James Swain - Super Con

“Wake him up. If I don’t talk to my driver, our deal is off.”

“Don’t argue with me!”

“Do it, or I’ll hang up on you.”

Broken Tooth dropped the phone on a table, the sound like an explosion in Billy’s ear. He glanced at Grimes. The special agent was not happy with this development and started to voice his displeasure. Billy silenced him with a finger to the lips. Leon came on the line.

“Hello?” His driver’s speech was slurred.

“Hey, Leon, it’s me, Billy. You don’t sound so hot. You okay?”

“They beat the shit out of me.”

“What did you do this time?”

“They like to watch Chinese TV on their smartphones. Some stupid variety show. There was a girl singing off-key, so I asked them to turn the volume down.”

“How bad did they beat you up?”

“Can’t see out of my left eye, and my ribs are busted. I think my nose is broken, too.”

“I’m going to get you out of there, man. That’s a promise.”

“You better hurry up, because I can’t take much more of this.”

Broken Tooth came back on the line. “You satisfied?”

“Why did you have to hurt him?”

“Your driver’s got a big mouth. Lucky to be alive. Joyful House on Spring Mountain Road. Be there in thirty or my men will kill your driver.”

“Don’t do that.”

The call ended. Billy dropped the phone into his lap and used his hands to massage his face. It hurt him to hear Leon sounding so bad. Grimes touched Billy’s sleeve.

“If it makes you feel better, I can have an ambulance waiting nearby.”

He stared into the special agent’s face. There was a tinge of compassion beneath the ugly that hadn’t been there before. Like the criminals they chased, cops’ souls were often scorched beyond repair or healing. Grimes had fallen far, but he hadn’t fallen all the way.

“That would be great,” he said.

Grimes made a phone call to arrange for an ambulance to be at the ready. Ending the call, he hustled over to where his posse was gathered. The gaming agents piled into the van and followed Billy out of the parking lot.

As Billy drove to Joyful House, he used one hand to send his crew a group text telling them the rescue was on. Hitting “Send,” he realized his hand was shaking. He’d never been more scared in his life, and he tossed his phone on the passenger seat and stared at the road.

Joyful House was the anchor tenant of the Spring Oaks Plaza Shopping Center and advertised itself as one of the country’s top fifty Chinese restaurants. Vegas did not believe in zoning, and the center also housed a discount furniture store, a gun shop, and a massage parlor.

Dinnertime and the parking lot was nearly full. Billy took a space away from the restaurant’s entrance, by the street, while the gaming board’s van parked in front of the gun store with Grimes at the wheel. The plaza was a hub of activity, and the van blended in nicely.

Billy’s crew arrived in three vehicles and parked across the street in front of a store called Psychic Castles, which sold lucky charms and crystals. Cory and Morris drove their Infiniti SUV, Gabe his old diesel Mercedes, the girls a sexy red BMW that Pepper had recently bought.

Everyone ready? he texted.

His crew responded with a chorus of thumbs-up emojis. A minute later, Broken Tooth’s henchmen pulled into the lot in their rental, parked in a handicapped spot by the restaurant’s front door, and got out. Their knuckles sported flesh-covered Band-Aids, which Billy guessed were a result of the bashing they’d given poor Leon.

One of the bodyguards wore a man bun. He called for Billy to stay put and entered the restaurant with his partner. Billy’s cell phone rang, and he grabbed it off the passenger seat.

“What do you want?” he answered.

“Are those Broken Tooth’s men?” Grimes asked.

“No, they’re the Boy Scouts.”

“Never hurts to double check. Say something into the button on your shirt. I need to check the transmission again.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Just do it.”

Billy dipped his chin and spoke into the button. “This is a test of the emergency idiot system. This is only a test.”

“You’re not funny,” Grimes snapped.

“Got to run. Remember, if you shoot me, your case goes south.”

“Don’t tempt me, Cunningham.”

He ended the call and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The henchmen emerged with two shopping bags of takeout. Billy got out of his car and walked toward them.

“Ready when you are,” he said.

“Not yet.” Man Bun pointed at the roof of the rental. “Hands there.”

Billy slapped his hands on the roof. Man Bun patted him down, then stuck his hand underneath Billy’s shirt and ran his hand over the young hustler’s chest, searching for a wire. Satisfied, Man Bun jerked open the rental’s passenger door.

“Get in.”

Billy got in, and the bodyguards sandwiched him into the front seat like a human sardine. The rental pulled out of the lot heading west on Spring Mountain Road and was soon doing eighty miles an hour. Billy wasn’t wearing a seat belt and hugged the dashboard, fearful of being hurled through the windshield if they made a sudden stop.

“Slow down!”

Man Bun let out a brutal laugh. A mile later they slowed to sixty miles per hour, and the rental took a left on Lindell Street on two wheels. A mile after that, the daredevil move was repeated, this time on West Flamingo, followed by a quick right on El Camino and into the driveway of a one-story house with shuttered windows and zero landscaping, the rental’s wheels screaming as the brakes were finally used. Billy spotted a mailbox hugging the sidewalk: number 4021.

The garage door went up, and the rental entered. Billy stole a look in the mirror. The van with the gaming agents was nowhere to be seen. You’re screwed, he thought. The garage door came down, bringing darkness. The car doors were opened, and the car’s interior light came on. The henchmen got out. Billy followed, and the bags of takeout were shoved into his arms.

“Here, mule,” Man Bun said.

“I hope you got enough for everyone,” he said.

Man Bun opened an interior door that led into the house. They entered single file and passed through a small kitchen into the living room. The Chinese food smelled absolutely delicious, and Billy promised himself he’d try Joyful House if he got out of this alive.

Mismatched furniture and no wall coverings gave the living room a nightmarish feel. Blinds covered the windows, the main light coming from the flat-screen TV, on which a game show was playing. Broken Tooth sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, watching his prize cricket do battle with a smaller, less skillful opponent. If Billy had gotten a thousand crooks together and asked how many owned a champion fighting cricket, only one hand would go up, and it would belong to this crazy loon. His gut told him to make a run for it while he still had a chance, only there was still the matter of poor Leon, who sat bound in a chair in the corner. His driver looked worse than advertised, his eyes slits, his nose caked with blackened blood.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Leon whispered.

“Hold tight, my man,” Billy said.

The contest over, Broken Tooth scooped the smaller cricket off the floor, bit its head off, and spit it away, all the while giving his guest a suspicious stare.

“Tell me how the meeting with the football players went,” the Chinese gangster said.

“Like a charm,” he replied, speaking clearly so the wire hidden in his shirt would pick up every word. “Like I told you over the phone, I cheated Night Train and his buddies at cards. When Night Train tried to pay me off, I gave him his money back. That got his attention.”