James Swain - Take Down

Frank’s hand slapped her face. The next thing Mags knew, she was lying on her back, watching the room spin like a pinwheel. Frank threw on his rumpled clothes and grabbed his wallet and keys off the bureau. Standing over her, he spoke in a dead, emotionless tone.

“Don’t ever laugh at me again.”

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“You okay?”

“I’ll live.”

“That’s my girl. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.”

“Okay.”

“Mad at me?”

“I’ll get over it.”

“Good answer.”

The door slammed, and Mags listened to his footsteps tread down the hall to the elevators. Only when she was certain he was gone did she pull herself off the floor.

She sat on the edge of the bed. She was seeing double, and she tried to will it to stop. It seemed a perfect metaphor for the two worlds she was living in. She’d gotten herself into this mess, and she was the only one who could get herself out.

The room returned to normal. She went to the slider on wobbly legs and pressed her face to the glass. The Strip’s neon bathed her in false colors, and she forced herself not to cry.

At midnight, Billy scratched the podiatrists off his list of groups the Gypsies might be using as cover. Wearing a waiter’s uniform and balancing a tray on his palm, he’d been canvassing a banquet room where the foot doctors were having dinner. Older, bespectacled, with big marriage bellies and soft hands, they wore suits that only saw the light of day a few times a year, and sat at round tables drinking decaf and discussing such scintillating topics as foot fungus, ingrown toe nails, and plantar fasciitis. Nearly all had spouses, an equally unexciting group of half-asleep women with stiff heads of beauty-parlor hair. None appeared in any great hurry to visit the casino, or take advantage of the other pleasurable pursuits Galaxy had to offer, and he couldn’t imagine any of them being a member of the Gypsy clan. Too dull, too old, and too heavy. The Gypsies had started out as shoplifters, meaning they were fleet of foot and as lean as circus acrobats. Not a single person in the banquet room fit that description.

As he took a final swing through the room, his brand new Droid hummed in his pocket. Caller ID was local but unfamiliar. He walked over to a dessert table with a melting ice sculpture and took the call.

“Billy, it’s me,” Ly said. “I’m in trouble.”

“What’s wrong? What’s that noise in the background?”

“I got busted for cheating at the casino tonight. I only got one phone call, so I call you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Don’t get mad. Not my fault.”

“How can it not be your fault?”

“Because I don’t do nothing wrong. Come bail me out.”

She made it sound like an order. And maybe it was; if he didn’t bail her out, she might get pissed and spill her guts about their little enterprise to the cops. He couldn’t take that risk and decided he’d better spring her out of jail.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he said.

“Hurry. This place scary,” she said.

He put the phone away. A podiatrist at a nearby table with his wildly drunk wife was trying to get his attention. He was done playing waiter and flipped the podiatrist the bird.

He came out of the banquet hall tugging off his waiter’s jacket. Ike and T-Bird hadn’t strayed far, and waited in the hall. Trying to slip away was out of the question, and he said, “Interested in making a quick five grand?”

Money made the world go round. They decided they wanted to hear more and followed Billy down a hallway past the hotel lobby until they were standing outside the entrance to the casino. It was packed, the air electric. A hot zone.

“What’s the deal?” Ike asked.

“I need you guys to cover for me while I bail a friend of mine out of jail.”

“You want to leave the property?” Ike asked.

“Just for a couple of hours.”

“Whatta ya think?” Ike asked his partner.

“We could get our asses fired,” T-Bird said, the voice of reason.

“They ain’t paying us shit anyway,” Ike reminded him.

“I ain’t risking my job for a lousy five grand. Get more.”

Ike shifted his attention to Billy. “You willing to go higher? You go higher, we might agree. Marcus and his bimbo left an hour ago, and old smelly has gone home, too. Nobody will know you left but us. We’ll keep quiet, but it’s got to be worth our while.”

Shakedown time. Billy had half a mind to ask Ike the last time someone had paid him five grand for keeping his mouth shut, but knew that line of reasoning wouldn’t go very far. Ike had him by the short hairs and was going to extract every penny out of Billy that he could.

“I’ll give you five grand apiece,” he offered.

“You’re offering us five grand each,” Ike said, just to be clear.

“That’s right. Cash.”

“That’s good, because we don’t take credit cards. Try ten.”

“I just offered you ten.”

“Each.”

He rocked back on his heels. To pay Ike that much, he’d have to visit his condo and make a withdrawal from his wall safe.

“Come on, give me a break,” he said.

Ike’s eyes turned cold. “That’s my final offer. Take it, or leave it.”

He almost said fuck you. But a little voice inside his head said no, you need to get Ly out of jail before she goes south on you.

“You’ve got a deal,” he said instead.

Ike smiled. “Pay up.”

“The money’s in my condo. I’ll get it while I’m out and pay you when I come back.”

Ike grabbed Billy by his shirt and lifted him off the floor so he was dangling in the air. A gang of pretty young things strolled past and shot pouty looks his way. In any other city, they would have snapped a photo on an iPhone and called the cops. But Vegas had a way of desensitizing people to pain and suffering, and the girls entered the casino without breaking stride. Bringing his face close, Ike said, “We want the money now, asshole.”

“The money’s in a wall safe in my condo.”

“Hear that, Bird? Man’s got so much fucking money, he needs a safe to keep it in.” Ike’s eyes narrowed. “Give us the combination. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“You can’t go into my building. The night guard won’t let you onto the elevators. Trust me, I’ll get the money for you.”

“You’ve got other things to do,” Ike reminded him. “Give me the combination, and we’ll get our money while you’re bailing out your friend. Call the night guard, and tell him we’re coming. That’s the deal.”

Billy knew when he was beaten. “I live in Turnberry Tower, Building B, in the penthouse. The safe’s in the clothes closet. Get a piece of paper, and I’ll give you the combination.”

“Hoowee. You got a penthouse at Turnberry? All the rich motherfuckers live there. Being a cheater must pay real good.”

“It beats working. Let me down, will you?”

Ike lowered him to earth and patted down the front of his shirt. T-Bird got a piece of paper and a pen from the front desk, and Billy wrote down the combination, having to believe it was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. Fifty grand was sitting in the safe along with a Rolex gold submariner he’d ripped off from a snotty trust-fund kid during a not-so-friendly game of backgammon at the pool, and he knew damn well that the punishers were going to take it all.

“What’s the night guard’s name?” Ike asked.

“Joey, but everyone calls him Jo-Jo,” Billy said.

“Call him, and tell him we’re coming.”

Billy called Jo-Jo and set the wheels in motion for the punishers to rip him off. It felt funny setting himself up to be taken down, and he supposed someday he’d have a good laugh over it, just not today. They went outside to the valet area, and Ike patted him on the shoulder.