James Swain - Take Down

“Are you guys sure about this?” he asked. “I’m planning to take Tony G for the full amount Gabe owes him. Tony G might realize the race was fixed, and make some phone calls. Sal could get some heat down the road.”

“That’s Sal’s problem,” Cory said. “We work for you, Billy.”

“Yeah, we work for you,” Morris said.

Billy turned his attention to Gabe. “How do I get in front of this guy?”

“Tony G plays golf every day on the Bali Hai course. That’s where he does most of his business,” Gabe said. “I know the pro at Bali Hai. I’ll call him, and set it up.”

“You’re saying Tony G take bets while he plays.”

“His cell phone never stops ringing. It’s annoying as hell.”

“Do it.” Billy rose from his folding chair. He needed to get back to Galaxy and put in some face time. Gabe was looking at him, as were the others, all put out.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

“You said you needed me for a job,” Gabe said. “You going to tell me what it is?”

In all the excitement, Billy had forgotten why he’d come to Gabe’s home in the first place.

“Hold that thought,” he said.

Going outside, he retrieved the Nike bag from the Camaro, came back in, and dropped it on Gabe’s lap. Gabe unzippered the bag and had a look.

“You want me to counterfeit these, is that the deal?” the jeweler asked.

“No, I want you to counterfeit this.” He took the souvenir key chain from his pocket and showed Gabe the rubber gold chip. “Use the chips in the bag to get the weight and texture, and this for the color. I need eighty of them. They’re worth a hundred grand apiece.”

“How am I going to match the color? There are a thousand different shades of gold.”

From his wallet Billy extracted the AAA Novelty & Gift business card he’d gotten from the cashier in the hotel gift shop. “The company that makes them is local. Go see them, and tell them you need a paint match for a job you’re doing for the hotel.”

Gabe stared at the card. “Shit, I know these guys. Getting the paint won’t be a problem. When did you say you need these by?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well, that’s a problem. This isn’t something you can rush.”

“I know that. But if anyone can make it happen, it’s you.”

Gabe was a perfectionist; every job he tackled was handled with the utmost thoughtfulness and care. From the open Nike bag he removed a stack of colored chips and let them fall into his other hand, nice and flat and downward. They fell with a uniform correctness, landing on top of each other with a cushion of air that broke their fall due to their perfect construction. Under his breath Gabe said, “Eleven grams, blended plastic, silver inserts.” He climbed out of the recliner still hurting from the beating he’d taken, and stood next to Billy.

“Eighty gold chips it is,” the jeweler said.

“You’re the man. Later, everyone.”

Billy headed for the front door. Travis was right behind him, and in a breathless voice said, “Are we stealing eight million bucks from Galaxy tomorrow?”

“That’s right. I’ll call you later with the details.”

“Billy, wait!” Misty called after him.

His crew had come out of their chairs, their faces filled with hopeful expressions.

“What about us?” Misty asked. “Are we part of this deal?”

“Of course you’re part of it. All for one, and one for all, and everyone gets their usual cut. I’ll fill you in later, and explain what your roles are. Now let me go. I’ve got work to do.”

He jogged across the lawn and climbed into the oven-hot Camaro, the flesh on his back burning up as it touched the driver seat. His Droid lay on the passenger seat, and he picked it up to stare at its face. He hadn’t gotten any distress phone calls from Ike or T-Bird. No news was good news, and he fired up the ignition and made the engine roar.

This was going to work. The pieces were falling into place, the stars aligning in his favor. By tomorrow night, he and his crew would be rolling in dough, while Marcus Doucette and his murderous wife would be scratching their asses, wondering where the hell their money was.

He pulled onto the street. His crew had come outside to stand on the front lawn. They began waving to him. They looked so damn happy that he welled up with emotion. He hadn’t had much of a family life growing up-his mother in prison for stabbing a man to death with a pair of scissors, his father having to cheat at cards to make ends meet-and he’d always wondered what it would have been like to have a gang of brothers and sisters to hang out with. He guessed this was the next best thing, and he waved as he burned past.

“We love you, Billy!” Misty shouted.

Mags stood outside her town house, cooling her jets. Frank had said noon, and it was now twelve fifteen. He could have called, but that would have been the polite thing to do.

The desert air was heating up, the air scorching hot. Sometimes, she toyed with the idea of skipping town and starting her life over in another city, but deep down, she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Her contract with the gaming board was ironclad. In it, she’d admitted to her crimes and had agreed to work off her punishment by becoming a paid informant. If she ran away, she’d become a wanted felon, and the police would run her down at warp speed. Hanging on her kitchen wall was a calendar that she used to count off the days. In eleven months and twenty-six days she’d become a free woman. If she only lasted that long.

Twelve twenty came and went. Murphy’s Law said light up a cigarette when you want something to happen, so she fired up a Kool and took a few puffs. Sure enough, Frank pulled into her drive and his window came down.

“Get in, and get rid of that butt,” he said.

She ground out her cigarette and hopped in. Frank had cleaned up. His unruly hair had gel in it, and he was wearing a pretty blue necktie. A box of candy appeared on her lap.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

She undid the bow and popped the lid. Chocolate-covered strawberries. Considering he’d smacked her in the face, she’d been expecting a piece of jewelry. The candy made her feel cheap, and she placed it on the floor between her feet.

They drove in silence. The relationship was starting to feel like a bad marriage. Sleeping with Frank had been a good idea at the beginning of their arrangement. It had let her exert control over him and had given her the upper hand. Now that control was gone, and she felt apprehensive when they were together, never knowing what he might do.

Soon they were driving past a wasteland of strip malls on South Decatur. Frank pulled up in front of a breakfast joint called Mr. Mamas and parked.

“Sit in the back. I’ll be in after I make this call,” he said.

“You want something?” she asked, trying to act nice, when all she wanted to do was hurt him.

“Get me some coffee and a breakfast burrito,” he said. Any mention of food always perked him up. “Order yourself something as well; just don’t go overboard.”

She went in. The restaurant had black linoleum tables, a counter with stools, and tables filled with Mexican workers eating chicken-fried steak smothered in gravy. She took a table in back where a printed menu sat on the table. She decided on a Greek omelet and ordered from a waitress who gave her a sympathetic look. She glanced in the mirror behind the table and saw the puffiness around her jaw. It made her want to hurt Frank that much more.

Coffee came, and she sucked it down. How was she going to pay Frank back for last night without fucking up her already fucked-up situation? She didn’t know. All she knew was that when the opportunity presented itself, she was going to stick the knife in.