James Swain - Take Down

“Be back before dawn, junior.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Laughing to themselves, the punishers headed down a walkway that led to the employee parking garage, the money already burning a hole in their pockets. They were the lowest form of thieves, and he could not wait to pay them back for taking advantage of him like this.

“It’s going to be about ten minutes. We’re jammed right now,” the valet said.

He waited on a bench for his car. He’d done a bad job of ending his partnership with Ly and had probably hurt her feelings. He needed to fix that, and he went back inside.

The gift shop was just off the lobby. He pored through racks of T-shirts and knickknacks that lined the shelves. It was made-in-China crap, all of it outrageously priced. Once upon a time, Vegas had been a bargain-cheap hotel rooms, inexpensive show tickets, endless buffets. Those days had faded; now the town was a rip-off, everything overpriced. He found a sleeveless blouse that matched Ly’s eyes, and took it to the counter.

“Fifty dollars,” the salesgirl said.

“Can you wrap it in some nice paper?” he asked.

“Gift wrapping is an extra two dollars.”

“I can handle it.”

As the salesgirl wrapped the blouse, his eyes were drawn to a display case. Among the rings and bracelets was a magical gold color.

His heart skipped a beat. They couldn’t be that stupid, could they?

He reminded himself that Doucette was not a gamer, and therefore susceptible to a variety of scams that seasoned casino people would never fall for.

He pointed into the case. “Let me see that.”

The salesgirl slid open the back panel and grabbed a flashy cigarette lighter.

“No, not that. The key chain next to it. The one with the gold chip.”

The salesgirl removed a souvenir key chain with a rubber gold chip and handed it to him. Its gold color looked just like Galaxy’s hundred-thousand-dollar gold chip.

He took the gold chip he’d stolen from Rock from his pocket and compared it to the rubber chip. The colors were exactly the same.

Casinos guarded the formulas they used to make their chips the way Coca-Cola guarded the formula to its soft drinks. Only Doucette had slipped up and let an outside vendor use the gold color to make a souvenir key chain. He looked for the manufacturer’s mark on the chip, hoping it wasn’t made in China. Finding none, he said, “Where do you get these? I want to get some made for my company.”

“A vendor here in town makes them for us,” the salesgirl replied. “The salesman was just here filling up the case. We move a lot of them.”

“Do you have his business card?”

The salesgirl rifled through a drawer and produced the salesman’s card. AAA Novelty & Gift, located on Industrial Road on the north side of town.

“Keep it. I’ll get another the next time he’s in,” she said.

He slipped the salesman’s card into his billfold. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could barely contain his excitement. He’d hit the mother lode.

“That will be another twenty dollars plus tax,” she said, ringing up the sale.

The key chain probably cost nothing to make. Another rip-off, but one that he was happy to swallow. Not many times in his life would he be able to say that he’d turned twenty bucks into several million, and he sensed that his run of bad luck was about to change.

He drove north on the Strip with the souvenir key chain hooked over his thumb. With the help of this fake gold chip, he was going to take Doucette down for the count.

Every casino in Vegas had gotten ripped off by counterfeit chips. The scam was so common that the state required each casino to have a set of spare chips with alternate markings in case the chips on the floor needed to be quickly changed.

He hung a left on Bonneville and was soon at the jail. The Strip did not have its own jail, and people arrested in Strip casinos were transported to the Clark County Detention Center, as depressing a place as he’d ever visited.

He’d been busted several times for scamming. Because he had a slick lawyer and was luckier than a two-peckered puppy, he’d never spent more than a single night in the CCDC. But the experience had still been hair-raising. Cheaters were not liked, and he’d spent ten hours lying freezing naked on a futon before getting to talk to his lawyer.

He parked in the visitor lot across the street and went inside. There was a line of people waiting to speak to the front-desk sergeant. Soon, it was his turn, and he learned that Ly had appeared before a judge, who’d set her bail at ten grand.

Next stop was a depressing chamber called Pre Trial Services, where a hand-printed sign announced a new forty-dollar filing fee for bond payment. Dealing with the system was no different than getting your pocket picked. He dropped a Visa card on the counter and proceeded to bail Ly out of jail.

Ly emerged from the jail still wearing her purple dealer’s vest and ruffled tuxedo shirt, her hair released from its bun. Seeing Billy standing in the sidewalk, she scowled.

“What take you so long?” she asked.

“I got here as fast as I could,” he said.

“How much they make you pay?”

“Ten big ones.”

“Hah. That nothing to rich guy like you.”

Thank you was not in her lexicon. They got into his car. Ly picked up the blouse on the passenger seat and tore away the tissue paper. She tossed the gift into the backseat.

“Not your color, huh?” he said.

“I’m hungry. Take me some place nice,” she said.

He decided on the El Cortez in old downtown. It would be quiet at this time of night, and they’d be able to sit and talk things out. Ly had gotten busted for cheating a casino, and he didn’t think she understood how miserable her life was about to become.

The El Cortez was a faded throwback to the days when the mob ran the casinos. Its two restaurants served terrific food in generous portions and were open all night long.

A hostess seated them in a corner booth. They read the menu, which was the length of a short novel. Ly decided on the matzo ball soup and Chicago corned beef sandwich, while Billy went for the shrimp cocktail and the signature New York pastrami sandwich served high on rye.

He studied her face while waiting for their food. The false bravado was gone, and she looked scared out of her wits. Their drinks came. Coffee for him, a sweaty Heineken for her.

“Tell me what went down,” he said.

“This afternoon, my neighbor come over,” she said. “He tell me he been practicing chip scam all day, that he ready to go tonight. I tell him, ‘You not ready yet,’ and he leave.”

“You were practicing the chip scam with your neighbor.”

“Yeah. His name Funky Freddie because he wear funny socks.”

“Let me guess. Your neighbor came into your casino anyway.”

“Yeah. Funky Freddy come in tonight, start talking to pit boss. I freak out, you know? He sit at my table, and I see the double-chip in his hand. Under my breath I say, ‘Go away, you dumb shit,’ but he don’t hear. Very first bet, he put down double-chip. Then he realizes wrong side showing, so he flips chip over. Everyone see it not real.”

“Jesus Christ. What’d you do?”

“I back away from the table. I don’t want no part of this crap. Funky Freddie realize what he done and runs out of casino. Pit boss comes over, picks up the double-chip, look at me real suspicious. He says, ‘This guy’s a friend of yours, huh?’ I say I never see him before, but pit boss busts me anyway.”

If it went to trial, Ly’s attorney could tell a jury that she’d refused to take Funky Freddie’s bet. Every BJ game in Vegas was videotaped, and the tape would show Ly backing away from the table and not touching the gaffed chip. A good defense attorney would hang his case on that, and Ly would walk. She’d probably lose her work card and never deal blackjack again, but that was a small price to pay to beat a cheating rap.