James Swain - Super Con

The cat was out of the bag. Mirage’s surveillance team had doped out the super con and would alert the other MGM properties to check the discard trays at their tables. By tomorrow, the faulty discard trays would be replaced by trays made to spot luminous paint.

“What does this have to do with me?” Night Train asked.

“Every high card at your table was marked,” Falanga replied. “Your accomplice stood nearby wearing sunglasses, which allowed him to read the marks on the dealer’s cards. Your accomplice then signaled you how to bet, which you did, and won. Cheaters call this scam the anchor, because it always gets the money. Except today. Today it blew up in your faces.”

Falanga was gloating. He’d get a bonus for this bust, not that he deserved it. The Mirage would never have discovered they were being swindled if Night Train hadn’t blown his cool and punched out the drunks. But Falanga would take the glory anyway. “Your teammates pulled the same scam at the Luxor and MGM Grand earlier today,” Falanga said. “The cards in those games were marked with luminous paint as well.”

“I didn’t mark any cards or rig any discard trays,” Night Train said.

“That’s a clever choice of words,” Falanga said. “Maybe you didn’t, but your friends did. We have surveillance videos of two players, a man and a woman, who paid a visit to the Luxor, MGM Grand, the Mirage, and Aria earlier today. The man distracted the dealer while the woman expertly marked the backs of cards with luminous paint.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Night Train said.

“Everything,” Falanga said. “The man who came earlier in the day is the same man sitting beside you. We turned the videos over to the gaming board so they could make a definitive match.”

Night Train gave Billy a hard stare. “This guy marked the cards?”

“Correct. He helped the woman mark the cards, then returned a few hours later and read the marks while you and your teammates cleaned up,” Falanga said.

“You sure it’s him?”

“Ninety-nine percent sure.”

“Same clothes, same hair, same everything?”

“No, he changed outfits and hairstyles. But we’re sure it’s him. Your friend has a long history cheating the town’s casinos. The gaming board is reviewing the surveillance tapes right now and will soon give us the go-ahead to prosecute him.”

“That’s all news to me.”

Falanga acted flustered. He’d said plenty but accomplished little. Cutler took over. “The NFL wants this situation to go away,” Cutler said. “Your teammates stole one million five hundred thousand dollars from the Luxor and MGM Grand. If they give the money back, the Luxor and MGM Grand won’t press charges.”

“I can’t speak for those guys,” Night Train said.

“Then the three of you will go to jail.”

Cutler had drawn a line in the sand. Night Train scratched his chin, as if deep in thought. “When you put it that way, maybe I can talk them into it.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, it’s a yes.”

Billy could not believe his ears. The NFL had cut a deal with MGM’s management to save Night Train and his pals from the ugly publicity that an arrest would bring. The MGM got nothing for playing nice, unless there was a piece of the puzzle that he wasn’t seeing.

“What about the gentleman next to me?” Night Train asked.

“We’ll let the gaming board deal with him.”

“You have to cut him loose, too.”

Cutler’s jaw went hard. “I don’t think so.”

The room grew quiet, with neither side budging. The cheater’s code required Night Train to do whatever necessary to help his partner out of a jam, even if it meant putting his own neck on the chopping block. But it occurred to Billy that if Night Train and his teammates did get arrested for their involvement with the super con, they wouldn’t be able to pull off the Super Bowl fix next Sunday, and he’d be out two major scores instead of just one.

He kicked Night Train under the table. “Save yourself,” he whispered.

Night Train gave him a look. Billy returned the look and gave him the chin.

“You sure?” Night Train whispered.

Billy nodded. He’d dealt with the gaming board before and always came out on top.

“You win,” Night Train said to Cutler. “I’ll talk to my guys and tell them to return the money. And for the record, this gentleman next to me is completely innocent.”

The deal had been struck. Night Train rose from his chair and went to the double doors with Cutler on his heels.

“Hello.”

Grimes filled the doorway, his silver badge pinned to his lapel. Gaming agents only wore their badges when they were about to make an arrest.

“Who are you?” Night Train asked.

“Special Agent Frank Grimes with the gaming board. I should be arresting you, along with your teammates. Count your blessings and get out of here before I change my mind.”

“Yes, sir.”

Night Train shot a parting glance at Billy before departing. The NFL’s reputation had been saved. America’s favorite pastime would survive another Sunday.

Grimes closed the doors and came around the table, bumping Billy’s chair as he did.

Shit, Billy thought.

The Nevada Gaming Control Board was nobody’s friend. Over the course of a year, it busted just as many casinos for not paying taxes and money laundering as it did cheats for stealing. Nobody in Vegas liked the gaming board, and that included Falanga and his cohorts. Grimes came around the table to where Mirage’s surveillance team stood. No one shook hands.

“Hello, Special Agent Grimes,” Falanga said, striking a formal tone. “I was just explaining to our suspect how you were reviewing the surveillance tapes and would link him to the card-marking scam at the MGM’s casinos.”

“That was stupid,” Grimes said.

“Is there something wrong?” Falanga said, taken aback.

“Our suspect is a known cheat. The less he is told about our investigation, the better.”

“Sorry,” Falanga said.

Grimes turned his attention to Billy. The special agent’s face was filled with hostility born from a decade of fruitless investigations and botched stakeouts. Ten years of wasted effort was enough to bring out the worst in a man, and Grimes looked bent on revenge.

“This little prick has ripped off every casino in town,” Grimes said. “You name the game, he’s scammed it. Our file on him is as thick as a high school yearbook. We’ve gotten close to nailing his sorry ass plenty of times but always come up short. He’s a goddamn plague.”

Grimes put his hands on the table and let a moment pass. His stare was unrelenting.

“Which is why I’m sorry to tell you he’s not the guy who helped the bag lady mark the cards in your casinos,” Grimes said.

Falanga’s jaw flapped open. “He’s not?”

“No sir. I reviewed the surveillance tapes myself, frame by frame. It’s not him.”

Falanga angrily balled his hands into fists. “But he has to be involved. He was standing behind the table wearing sunglasses each time our casinos got ripped off by one of the football players. He was reading the marks and signaling his partners.”

“Have you been in your poker room lately? Everyone wears sunglasses,” Grimes said. “The fact that this little rat was in your casinos wearing shades doesn’t prove a damn thing. And without proof, I can’t arrest him.”

“You’re letting him go?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

The air trapped in Billy’s lungs slowly escaped. Grimes’s story was total bullshit. The gaming board’s file included Billy’s weight, height, how he walked, shape of his ears, and other salient physical features. Grimes could have matched Billy to the ranch hand seen on the surveillance videos with Mags but had chosen not to, knowing that if Billy got busted, his case against Broken Tooth would get flushed down the toilet, along with his promotion.