James Swain - Take Down

T-Bird started to protest. Ike silenced him with an elbow to the ribs.

“What’s the one thing the casinos are most afraid of?” Billy went on. “Counterfeit chips. A talented forger can wipe a casino out. To stop this from happening, the casinos employ different measures to stop forgers. The two measures that have worked best are RFID microchips and using special colors that can’t be duplicated. You with me so far?”

“Yeah,” the bird man grunted.

“Galaxy doesn’t use RFID microchips, so that just leaves the special colors. And Doucette let a promotional company have the formula to make this rubber chip. I’ll get the paint from them, give it to a forger that works for me, and he’ll counterfeit gold chips. Get it?”

Ike nodded approvingly; he was on board. T-Bird still needed convincing.

“Passing counterfeit chips inside a casino has a name,” Billy said. “It’s called making a run at the cage. It’s a difficult scam to pull off. You’ve got to fool the cashier, the cage manager, and the eye-in-the-sky. If any of those folks think you’re trying to pass bogus chips, they’ll hit an alarm, and you’ll get busted.”

“This sounds hard,” T-Bird said.

“It won’t be when we do it. In fact, it’s going to be a piece of cake.”

“Why’s that?”

He’d already told them the answer, only T-Bird was brain dead and had forgotten. Ike’s brain was still working, and he slapped the table with his enormous palm.

“We’re going to make a run at the cage while the Gypsies are pulling their scam,” Ike said. “You understand what the man is saying? We’re going to pull a scam while another scam is going down. Security will be dealing with the Gypsies, while we’re ripping the joint off. Douche bag won’t know what hit him.”

T-Bird had a funny look on his face. Rising from the table, he pointed at the door to the master bedroom. “In there,” he said, and walked into the other room.

Ike rose as well. “Be right back.”

The bedroom door closed, and they started to argue like a married couple having a spat. For a couple of ex-jocks about to run out of road, it was the deal of a lifetime, and he wondered what the problem was. At the end of the day, it really didn’t matter. Ike was the brains of the duo, and T-Bird would eventually agree to what Ike wanted, because that was how it worked.

The Nike duffel bag sat on the floor. It had been eating him to know what they’d stolen from his condo. The zipper made a harsh sound as he tugged it open. The bag was filled with the money from his wall safe-no surprise there. In the side pockets they’d stuffed watches, jewelry, and fancy cigarette lighters.

He took everything back. The pieces that didn’t fit in his pockets went into drawers at the bar. He also helped himself to the money, and left twenty grand. That was the amount they’d agreed to, and he was not going back on his word.

Harsh words floated out of the bedroom. He went to the couch, flipped on the TV, and stared at images that made no sense. Sleep was calling to him. It had been a long fucking day, and he needed to recharge his batteries for tomorrow, which promised to be an equally long fucking day. He still had to find the Gypsies, and that was no small order.

The punishers came out of the bedroom and stood in front of the couch, blocking the TV.

“We got a question,” Ike said. “How do we know you won’t rob us and take all the money come Saturday? What’s to stop that from happening?”

“You have first touch,” he said.

When neither man responded to this most incredible of offers, he explained.

“You’re going to rob the cage while I’m catching the Gypsies. The cashier will hand you the money orders, and you’ll walk outside and jump into a car with my crew. I’ll meet up with you later and split the money. Sound fair?”

It was more than fair, and erased any doubts that Billy wasn’t being on the level with them. Both men stuck out their hands.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Ike said.

The sunlight was starting to fade when the gaming agents decided to take a break and walked out of the interrogation room. Billy had been talking nonstop, and his vocal cords were turning hoarse. He uncapped the last water bottle on the table and chugged it down.

“Let me have your pen,” he said.

His attorney handed over his gold pen. Billy scribbled on the pad. His attorney gave the question some thought.

“I’d put your odds at less than even money,” the attorney said truthfully.

It was better than having no odds at all. The gaming agents returned and took their places at the table. LaBadie replaced the cassette in the tape recorder on the table.

“Let’s continue,” LaBadie said.

“Ready when you are,” Billy said.

“We want to hear more about the rubber chip you found in Galaxy’s gift shop. You said the gold color matched the casino’s hundred-thousand-dollar chip, and this led you to believe that your crew could counterfeit these chips and use them to rob Galaxy’s casino.”

He’d told them a faithful rendition about the first two days, except for the details about his crew. Those things he’d glossed over, referring to his crew simply as a group of friends that he occasionally got together with.

“I already told you, I don’t have a crew,” he said.

“Stop playing games, Billy. You and your crew made a run at the cage and ripped the place off Saturday afternoon.”

“Never happened.”

“Did Maggie Flynn know your plans?”

He glanced sideways at his attorney. “Tell them.”

“For the record, my client does not have a crew,” Underman said. “If you continue to put words in my client’s mouth, I’ll have to ask you to stop this interrogation immediately.”

“We’re not putting words in his mouth,” LaBadie said defensively.

“I beg to differ.”

LaBadie had been around the carnival a few times and knew that Underman was establishing a line of defense to use at trial.

“Have it your way. Carl, go get the bag,” LaBadie said.

Zander left the room. When he returned, he was holding a paper bag. LaBadie took the bag and poured its contents onto the center of the table. Gold chips from Galaxy’s casino rained onto the table, their color so rich they sparkled in the light.

“Recognize these?” LaBadie asked.

Billy shook his head, playing dumb.

“They’re counterfeits. Your crew used them to steal eight million bucks.”

“I don’t have-”

“We have this on videotape, Billy. Now are you going to come clean with us or not?”

Billy picked up one of the chips and gave it a cursory glance. If they had it on tape, then he was fucked, no two ways about it. So why hadn’t they shown him the tape and gotten it over with? Why go to the trouble of making him tell his story? Either LaBadie was lying or something else was going on. All he could do was keep talking and hope for the best.

“You want to hear the rest of my story?” he asked.

“You’re not going to confess?” LaBadie asked.

“To what?”

“To all the crimes you committed.”

“I didn’t commit any crimes. I’m innocent.”

“You’re making this tough on yourself, Billy.”

“Why don’t you just listen to the rest of my story? I mean, isn’t that why we’re here?”

LaBadie parked himself in a chair. The three gaming agents put their elbows on the table, their eyes boring a hole into their suspect’s face.

“Spit it out,” LaBadie said.

Billy awoke to being kicked in the shins. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than being bonked in the head with a lead pipe, shot in the face at point-blank range, or strangled with a rope, which occasionally happened to people who cheated for a living. He’d fallen asleep on the couch in the living room of his suite, an empty snifter in his hand. Painful sunlight streamed through the picture window as bright as a police interrogation.