James Swain - Super Con

By 4:10, none of the football players had arrived.

What’s going on?

he texted Night Train.

Sammy’s on his way,

Night Train replied.

What’s the holdup?

A commotion lifted his head. Sammy had arrived with all the bluster of a professional wrestler entering the ring and was stopping to sign autographs. Billy got out of his chair and took his position next to the blackjack game with the painted cards.

Sammy spotted him and sauntered over. His legs were wobbly, and he grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself. Right then Billy realized the problem. Sammy was drunker than a sailor on a navy payday. Sit down before you fall down, he thought.

“Hey!” Sammy said.

A small mob of people had gathered around the table, and the remark could have been directed at anyone. Billy played stupid and sipped his beer.

“This table?” Sammy asked.

Billy nearly ran. But that would have drawn suspicion, and right now, no one else in the casino knew the game was rigged. He decided to use that to his advantage and salvage the situation. “Sit down and enjoy yourself,” he replied.

The crowd laughed. A sloppy grin creased Sammy’s face.

“I think I will,” the big Samoan said.

At first, the scam went like clockwork. Sammy lost every hand by making boneheaded decisions, just like Billy had instructed him to do the day before. Then came the critical part when Sammy asked the pit boss to raise the table limit. Billy gave him the chin.

“Got it,” Sammy said.

Again, the remark caused no problems. Sammy asked the dealer to summon the pit boss. A man wearing a tailored suit came to the table and introduced himself as the pit boss.

“I’m losing my ass. Can you raise the limits?” Sammy asked.

Each shift was judged by the amount of money it made. Sammy was about to put the shift ahead, or so the pit boss mistakenly thought. “How about a minimum thousand-dollar bet, maximum twenty thousand,” the pit boss suggested.

The crowd oohed and aahed. This was big time.

“Works for me,” Sammy replied.

The table had a small LED display with the table limit displayed in red digital numbers. The pit boss punched the buttons and changed the limits to $1,000–$20,000.

“Good luck,” the pit boss said.

Sammy made a twenty-thousand-dollar bet and the dealer dealt the round. Using his glasses, Billy read the dealer’s cards and saw a weak hand. With the beer bottle, he signaled Sammy to take a card. Sammy said, “Hit me,” and was dealt a ten, giving him a total of nineteen. Billy gave the signal to stand pat. Sammy said, “I’m good.”

The dealer showed his hand, a seventeen, a loser. The crowd cheered.

Within twenty minutes, Sammy had half a million dollars of the house’s money. The crowd was now five deep, with people straining to see. A cute cocktail waitress appeared and placed a hand on Sammy’s shoulder.

“Can I interest you in a drink?” she asked.

“Gimme a rum and Coke,” Sammy said.

Billy smelled a rat. The rap against the Luxor was the sparse number of cocktail waitresses, and his gut told him the cute cocktail waitress had been sent over by the pit boss. Soon she would return with a drink made with 150-proof rum and light on the Coke, aka a mickey. And before you knew it, it would be lights out for the big Samoan. It was one way to stop a winning streak, and the casinos did it constantly.

It was decision time. End the play or keep stealing until the final curtain went down. Greedy bastard that he was, he decided to keep stealing.

The cute cocktail waitress returned holding Sammy’s beverage on a tray. Billy considered tripping her but couldn’t get close enough.

The glass was huge and contained a lot of booze. The pit boss wasn’t taking chances. The bloodshed had to be stopped, one way or another.

Sammy sucked the beverage down like a runner on a hot summer day. A magical look spread across his broad face. Billy stepped back, knowing what was about to happen.

“Place your bets,” the dealer said.

As Sammy reached for chips, he froze, his eyelids flickering like a dying light bulb before closing. Pitching forward, his body hit the table and he slid to the floor. A Good Samaritan rushed to his aid and attempted to revive him.

Billy wanted to help but feared the drunk football player would slip up and alert the pit boss they were in cahoots. That left him no other choice but to bolt. Heading for the exit, he spotted the pit boss standing off to the side, nodding approvingly.

Billy texted Night Train as he hurried down the sidewalk toward the MGM Grand.

Sammy passed out at the Luxor. How could you let him get that drunk?

Wow. You leave him there?

Night Train texted back.

Wow was not the right response. Was Night Train also three sheets to the wind? Night Train and his buddies were like a pack of stray dogs; if one of them got in trouble, they all got in trouble, and Billy couldn’t imagine Sammy getting soused without his pals doing the same. He started to cross when a bus’s horn sent him scurrying back to the sidewalk.

What the hell else could I do?

he texted back.

He win much?

Half a million bucks

Sounds like your scam works

Had Night Train sent Sammy to test the waters? It was a low-rent move but not a total surprise. The light turned red. He texted his reply as he crossed.

The play is off

That got Night Train’s attention.

No, man, we’re good. Choo-Choo heading for MGM Grand now,

Night Train replied.

He better not be drunk,

he wrote back.

Choo-Choo wasn’t drunk when he entered the MGM Grand with a pair of hookers draped on his arms, but he was flying high on coke, the evidence caked on his nostrils. Seeing Billy, Choo-Choo took a chair at the targeted blackjack table, while the hookers remained standing. The hookers had trouble written all over them. One blonde, one redhead, wearing leather miniskirts and stilettos. It occurred to Billy that these ladies hadn’t happened along. They’d been partying at Caesars with the football players and, like a pair of wolves, had attached themselves to Choo-Choo and planned to roll him once the right opportunity presented itself.

The dealer was a jovial guy with a handlebar mustache. “Place your bets.”

Choo-Choo lost the first hand and the ones that followed. Soon half his stake was gone. Billy gave the signal for Choo-Choo to ask the pit boss to raise the table limit.

“These little bets don’t interest me. Can you raise them?” Choo-Choo asked.

The pit boss wore designer threads and a silk tie. The average pit boss took down seventy-five K a year but dressed like a Fortune 50 °CEO. It came with the territory.

The pit boss took the bait and raised the table limit. Choo-Choo placed a big bet and the hand was dealt. Choo-Choo’s hand was a seventeen. Billy read the luminous paint on the dealer’s hole card and knew that the dealer had nineteen. Conventional play said that Choo-Choo should stand on his hand. Only that would have resulted in Choo-Choo losing and further depleting his stack. Billy signaled Choo-Choo to take a card.

“Hit me,” Choo-Choo said.

“But you have seventeen. Basic strategy calls for you to stand on seventeen,” the dealer said helpfully.

“I always lose on seventeen. Gimme a card.”

The dealer dealt a three, giving Choo-Choo a total of twenty. The dealer turned over his hand and acted surprised. The other players at the table congratulated Choo-Choo.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Choo-Choo said.

Billy and Choo-Choo quickly stole a million bucks. Then a bad thing happened. Choo-Choo’s hands began to tremble, and he knocked over his towering stacks of chips.