James Swain - Super Con

Mel and his buddies leaned in like a gang of schoolyard chums. It was all good fun, or so they thought. Night Train’s expression turned to menace. “Drop it. Right now.”

“Whoa,” Mel said, feigning surprise. “Don’t get scary on us, big guy.”

“You’re talking about my personal life. Let it go.”

“No need to threaten. We’re just interested, that’s all.”

“I answered your question. Now shut up.”

Mel acted hurt and let the alcohol get a hold of his tongue. “What happened? Did your body quit on you? Happens to the best of them, pal.”

The dealer dealt the round. Night Train was boiling and stared at his cards.

“Winners never quit, and quitters never win,” Mel said.

“I won’t ask you again,” Night Train said.

Mel said it again, and his buddies started laughing. Night Train’s left fist shot out. Pop, pop, pop, it went, smacking Mel and his buddies on the jaw. Not a full punch, just a jab, but delivered with such accuracy and lightning speed that it sent each man sprawling to the floor.

“Police! Somebody call the police!” Mel screamed, holding his face.

Billy started backing up. He should have listened to his gut and called off the play after the bad scenes at the Luxor and the MGM Grand. But greed had gotten the best of him.

Leaving the pit, he began to jog. Because Night Train had assaulted three patrons, Mirage’s security was required to review the game’s surveillance tapes. They would look at the events leading up to the altercation, and they’d also scrutinize Night Train’s play. They would see that Night Train had deviated from basic strategy several times, yet come out on the winning end. They would realize they’d been cheated, even if they didn’t know how.

Night Train’s life was about to be turned upside down.

The Mirage’s self-parking garage was on the north side of the hotel. Billy tossed his sunglasses over the wall and was starting to get into his car when two uniformed security guards caught up with him. They had their batons out and meant business.

“Put your arms up,” a security guard ordered him.

Billy raised his arms and was patted down. “What did I do?”

A smack in the back of the head had him seeing stars.

“Shut up and start walking,” the security guard said.

Being a celebrity had its privileges.

In casino parlance, to backroom a person meant to place an undesirable patron in a small, windowless room while the casino’s security decided the next steps to be taken.

The Mirage had two such rooms. Mel and his two buddies were put in one, while Billy and Night Train were placed in the other. To dissuade Night Train and Billy from talking, a muscle-bound security guard named Clyde occupied the room as well.

Casino security was on the low end of the food chain. Not able to pass the entrance exam to become a cop, they toiled in the casinos, earning lousy pay and getting zero respect. As a result, most security guards had bad attitudes. Clyde was an exception and seemed to like his work. He was also a die-hard football fan and would have washed Night Train’s feet if asked. They talked football for a few minutes before Night Train requested a cold bottle of water.

“I can do that,” Clyde said. “How about your friend?”

“You want something?” Night Train asked.

Billy declined. Clyde walked out of the room, leaving them alone.

“Room bugged?” Night Train whispered.

“Uh-huh. You’re going to need a good lawyer,” Billy whispered back.

“I don’t need a lawyer.”

“Yes you do. If they decide to arrest us, don’t talk to the cops.”

Night Train laughed under his breath. He was so full of himself that he actually believed he could punch out three guys in a casino and not get charged. Maybe in his hometown he could get away with assault, but it wasn’t going to fly in Vegas. The casinos were the city’s lifeblood, and patrons who broke laws inside them were punished for their transgressions.

“Cops won’t arrest me. Not part of the script,” Night Train said.

“What are you talking about? What script?”

“The script that calls for a happy ending as the baton is passed and everybody walks away a winner. That script.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

“I get reminded of that every day. What script? Come on, man, tell me.”

The door opened, and Clyde entered holding a bottled water.

“Bet you a hundred bucks nothing happens to me,” Night Train said.

“You’re on,” Billy said.

The minutes morphed into hours. Clyde ran out of memorable sporting events to talk about and lapsed into silence. The rattle of the air conditioner blowing through the clogged ceiling vent soon became torturous. The walkie-talkie clipped to Clyde’s belt came to life.

Clyde took the call and hung up. “Judgment day, gentlemen. Let’s go.”

Soon they were riding in a service elevator to the third floor of the casino. The doors parted, and they marched down a hallway lined with the offices of company executives. Night Train smoothed down his hair as he walked.

“See. No cops,” Night Train said.

“Let me guess. Cops aren’t part of the script,” Billy said.

“You catch on fast.”

A pair of polished double doors awaited them. They entered a conference room with an oval table surrounded by leather chairs. A gang of suits stood by the windows, framed by the blinking neon skyline.

“It’s been an honor. Good luck next Sunday,” Clyde said before departing.

Billy counted four suits. None wore badges or the trademark cheap haircuts that defined the town’s gaming agents.

“Hey Cutler, fancy seeing you here,” Night Train said.

One of the suits came forward. Tall and broad-shouldered with a receding hairline, he had the harried expression of a man at the end of his wits. “Excuse my French, but you are one stupid son of a bitch.”

“What did I do?” Night Train asked innocently.

“You cheated the Mirage along with your friend here,” the suit said.

“Me? Cheat? Stop talking nonsense.”

“I’d suggest you sit down. Both of you.”

Billy and Night Train seated themselves at one end of the table. Night Train poured two cups of water using the pitcher and pair of glasses sitting on the table. “This is Scott Cutler, head of the NFL’s League Security. Me and Scottie go back a ways,” he told Billy.

“Nice to meet you,” Billy said to Cutler.

“Both of you, shut up,” Cutler said. “These three gentlemen standing behind me run the Mirage’s surveillance department. They told me that you and your friend rigged a blackjack game and stole two million dollars. I’m going to let Louis Falanga, the head of Mirage’s surveillance, explain exactly what you did.”

Falanga stepped away from the window and cleared his throat. His ghostly pale skin bespoke a man who spent daylight hours in front of a video monitor in a windowless room.

“We reviewed your play frame by frame,” Falanga said. “It was highly suspicious, to say the least. You seemed to know what the dealer was holding, so we examined the cards. The backs of all the high cards were marked with luminous paint.”

“How did that happen?” Night Train asked.

“Shut up and let him talk,” Cutler said.

“We couldn’t understand how the pit boss supervising the game didn’t spot the marks,” Falanga said. “The discard tray built into the table is made of red plastic and designed to let the pit boss stare through its back wall and detect luminous paint. Only the tray wasn’t working properly. Nor are any of the other discard trays in the casino. We think the manufacturer screwed up and added a dye to the plastic that destroyed its ability to spot luminous marks.”