” Billy said.

“And we covered for him,” Pepper added. “Remember that time at Harrah’s when Travis threw the dice down the table, and the palmed pair hidden in his hand fell on his chips? I pulled my titties out of my blouse and swung them in the employees’ faces to give Travis a distraction so he could clean up. I don’t pull my titties out for just anybody, you know.”

“You saved his ass,” Billy said.

“Damn straight I did. So why did Travis turn on us? I know Travis told Cory it was because you criticized him, but hell, we all criticized him. That wasn’t the real reason Travis screwed us. It had to be something else.”

Billy didn’t see the point in kicking a dead horse. Travis should have been happy with his deal. The big man had run with Billy the longest, had made the most money, lived in a nice house, had two new cars, and took his family on great vacations. But Travis had a dark side that the others hadn’t seen. He had frequented hookers and picked fights in bars with strangers. And the big man had stolen from every casino he had worked for. Nothing had ever been good enough for him. Travis had been destined to blow himself up; it was simply a matter of when.

“Some dogs just like to roll in shit,” Billy said.

His crew nodded agreement. Vegas was filled with self-destructive people. The catch was that none of them had recognized this flaw in Travis.

Billy was glad to have that out of the way, and he got down to the business at hand.