James Swain - Take Down

“Give me the key.”

Crunchie produced a plastic room key. She shoved the key into the lock and waited for the green light to come on. Billy glanced at the hallway’s end where the emergency exit was located. The door was ajar, and he counted to himself. One potato, two potato, three potato. A pair of security guards emerged with guns drawn and came hustling toward them.

“Put your guns away,” Shaz said.

The guards obeyed and holstered their weapons.

“Sorry, Miss Shazam. No one said you were coming up,” one of the guards said.

“Don’t let it happen again,” she said.

The guards returned to their post, and Shaz led the others into Ricky’s room. Billy came in last, his eyes doing a sweep. The room had as much personality as a pod, which was what a hundred and fifty bucks a night scored you on the Strip. Square-shaped, with a double bed, a desk that would never be used attached to the wall, a cheap dresser, and the prerequisite wall TV showing the house station, the modern equivalent of Chinese water torture.

“All right, so what are we looking for?” she asked.

“I’ll know it when I find it,” Crunchie replied.

“So find it.”

The old grifter began pulling open the dresser drawers. Finding nothing, he searched the closet, which contained two dress shirts and two pairs of slacks hanging on the bar, along with a dark suit in a plastic dry-cleaning bag.

“There’s nothing here,” she said.

“Somebody came into this room. The door clicker wouldn’t lie. Let me look around some more. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“Spend all fucking day. It’s not like I have anything to do.”

Crunchie was desperate now. Entering the bathroom, he tore apart Ricky’s toilet kit, as if within the razors and lotions was hidden the secret to the Gypsy’s scam. He emerged with his eyes downcast, mumbling to himself like a dispirited old geezer at the mall.

“Are you done?” she asked.

“There’s a reason someone came into this room this morning. I just can’t find it.”

“Marcus is going to love it when I tell him what a fuckup you are,” she said. “You had him convinced the Gypsies were about to get caught. Nice going.”

She left in a huff, brushing Billy’s sleeve the way strippers in clubs did to get your attention.

“You win, lover boy,” she said under her breath.

Crunchie followed, his shoulders sagging. Billy waited until he heard the door click shut before addressing the punishers.

“Who came into the room this morning?” he asked.

The dull look of their hangovers had blunted their faces.

“Wasn’t me,” Ike said.

“Me, neither,” T-Bird chorused.

“It was a hotel employee. The evidence was right in front of Crunchie’s face, and he missed it. Did either of you see it?”

Both men shook their heads.

From the closet he removed the dry-cleaned suit in the plastic bag that the hotel concierge had delivered to the room, and shoved it in their faces. “It was the concierge. You want to run with me, you need to be on your toes. Got it?”

“Yeah, boss,” Ike said.

“No more getting smashed or trash-talking.”

“Got it,” Ike said.

“Right,” T-Bird chorused.

“Your life is going to become one big party after Saturday. Until then, you need to act like soldiers and walk the straight and narrow line. You with me?”

“Right,” they both said.

Billy was glad to have that out of the way. He hung the suit back up in the closet and realized the garment was bothering him. It was the only piece of formal clothing that Ricky had brought with him. For Ricky to have it cleaned by the hotel meant he planned to wear it while he was in Vegas; otherwise, he would have had it dry-cleaned when he returned home.

Billy tore away the plastic for a closer look. Single breasted with a notch lapel, dual vents, and handpick stitch on the borders. The label said “Extrema by Zanetti,” a decent line. The suit was too stiff looking for the casino, and not something you’d wear to a club. Outside of the casinos and clubs, there weren’t any other things to do that required getting dressed up.

Three pairs of shoes lay on the closet floor: Nike running shoes, casual loafers, and black patent-leather shoes that looked new. He picked up the patent-leather pair and held them next to the suit. They went together.

He took another look at the shirts hanging in the closet and found a light blue dress shirt with herringbone stripes and French cuffs tucked away in the back. He pulled it out and placed it next to the suit. They also went together.

He laid the suit and shirt on the bed, placed the shoes beside them, and rifled the dresser drawers that Crunchie had searched. He discovered a pair of gold cuff links in a box, and a silk navy necktie. Innocent items, unless you knew what they were for. The cuff link box also contained a ticket to a mixed-martial-arts contest taking place at the Mandalay Bay on Saturday afternoon, the first contest starting at 1:00 p.m.

It all added up. He knew how Ricky had planned to spend Saturday afternoon, and he also knew the Gypsies’ cover for scamming Galaxy’s casino, all because he’d spotted a dry-cleaning bag in the closet. He turned around holding the objects in his hands.

“What you got?” Ike asked.

Billy handed him the cuff links and tie, while keeping the ticket. Ike examined the items, then studied the clothes lying on the bed.

“Looks like somebody’s going to a wedding,” Ike said.

“You’re a star,” Billy said.

“Ricky Boswell’s family is staying in the hotel as part of a wedding party,” Billy said. “That’s their cover.”

“Was Ricky supposed to be part of the wedding?” Ike asked. “If he was, they’re gonna notice he’s not here, being that he’s dead and all.”

“No, they won’t. Ricky’s job was to scope out the casino. Right before you grabbed him, Ricky sent a message to his family, telling them everything was George. After that, he wouldn’t connect with his family until the scam was finished. That’s how crews operate. Each member only shows up when necessary, and contact is limited.”

Ike nodded, getting most of it. “Sorta like that movie Reservoir Dogs , the gang members having aliases and all, not talking to each other before the heist.”

“You got it.”

“Who’s George?” T-Bird asked.

“George is an expression that means everything’s cool. If I say everything’s George, it means the scam’s good to go. If I tell you everything’s Tom, it means the scam is off.”

“Who’s Tom?” T-Bird said, now really confused.

“There ain’t no Tom,” Ike said. “It’s a made-up expression that means the shit is gonna hit the fan. Even I know that.”

T-Bird was getting pissed. Rather than face off with Ike, he took his frustration out on Billy. “Just speak English, okay? I’m in no mood to learn a second language.”

“Sure. So where was I? Oh yeah, Saturday afternoon. So here’s how it’s going to happen. The Boswells are part of a wedding party. They go to the wedding in the afternoon, and then at four o’clock as the shift change is taking place, they hit the casino. They use the commotion inside the casino as their shade, and pull their scam.”

“But why won’t they miss Ricky?” Ike said. “If he don’t show, they’re gonna know.”

“No, they won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Ricky was planning to see mixed martial arts at the Mandalay Bay Saturday afternoon. When the fights were over, he was going to come back here, throw on his duds, and go downstairs to meet up with his family as they hit the casino.”

“Why would he wait?” Ike interrupted. “Why wouldn’t Ricky go to the wedding in the afternoon along with the rest of his family?”