James Swain - Super Con

Billy couldn’t help but laugh.

“You think I’m being funny?” Grimes said, growing angry. “You’re going to end up rotting in prison. You’ll regret not listening to me.”

Grimes was steaming. But he didn’t get out of the car and storm off. It made Billy wonder if the special agent was telling Billy a hidden truth about himself. Grimes was a smart son of a bitch, and Billy wondered if Grimes secretly regretted not venturing out on his own, instead of seeking the safety of law enforcement work and the benefits that came with it.

“When I was growing up, I read a book called Little Man . You know it?”

Grimes stared at him out of the corner of his eye. “No.”

“It was about the life of the gangster Meyer Lansky. Lansky was the moneyman for the mob, had to be one of the smartest guys who ever lived. He could sit in the stands watching a baseball game and calculate the different players’ batting averages each time they came up to the plate. He was carrying all that information around in his head, along with the figures for all the rackets the mob ran. He was a genius.”

“That’s impressive. What’s your point?”

“When Lansky got older he tried to go legit. He moved to Florida and ran a restaurant and a string of dry cleaners and other businesses with his brother Jake. They all failed, and Lansky lost his shirt. Success has nothing to do with how smart you are. It’s about luck.”

“Is that why you keep stealing?” Grimes asked. “Because you’re afraid of failing in the real world? The fact is, Billy, you never tried the real world, so there’s no way you’d know.”

Billy turned to face his adversary. “You want to know why I steal? I steal because it’s a blast. Every time I rip off a casino, it feels better than having sex. I’m also damn good at it. The day it turns into a job, I’ll quit.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”

“I know what makes me happy. Do you?”

Grimes snorted contemptuously. That was enough of an answer in itself. Billy said, “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help your investigation.”

“Fuck you.”

“Let’s part friends, shall we?”

Grimes got out, rifled the valet stand for his keys, then entered the parking garage in search of his car. He was like an active volcano, the bad stuff bubbling just below the surface. Billy hoped like hell Grimes got his promotion; it might keep the special agent out of his hair.

His cell phone vibrated. It was Casey, calling him back.

“Sorry about that. Are you up for some fun and games?” Billy said.

“I’m in my car, heading to LA,” Casey said.

“Trouble?”

“Afraid so. I’ve been running a chip cup scam at one of the Venetian’s craps tables. This afternoon, the dealer flipped the cup over and exposed it to the eye-in-the-sky. They arrested him.”

“Think he’ll turn on you?”

“My gut says he won’t. But just in case he does, I’m going to be far away from Vegas. I’ve booked a one-way ticket to Hawaii out of LAX tomorrow morning.”

No simpler cheating device had stolen more money from the casinos than the chip cup. It was a tin shell designed to look like a stack of low denomination chips, its purpose to secretly steal high-value chips inside its shell. The dealer did the stealing, then sold the chip cup stuffed with chips to his partner sitting at the table.

A great scam, except for one minor problem. The chip cup was on the table in plain view. If a suspicious pit boss picked it up, Katy bar the door. Or in Casey’s situation, the clumsy dealer fumbled and turned the cup over, exposing its false construction. Either scenario would lead to immediate arrest and a lengthy stay in the gray-bar motel.

“Sure I can’t talk you into coming back?” Billy said.

“Christ, Billy, I’d like nothing better than to run with you again. We had a blast back in the day. You were the champ when it came to thieving.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Don’t tempt me, man. I need to leave town and let the dust settle.”

“I’ll give you half a million bucks.”

“Oh man. I wish I could say yes, I really do.”

“What’s holding you back?”

“I did time a few years back. Worst experience of my life. I won’t go back.”

Nevada had an unwritten policy when it came to dealing with cheats. The courts sent them to the state’s most notorious penal institutions, where cheats lived in tiny cells without air conditioning, ate food unfit for a dog, and tried to survive among rival gangs trying to kill each other. Billy couldn’t blame Casey for not wanting to go back.

“I understand. I hope it works out for you,” he said.

“Good luck with your scam,” Casey said.

“I’m probably going to do the painting myself. Any tips you can share?”

“Sure. The person most likely to catch you painting is the dealer. Make sure you sit at a crowded table. The more distraction, the less chance you’ll get caught.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Keep your thumb still when you paint. If your thumb starts flapping, you’re cooked.”

“Got it. Thanks, man.”

Soon Billy was in his penthouse apartment fixing himself a cup of coffee. When it came to thieving, necessity was the mother of invention. If he couldn’t hire a painter, he’d do the job himself. From the hall closet he removed a video camera and tripod stand, which he set up at the dining room table. Then he got several decks of cards and a small round tin of luminous paint from his study.

He hit the record button on the video camera and took a chair at the table. Picking up one of the decks, he dealt himself a blackjack hand, then opened the can and covered his thumb and forefinger with the invisible substance.

He practiced painting the backs of the two cards. A light brush of the fingertips was all that was necessary. If done right, the move was barely perceptible. If done wrong, the move would wake the dead, and he’d get hauled off to jail.

He went through an entire deck, then stopped and programmed the video camera into the TV in the living room so he could critique himself. The video came on, his hands filling the screen. He watched himself and nearly choked. His technique was amateurish and would be easily spotted by a sharp dealer.

He returned to the dining room and started over. Casey had said not to flap his thumb. That was easier said than done. He went through two more decks of cards, watched the tape, and still caught himself in the act every single time.

He got more cards from his study and started over. He was determined to get the move down right, the conversation with Grimes fresh in his mind. Thieving was his life; the day he quit would be the day they put him in the ground.

Friday, nine days before the Super Bowl

Mags and Amber cabbed it to McCarran the next morning. Inside the terminal, blaring commercials for musical revues and magic shows playing at the Strip casinos ran endlessly on large screens. Listening to them for too long could lead to insanity, even death.

Mags stood in the check-in line with her daughter. They’d hardly spoken during the ride, and now Amber was not making eye contact. How long would it be before they saw each other again? A year? Two? Maybe never? She tried not to cry, but it was hard. Twenty-four hours ago, her life had been filled with the stuff that dreams were made of. With the suddenness of a lightning strike, it had turned into a disaster movie. Hardship and failure had defined most of her existence, and she could deal with it. What she couldn’t deal with was having Amber experience the failure with her. That part was tearing Mags’s heart out.