James Swain - Super Con

“Look on the bright side. Sammy and Choo-Choo won a million and a half bucks, and there are still three casinos left to be ripped off. You can’t quit now, man.”

Every commotion inside a casino drew scrutiny, especially when large sums of money were lost. There was no doubt that security at Luxor and the MGM Grand were reviewing the surveillance tapes of Sammy’s and Choo-Choo’s huge wins to see if cheating was involved. Billy wanted to believe the scam was disguised well enough to pass muster. But there was always a chance that a sharp security person would smell a con, and things would quickly go south.

“Yes, I can,” he said.

“We won’t let you down again, and that’s a promise,” Night Train said.

Billy wanted to believe that Night Train’s word meant something. But he didn’t feel that way about Night Train’s teammates. If Billy were going to scam another casino today, it would be with the man he was talking to on the phone, and no one else.

“I’ll keep going, but there’s going to be a change in plans,” he said. “We’re going to hit one more casino, just you and me. Your friends are no longer part of the equation.”

“Don’t trust them, huh?”

“About as far as I can kick them.”

“I can live with that. Which casino do you want to hit?”

“The Mirage. It has more high rollers than any joint in town. The casino won’t be as nervous if you beat them out of a huge score, because they’ll win it back from another player.”

“How huge?”

“Ten million bucks.”

“You want me to steal ten million? That’s a big number.”

“We need to make up lost ground. Are you in or out?”

“I’m in. What time does this party start?”

He glanced at his watch and saw it was almost eight. He needed time to retrieve his car from Luxor’s parking garage and drive to the Mirage. The trip was only a few miles, but on Friday night, that might take an hour or more.

“Nine thirty, and don’t be late.”

“I’ll be there with bells on my feet,” Night Train said.

He ended the call, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. The bartender asked if he wanted another beer. It was time to switch drugs, and he ordered coffee instead.

When the Mirage opened its doors in 1989, everyone had laughed. It had cost more than six hundred million bucks to build and had huge overhead. In a city built upon unlimited buffets and nickel slot machines, a joint with real gold dust in its windows would surely fail.

The opposite had happened. High rollers had fallen in love with the ambiance and five-star amenities, and the casino quickly became one of the most profitable in the world.

Nearly thirty years later, serious gamblers were still in love with the Mirage and regularly gambled away millions of dollars in its Polynesian-themed casino. It was high-roller heaven, and Night Train’s high-stakes play was going to fit right in.

At nine thirty, Night Train appeared in the casino wearing a white silk shirt and black linen pants, his platinum Rolex shining as if radioactive. He cleaned up well and looked like a player.

Night Train stopped to have his picture taken with an adoring fan. His smile lit up the room, and it was easy to see why he’d done so well pitching products on TV.

Next stop was the blackjack table, where Billy stood with his beer bottle. Night Train took a chair and said hello to the three middle-aged drunks at the table. The drunks had sunburns, and Billy guessed they’d spent the afternoon at Bare, the hotel’s topless pool bar.

“My name’s Mel,” the closest drunk said. Mel was a poster boy for the evils of alcohol abuse, his nose a bouquet of broken blood vessels. “I think you’re the greatest goddamn football player who’s ever lived. I followed you during your college days all the way up through the pros. You’re the best defensive player ever. Isn’t he, guys?”

Mel’s buddies chorused agreement. Mel pulled out his cell phone and a group photo was taken. “Who’s gonna win the Super Bowl?” Mel asked.

Part of being a celebrity was dealing with blowhards who pretended to be your friend but who wanted nothing more than to get a selfie taken so they could share it with their friends.

“The best team will win,” Night Train replied.

Night Train threw his wad on the table, which the dealer turned into chips. Night Train lost his first hand. Mel and his buddies lost their hands as well.

“It’s none of my business, but shouldn’t you be home resting?” Mel asked.

Night Train gave Mel a simmering look. Mel looked pleased with himself, believing that because he was in a public place with his buddies, no harm could possibly come to him.

“This is how I like to relax,” Night Train said.

It was a great answer, and Mel nodded appreciatively. Night Train kept losing and eventually asked the pit boss to raise the table limit. The pit boss agreed, and Night Train pushed twenty grand in chips into the betting circle. The cards were dealt. Night Train’s cards totaled seventeen. Seventeen was a weak hand, and the dealer was showing a nine. Billy had read the luminous mark on the dealer’s down card during the deal. It was a ten, giving the dealer a total of nineteen. If Night Train didn’t take another card, he would lose the hand and be way down.

Billy signaled with his beer bottle for Night Train to take a card. Night Train had been around the block and knew that he needed to take the card without making it look suspicious.

“What do you think?” Night Train asked the drunks.

Mel had lapsed into silence, nursing his buzz. To be asked advice by a celebrity was a moment to be savored, and he sat up straight in his chair.

“The way your luck’s been running, I think you should take a card,” Mel said.

“Dealer’s been beating me pretty bad, hasn’t she?” Night Train said.

“Your luck’s about to change,” Mel said.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, man, you’re due. Isn’t he, guys?”

Mel’s buddies agreed that Night Train’s luck was indeed about to change.

“Hit me,” Night Train said.

The dealer dealt Night Train a four, giving him a total of twenty-one. Mel threw both his arms into the air the way a ref did to indicate a touchdown had been scored.

“You da man!” Mel exclaimed.

Night Train won the hand and began to beat the house silly. Soon he was betting fifty thousand a hand and raking in the chips. Asking Mel for advice was a smart ploy and took the heat off the play, and Night Train kept right on doing it. The few times that Mel didn’t give him the proper answer, Night Train said, “I don’t think so,” and won the hand on his own.

Soon Night Train’s winnings exceeded a million dollars. The pit boss hadn’t started to sweat, convinced it was nothing more than a lucky streak. Night Train started to play two hands at a time and, within another twenty minutes, reached the two-million mark.

A cocktail waitress appeared with a tray of shots. She served the four men at the table.

“These are on me,” Mel said.

Night Train took the shot, happy to play along. The four men clinked glasses and knocked back their drinks. Mel didn’t need any more liquor in him, his face so red that he appeared ready to explode. Mel dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Is it true you’re going to retire?”

The words hit a nerve. Night Train scowled and put down his shot glass. “That’s just a rumor. Don’t go spreading that shit around.”

“But I heard it on ESPN,” Mel said.

“Don’t believe everything you hear on ESPN.”

“You’re saying ESPN made it up? You know what they say, where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. Did ESPN find out you were retiring and decide to spill the beans? Come on, you can tell us the truth.”