James Swain - Take Down

“What do you want?” Shaz said by way of greeting.

“It’s me, Billy. I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

“That’s right. Did you make the Gypsies yet?”

“I’ve hit a little snag. According to the welcome board in the lobby, there are nine weddings taking place on Saturday. I’m at the chapel, and I’ve already seen twelve couples rehearsing. What’s the deal?”

“Price points. You have to pay to get your name put on the welcome board.”

“So how busy is Saturday?”

“We start at ten a.m. and run them until five. Three weddings an hour, no overlap.”

“I believe you just said twenty-one.”

“Don’t be a wiseass. It isn’t healthy.”

If he knew one thing for certain, it was that Ike and T-Bird weren’t going to lay another hand on him, and he could not help but smile into the phone. “One more question. Do small wedding parties stay in the hotel, or can they just rent the chapel?”

“Anyone who gets married has to stay in the hotel. That’s the deal.”

He ran his free hand through his hair. The joint was a wedding mill. No doubt the Gypsies had taken this into account when they’d decided to scam the casino. It made it that much easier for them to blend in. The mountain he was climbing had just gotten steeper.

“Who deals with all of these couples?” he asked.

“We have a full-time wedding director, Lucille Gonzalez.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Be my guest. Lucille’s office is in the bridal shop; she deals with all of the parties. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming. But be careful. Lucille will take one look at you and start spinning her web. You know the kind I’m talking about.”

“I’ll let you know what I turn up.”

“Don’t hang up. Why do I think you’re fucking with me every time I have a conversation with you? You’re scheming away, I just know it.”

Billy’s cheeks burned. “I’m not fucking with you. Ask Ike if you don’t believe me.”

“Like that moron would know? I used to strip, remember? I can hear it in a man’s voice when he lies. You’re lying. If I find out what you’re planning, I’m going to take you down. That’s a promise, Billy, so help me fucking God.”

She was onto him. But would she pull the trigger when the time came? If the snuff film of Ricky Boswell was any indication, she would, and he’d become another notch on her belt.

“Why don’t you trust me? I haven’t hurt you,” he said.

“Give it time,” she said.

The bridal shop was a factory. Weddings were big business for the hotel, and a staff of dress fitters and wedding planners scurried about the spacious room, altering the gowns of the frantic brides-to-be and their doting mothers. The brides were bitchy and tearful and tossed verbal bombs at their mothers or anyone else in range.

The girl at the front desk was on happy pills, immune to the carnage around her. She called into the back for Lucille. Hanging up, she pointed at a door that led to the fitting rooms. “Last door on the left. Don’t bother to knock-Lucille’s expecting you.”

Billy checked out the fitting rooms while walking to Lucille’s office. They were equally tense, the brides frowning at their reflections, the beautiful gowns they were wearing somehow just not right. Maybe that was the key to finding the Gypsies. Find the bride that wasn’t a nervous wreck, and she’d probably be part of the Boswell clan.

The door to Lucille’s office was ajar. A sunny Hispanic woman showing head-snapping cleavage sat at a desk, talking on a landline. Her sensuous brown eyes locked on him, then dropped to his hand to see if he wore a wedding ring.

“I’ll call you back.” She nestled the receiver into its cradle. Rising from her swivel chair, she slowly grew as she stepped into her heels. “You must be Billy.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Never.” She came around the desk with a little swing to her hips. High cheekbones, small mouth glossed pink, azure-shadowed blue eyes. A nice package.

“Shaz said you were a consultant the casino had hired to sniff out a crook, and that I might be able to help you,” she said. “Wait-I’ve seen you on TV. The Discovery Channel, right? They did a show about casino scams, and you were on it, being interviewed.”

“Wrong,” he said. “It was actually A &E.”

“Hah! Shaz said you were the devil. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable.”

He took a chair. Lucille sat on the edge of the desk and let her feet dangle playfully in the air. She was a live wire, that was for sure. She offered him a cigarette, which he declined. She lit up and inhaled pleasurably. Multiple lines on the desk phone were blinking frantically, and she paid no attention to them. He dug that. She had focus.

“I’m looking for a family of crooks that are staying in your hotel posing as a wedding party,” he explained. “I’m guessing you might be able to help me figure out who they are.”

She brought her hand dramatically to her chest. “You want me to help you catch these people? How exciting. What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to think back over the past week. Have you seen any brides that weren’t crying or picking fights with their mothers? That seems to be the norm, from what I’ve seen.”

Lucille went into thought mode, her face a study in concentration.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Have they all had meltdowns?”

“Good expression,” she said, the cigarette’s ash glowing. “Yes, they all have. It’s part of the marriage process. The anticipation is too much, and they blow their stacks.”

“And you rescue them.”

“I most certainly do. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” Her laugh sent a stream of blue smoke over Billy’s head. “I’m not helping, am I?”

“You’re doing great. Do you dance?”

“All the time. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. Which clubs?”

“I used to go to the Bank, but it got tired after a while, same DJs every week. Now I hang out at the Tryst. The DJs change every night and it’s much fresher. Fridays are the best, but not until after midnight. I bet you’re fun on the dance floor.”

“I’ve got some moves. Let’s get back to business. Have any of the brides acted strangely, or done something to give you a funny feeling about them?”

“You mean in my gut? Not that I can remember.”

“How about their mothers?”

Lucille’s eyes sparked as she ground her cigarette into an ashtray on the desk. He had hit a nerve, and he waited expectantly for her to continue.

“The mothers are a pain in the bitch, if you’ll pardon my language,” she said. “A few days ago, a bride was getting her gown altered, and I’m there with her mother, making sure it looks right. The mother says she paid twenty grand for the gown from a bridal shop. I took one look and knew the gown was a knockoff. Bridal shops sell fake wedding gowns made of synthetic fiber. The shops mark up the price ten times, pocket the difference. It’s a big scam.”

It sounded like the fake-sweater scam, only on steroids. He didn’t have a problem selling knockoffs-bridal gowns got worn once and got stuck in mothballs-and he wondered if Lucille might be amenable to starting up a business on the side, with him fronting her.

“How many gowns do you sell from your shop?” he asked.

“Don’t go getting any ideas,” she said.

She was a square. He smiled pleasantly, as if making a joke.

“Tell me about the mother,” he said.

“I had to tell the woman the truth. Her poor daughter’s about to go down the aisle in a dress that was probably made in China, for Christ’s sake. So I took her aside and said, ‘I hate to tell you this, but your daughter’s gown is a knockoff. When you get home, go to the bridal shop where you bought it and tell the owner you know the RN number printed on the label isn’t real, and that you’ll report him if he doesn’t refund your money. That should do the trick.’”