James Swain - Super Con

It couldn’t have gone better if Billy had scripted it. Cory, Morris, and Gabe would need to go to Phoenix to rig the coin toss, but that was easily done. Not wanting to appear too anxious, he let a moment pass, then took his next shot. “I have another business proposition for you. Tomorrow, I want you to help me burn several MGM casinos with a super con. It won’t require any rehearsal or lines to memorize. It’s a piece of cake.”

“Sounds interesting,” Night Train said. “What’s our take?”

“Half, just like the Super Bowl fix.”

“Which is what? Say fifty grand, and I’ll toss you on your ass.”

The message was clear. Night Train and his buddies would not rob for chump change. If you’re going to sin, sin boldly, or so the sentiment among the thieving class went.

“It all depends upon the size of your credit line with MGM. I’m assuming you guys have large ones,” he said.

“My credit line with MGM is two million bucks,” Night Train said.

“Same here,” Choo-Choo said.

“One point five million,” Sammy said.

“Me, too,” Assassin said.

Clete’s credit line was the same. Billy couldn’t have asked for a better crew to pull off Victor’s super con. Night Train and company were built in with MGM. None of the MGM casinos would get suspicious if they gambled for high stakes, since they’d done so before.

“You want us to put up our own money? Is that the deal?” Night Train asked.

Billy’s cheeks burned. “You think I’m trying to hustle you?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“No, you don’t have to put up your own money. You’ll use the good-faith money I was going to give you to fix the game.” He turned the bags upside down, and the money he’d stolen from Broken Tooth poured onto the table.

Night Train looked confused. “I’m good with that. But why did you ask about our credit lines?”

“Your credit line is your identity inside a casino,” he explained. “The pit boss pulls it up on his computer, sees that you’re a high roller, and won’t get nervous when you place big bets.”

A smart cheat never admitted he didn’t understand something. The remark put Night Train in a new light and made Billy wonder if the famous football player was just a dumb jock with a portfolio of bankrupt business ventures. It was how most pro athletes ended up.

“With our credit lines, how much can we steal?” Night Train asked.

“Multiply your credit line by two,” Billy said. “That much. Maybe a little more. Then the casino cuts you off. There’s only so much bleeding they’ll take.”

“Our combined credit line is eight and a half million bucks. You’re saying we can steal twice that much with this super con, and we get to keep half?”

“That’s right.”

Night Train glanced at his teammates. A silent agreement was reached, just like that.

“Count us in,” Night Train said.

No one ever said yes that quickly to a heist. There were always fine points to be ironed out and agreed upon. His suspicion that Night Train might be broke now included his pals. That was why they’d jumped at the chance to make a quick hit on fixing the Super Bowl, and it was why they were talking to him now. They needed the dough.

He’d found the perfect partners. Thieves by nature with nothing in their wallets. If the super con went according to plan, who knew what the future might hold?

“I think this calls for a toast,” he said.

“Have to be quick. We’re due at practice in two hours,” Night Train said.

“I’ll make them light,” he said.

The villa had an entertainment room with a full bar. Billy offered to fix the drinks and pulled an expensive bottle of champagne out of the fridge along with a carton of OJ.

“How do mimosas sound?” he asked.

The football players chorused their approval. They’d parked themselves in front of a flat-screen TV to watch a video of the Louisville Volunteers, their opponents next Sunday. The video ran in slow motion and was filled with white arrows and lines drawn by an invisible hand.

“Godfrey looks stiff in the pocket, doesn’t he?” Choo-Choo said.

“Sure does. He’s got no lateral movement,” Sammy said.

“What’s wrong with him?” Billy asked, serving their drinks.

“Herniated disc. Got injured in the divisional round against Indianapolis,” Night Train explained. “They’re going to dope him up for the big game and hope he doesn’t say anything stupid when a mic gets shoved in his face.”

The five men erupted into laughter. Neil Godfrey was the Volunteers’ star quarterback and quickly becoming a household name. A fresh-faced kid out of the University of Georgia, he’d set all sorts of passing records during his rookie season last year and become a media darling. It was hard to turn on the TV and not see Godfrey hawking some brand-name product.

“I didn’t see Godfrey listed on the Volunteers’ injury report,” Billy said.

“The league doesn’t want it out. They want to keep the point spread tight,” Night Train said.

“Who’s Louisville’s backup quarterback?” Sammy asked.

“Sycamore. The Jets cut him, and the Volunteers picked him up,” Night Train said.

“Is he any good?”

“Sycamore’s way good. But he gets tight under pressure and starts throwing picks. He’s been released by every team he’s played for.”

The video of Godfrey continued to run. Night Train held up his empty glass. “Hey, barkeep, how about another round? Make it super light so I don’t fall down during practice.”

“You got it.” He collected the empty glass and went behind the bar. Louisville wasn’t going to fare very well next Sunday with an ailing quarterback, all but ensuring a Rebels win. Night Train and his teammates had won the Super Bowl before, and they were about to win it again. They were going to end their careers on top, and then ride off into the sunset.

He fixed the drink. The OJ was done, and he tossed the empty carton away. Lying in the trash was a stack of official-looking documents with the NFL’s logo stamped on the top of each page. Their being in the garbage didn’t seem right, and he pulled them out to have a look.

They were contracts. The first was for Night Train to host the NFL pregame show on NBC, and it included working the playoffs and next year’s Super Bowl. It was a sweet deal, and would let Night Train’s star continue to shine after his playing days were over.

The next contract was for Choo-Choo to work as a color commentator for the NFL Network. It had lots of perks, including first-class travel to all the games and a generous food and wardrobe allotment. The other contracts were for Clete, Sammy, and Assassin to work as talking heads for ESPN and Fox Sports One. The terms were also lucrative.

He returned the contracts to the trash. Just a few days ago, the NFL’s commissioner had met with the football players on the villa’s balcony. He had to believe the commissioner had flown to Vegas to discuss the jobs described in these contracts. Why they’d ended up in the garbage was a mystery, and he supposed the football players were holding out for more money.

He served Night Train. The video of Neil Godfrey was still running. Night Train sipped his drink and said, “The things you just heard about Godfrey are top secret. Understood?”

“Loud and clear,” he said.

“When do we get to see this super con?”

“Don’t you have to go to practice?” he asked.

“We’ve got time.” Night Train made the screen go dark with the remote. “Me and my boys want to see what we’re getting ourselves into.”

“Understood. Step right this way,” he said.

Billy decided to use the antique card table in the corner of the entertainment room for the demonstration. The football players pulled up chairs while he remained standing. “MGM owns twelve casinos on the Strip. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to rig a blackjack game in five of those casinos. I will then contact you and tell you which casinos are your targets.”