James Swain - Take Down

Outside, a black sedan pulled up. A thickset man wearing a dark suit climbed out, said good morning, but didn’t shake Frank’s hand. The man’s face was a blunt instrument. His eyebrows were connected, his forehead sloped. This had to be Frank’s ill-tempered boss Trixie, who’d denied Frank a promotion after Billy had pulled the wool over the gaming board’s eyes at the Hard Rock. They spoke for a minute before coming inside and sitting down.

“This is my boss, Special Agent Bill Tricaricco,” Frank said. “Bill, this is Maggie Flynn, the paid informant I’ve been working with for the past year.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Trixie said.

“I’m sure it was all lies,” she said.

Their food came. It smelled delicious, and she blew on a mouthful of omelet before taking a bite. Frank’s breakfast burrito also looked good, although Frank didn’t touch it. The waitress asked Trixie if he cared to see a menu. He grunted no and told the waitress they wanted some privacy. He placed his wallet on the table so his gold badge was showing. The waitress shot Mags another sympathetic look before walking away.

“Sure you don’t want a bone to gnaw on?” Mags asked.

“Don’t get cute on me, little lady,” Trixie said. “I can make your life miserable in more ways than you can imagine.”

“More miserable than Frank has? That would take a lot.”

Frank leaned in. “Bill has a deal for you. Listen to what he has to say.”

“A deal? As in, Let’s Make a Deal ? Oh boy, I can’t wait.”

“Just shut up, and hear Bill out.”

She liberally sprinkled salt on her eggs and resumed eating. A broomstick was about to get rammed straight up her ass, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. The knuckle-scraper sitting across from her cleared his throat.

“You have eleven months left on your contract with the gaming board,” Trixie said. “What would you say if we tore your contract up?”

“Who do I have to sleep with?” she asked.

“No one. Frank tells me that you ran into Billy Cunningham at Galaxy’s casino last night, and that Billy is doing a job for Marcus Doucette. Is that true?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Frank also said that you two know each other from the old neighborhood.”

She rested her fork on her plate. With cold eyes she gazed at Frank, then at his boss. “If you’re asking me to do something that will hurt Billy, the answer is no.”

“Billy’s a menace,” Trixie said. “He and his crew have ripped off every casino in town, many of them multiple times, and we’ve never been able to put him away. Now we can, and you’re going to help us.”

“Take the potatoes out of your ears. I said no.”

“No is not an option. If you don’t play along, I’m going to take you downtown and throw your pretty ass in jail, and no smart-talking lawyer in town will be able to get you out. I’ve got the goods on you, Maggie. Take a look if you don’t believe me.”

Trixie parted his suit jacket and removed a folded sheet of paper. He smoothed out the creases before placing it on the table in front of her. On the page were five cancelled checks captured on a color Xerox machine. Each check was from a wealthy widow who’d made the mistake of playing a friendly game of gin rummy with Mags poolside at one of the Strip’s fancy hotels, fifty cents a point. The amounts on the widows’ checks ranged between $2,500 and $4,000, payable to Maggie Flynn.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, she thought.

“These checks are from five wealthy dowagers who recently visited Las Vegas,” Trixie said. “You cheated these women at gin rummy, and stole their money. That’s shameful.”

“Those checks don’t prove a thing,” she said, unwilling to go down without a fight. “You’re drinking your own bathwater, Trixie.”

“Who told you my name was Trixie?”

“A little bird.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong. One of your victims, Mrs. Goldie Hill of Pembroke Pines, Florida, filed a complaint with the Vegas police, who passed the case to the gaming board. I handled the investigation because I knew you were on our payroll. I called Mrs. Hill, and she told me how she’d written you a personal check to cover her losses, and that you got all teary eyed and said you didn’t want her money. You tore up the check and burned it in an ashtray. End of story, or so Mrs. Hill thought. When she returned home, a bank statement was waiting for her, saying the money was gone from her account. Admit it, you ripped Mrs. Hill off.”

The walls of the restaurant were starting to close in, the air difficult to breathe. Mags shifted uncomfortably in her chair, feeling trapped.

“I contacted your bank to see if there were more victims,” Trixie said. “They provided me with four more cancelled checks. I called the women whose names were on the checks, and got the same story. A pretty Irish lass cleaned them out at gin rummy by the pool, took a personal check, then had a fit of conscience and tore it up. When they got home, the money was withdrawn from their bank accounts.”

“That still doesn’t prove I cheated them,” she said.

“You’re not going to play ball with me, are you?”

“Not if it means hurting Billy.”

“Have it your way. Give me your purse.”

“No.”

“Give it to me, before this gets ugly.”

“Do it,” Frank said.

Mag’s satchel purse hung off the back of her chair. She tossed it to the gaming agent and the bag struck him in the face. Trixie reached for his belt as if to grab his handcuffs, then thought better of it. He poured her purse’s contents onto the table and sifted through the lipsticks, birth control pills, and other personal items as if prospecting for gold. The waitress hovered by the counter, watching with the same morbid fascination that drew motorists to car wrecks.

Trixie hummed to himself while picking through her things. Stripping Mags of her dignity was the kind of dehumanizing activity that made his day. Frank, on the other hand, was not having any fun at all and sadly shook his head.

I’ll get both of you back, Mags promised herself, if it’s the last thing I do.

Trixie checked her wallet last. It was made of faux leather and matched her purse. He pulled it apart, tossing her money and credit cards onto the pile. Inside a hidden compartment he found a stash of folded checks, which he held triumphantly in the air.

“These blank checks are my proof,” Trixie said. “When your victim is writing you a check, you dive into your wallet, find a check that matches the color, and hide it in your hand. The victim gives you the check, and you go into your act and pretend to tear up the check. But you don’t-you rip up the blank and burn it, destroying the evidence. That’s the scam, isn’t it?”

Mags was beaten. The scam was called the Tear Up and had been devised by card cheats to be used on long railroad trips, the idea being that the sucker would forget about the loss once the check was destroyed. It was one of the first scams that Lou Profaci had taught her.

“Now, are you going to play ball, or do I run you in?” he asked.

The moment of truth had arrived. Long ago, she’d decided that she was willing to do just about anything to stay out of prison. She took a deep breath before replying.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Tell her,” Trixie said.

“We want you to make sure that Cunningham is inside Galaxy’s casino on Saturday afternoon,” Frank said. “We’re going to take Cunningham down along with Doucette.”

Her skin for Billy’s. Another deep breath.

“All right,” she said.

“You’re going to have to connect with Billy before the raid,” Frank said. “Find out where he’s staying inside the casino and tell us. He’s a slippery little shit, so we’ll need to know.”