James Swain - Super Con

“I did?”

“Yes! Strong female characters are driving broadcast TV, and you’re as strong as they come. They’ve cleared a slot in next fall’s lineup for the show. Tuesday night, nine to ten p.m. It doesn’t get any better than that. You’re going to be a major star, Maggie.”

“If the show’s still on, why did you fire the crew?”

“Not my call. The boys at CBS want a seasoned crew, so they instructed me to let everyone go, including that idiot director and screenwriter. They’re bringing on a whole new gang with tons of experience. We’re starting from scratch.”

“Is that normal?”

“In Hollywood it is.”

Her head was spinning. Instead of pinching herself, she took her drink back and saw the glass was empty. Rand signaled the waiter for another round.

“They liked me?”

“They loved you.”

“You’d better not be pulling a fast one.”

“Come on, you know me better than that.”

“Why didn’t you call me? Or send me a text? Why the radio silence?”

“I wanted to tell you in person and see the look on your face. Texts are too impersonal, don’t you think?”

Mags said nothing. She wanted to believe him, only his words weren’t ringing true. Her cell phone beeped in her purse, and she pulled it out. Amber had sent a text, saying she’d gotten home safe and what a great time she’d had. The message nearly made her cry.

“You thought I’d left you high and dry?” Rand said. “Never in a thousand years would I do that to you. That day you fleeced me at poker, I knew you were special. That’s why I worked so hard to sell you to CBS. It’s the one network that appreciates talent.”

The next round came. Mags took a healthy gulp of her drink. The alcohol hit her stomach like a hand grenade and made her nostrils burn.

“They ordered twelve one-hour episodes,” he said. “You’ll be paid fifty thousand per episode, which works out to a cool six hundred grand. Not bad for a newbie actress.”

It all sounded great, but it still didn’t change the fact that Rand had run out on her. What if the honchos at CBS had told Rand that Mags had zero talent? Would the smooth-talking prick have bothered to fly back to Vegas to break the bad news? She didn’t think so. Instead, he would have left her high and dry, gone onto his next project, and wiped her from his memory. She pulled off her wig and tossed it on the table.

“Tell them I want more money,” she said.

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious. Tell them I want seventy grand an episode.”

“Maggie, please, that’s not how the business works.”

“Do it anyway. You can use my cell phone.”

She gave him her cell phone and Rand made the call.

“You’re way out of line, you know that?” he said as the call went through.

“What else is new?” she said.

Like a play, cheating a casino had three distinct acts. The beginning, the middle, and the end.

In the first act, the cheat sat down at a game and pretended to be a sucker. Since 99 percent of players in a casino were suckers, this was relatively easy and required little more than the cheat yucking it up and having a good time.

In the second act, the cheat turned the tables on the casino and began to win. This was when the play became complicated. The cheat needed to stay in character and give the casino the false impression that his winnings would be returned in short order.

In the final act, the cheat walked away with the casino’s dough. In many ways, this was the hardest act of all, for it was totally out of character for anyone who gambled to quit while ahead. Gamblers lived for lucky streaks, and a winning gambler rarely quit.

Night Train and his buddies knew these things. They’d been cheating at poker for years, and a poker scam was structured the same as a casino scam, with three distinct acts. This was why Billy believed the football players would pull through with the super con.

After parting with Mags, Billy took the elevator to his condo and donned a new disguise. This time, he opted for jeans, a lime green polo shirt, a navy blazer with mother-of-pearl buttons, and cowboy boots that made him three inches taller. Cotton balls were shoved into both sides of his mouth to widen his face. To further trick the cameras, he treated his hair with a product called Caboki. Derived from a plant, Caboki instantly bonded to his existing hair and erased any visible spots in his scalp. His hair looked like a lion’s mane.

He applied gel and spiked it. The face in the mirror didn’t look anything like the guy who’d just helped Maggie Flynn paint cards in five MGM casinos.

In his dresser were a dozen pairs of shades, ranging from cheap to expensive. He chose a pair of Ray-Ban Predators. Dark sunglasses were needed to read luminous marks, the darker the better. Some cheats preferred shaded contact lenses, but Billy had found that they impaired his vision.

He got a call from Night Train. Yesterday at the villa, he’d instructed Night Train to stop communicating via phone calls until the super con was over. It had obviously escaped Night Train’s memory.

“We finished practice early. Coaches had us in full pads in this heat. Guys were passing out,” Night Train said. “I was just calling to see if the blackjack scam was all set.”

“It is indeed,” Billy said. “Do yourself a favor and don’t call me anymore. If we get caught, the police will confiscate our cell phones and look at our calls. If they see we’ve been talking, we’re screwed. We’ll communicate by text message from now on. When we’re done, you erase the texts, and the evidence disappears.”

“That’s smart. You know all the angles, don’t you?”

“It’s all in the details. Hang up, and I’ll send you the schedule.”

The call ended. Billy sent a text to Night Train with the names of the five MGM properties they were going to rob, along with the times Night Train and his teammates needed to arrive at the casinos.

Luxor 4:00 p.m.

MGM 6:30 p.m.

MB 9:00 p.m.

Mirage 11:30 p.m.

Aria 2:00 a.m.

Night Train sent him a reply.

Got it. Will you be in disguise?

Smart question. Billy took a selfie and sent it to Night Train.

This is what I look like. I’ll be standing by the blackjack game that we’re going to scam.

Who you want at each casino?

Night Train replied.

Your call

He waited a minute to see if Night Train needed any more clarification. Mags telling him about the baseball players screwing up her play in Atlantic City had planted a seed of doubt in his mind, and that was never a good thing.

All good?

he texted back.

Another minute passed.

Yeah, we’re good,

Night Train finally replied.

Where did you go?

Had to take another call

He started to steam. He had half a mind to walk away and not look back. Only millions of dollars were waiting to be stolen from Luxor, Mandalay Bay, MGM Grand, the Mirage, and Aria, and he was willing to work with dumb jocks to make it happen.

No problem,

he texted back.

Luxor was their first target. At 3:40, Billy parked in the two-story garage behind the hotel and strolled down a covered walkway to the rear entrance. Taking an escalator to the casino, he got a beer at the bar and headed over to the blackjack pit. The casino was quiet, and he took a chair at a slot machine across from the rigged blackjack game and slapped on his Ray-Bans. It was like having X-ray vision, and he knew exactly what the dealer was holding.

At four o’clock, one of the football players would appear and start playing blackjack. It would take roughly ninety minutes to steal the desired amount. Once the money was won, he’d head down the street to the MGM for the six-thirty start, steal their money, walk to Mandalay Bay, scam them, then retrieve his car and hit the Mirage, then drive to Aria. By early tomorrow morning, they would have seventeen million bucks of casino money. It got him excited just thinking about it.