James Swain - Take Down

“Can you tell us what the scam is?” Gabe asked.

“We’re going to take down the high-roller salon at blackjack,” he said.

Misty stiffened, and so did Pepper. The others got real quiet, too.

“Has anyone ever ripped off a high-roller salon?” Gabe asked.

“No. We’re going to make history.”

Travis leaned forward in his seat, wanting to get back on good footing with the boss. “Billy, this sounds really great. How much do you think we can take them for?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll jinx it if I tell you.”

Travis swallowed hard. He’d just bought a four-bedroom, three-bath money pit and needed every spare dime he could get his hands on. “Can you give us a range?”

“Try the stratosphere,” he said.

Leon continued to circle the restaurant. All Billy could hear was the fluttering sound of Gabe breathing through his nose. He knew what each one of them was thinking. Was this the big score that would forever change their lives? It was Gabe who braved the silence.

“For the love of Christ, Billy, tell us, before we wet our pants,” the jeweler said.

“All right. If this goes as planned, we’ll walk away with a few million bucks, maybe more.” He paused to let the words sink in, then said, “You’ll each get your usual cut.”

Everyone got crazy all at once. The girls crawled into Billy’s lap and started to unbutton his shirt. He tried to fight them off and ended up kissing Misty instead, wanting more than just a taste of her sweet breath. The slider came down and Leon stuck his head into the back.

“Hey. No orgies in my limo, you hear?”

They ran up a two-thousand-dollar tab in one of the Golden Steer’s private dining rooms, the booze and champagne flowing like water. Billy sucked down several cups of coffee before taking his crew home, dropping them at their front doors with a promise to call tomorrow and fill them in on the details of Crunchie’s big score. Last stop was his pad at Turnberry Towers. He passed $500 to Leon through the open slider.

“I need to ask you a question,” his driver said. “Does this score include me?”

“If you want to be in, yeah, it includes you,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t I want to be in?”

“If we go down, you go down as well. You won’t be able to say you didn’t know what was going on, you were just hired to drive.”

“You’re saying I could end up doing time.”

“Yeah. You got any priors?”

“A couple.”

“Any felonies?”

“A couple.”

“Then you’ll do hard time if we get caught. Still want in?”

Leon scratched his chin and weighed the risk against the reward. “What’s my cut?”

“How does twenty-five grand sound?”

“Are you serious? Just for driving you around?”

“I’m going to be impersonating a whale, and will need a full-time driver at my beck and call. You’ll need to get your tuxedo dry-cleaned and wear the hat and do the step-and-fetch-it. You up for that?”

“Shit, I’ll wiggle through a pipe for twenty-five grand.”

Billy would have enjoyed seeing that. Climbing out, he banged his hand on the roof. The limo pulled away and slowly faded into the night.

Home sweet home was a luxury penthouse condo that he’d won in a rigged poker game from a Dallas oilman. The game had been arranged by the host at a Strip casino with whom Billy had split his winnings and who technically owned half the condo. They talked once a month, the host checking to make sure Billy hadn’t pulled a fast one and sold the place. Maybe he’d take his cut from Crunchie’s score and pay the host off. It would be nice to get him off his back.

Standing in his bedroom, he peeled off his clothes and tossed them in the trash. Losing your clothes after a heist was an old hustler’s trick, designed to keep casino security from remembering you the next time you ripped the place off.

He wanted to look sharp for his meeting, and he entered the closet and picked through the racks. He settled on black Armani slacks and a Louis Vuitton black silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons that he’d been saving for a special occasion. When he finished dressing, he appraised himself in the mirror hanging on the closet door. He looked like a player.

What a life. He’d just celebrated his thirtieth birthday, and had made more money and accumulated more sexy stuff than he’d ever dreamed possible. And there was more where that came from. He’d once taken a helicopter ride over Las Vegas. The gaudy casinos and hotels had reminded him of an upturned pirate’s treasure chest, just waiting to be plundered.

He called downstairs to the valet and requested that his car be brought up.

For years, the local hustlers had met at the Denny’s on Tropicana Avenue to talk shop. Then several regulars got busted, and word leaked out that the booths were bugged by the gaming board. It had made the Grand Slam special a lot less attractive.

By default, the Peppermill had become the new hangout, so it was natural that Crunchie wanted to meet there. From the street it resembled a retro diner, but in fact was two businesses. The front was a tourist-trap restaurant that served twelve-dollar burgers, the back a cocktail lounge with a circular fireplace and no security cameras. As Billy eased his metallic black Maserati GranTurismo into the narrow parking space in front, his Droid vibrated. Crunchie calling.

“I’m running behind,” the old grifter said by way of greeting.

“You’re not here?”

“My Vet won’t start. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”

Billy tapped his fingers on the wheel. Crunchie had called this meeting, and now he wasn’t here. This was getting off to a bad start. “How soon will that be?”

“Don’t get your diapers in a wad. I’ll be over as fast as I can.”

“That’s not very fast the way you move.”

“Fuck you, you little asshole. Sixty minutes. Feel better now?”

“Remember to bring your hearing aid.”

There were plenty of ways to kill an hour in Vegas, and he took a stroll up the block to a joint called Slots A Fun. A former crew member named Sal was doing time for sticking a strobe light up a slot machine’s coin chute to make it overpay, and Billy had promised to keep tabs on Sal’s girlfriend, a Vietnamese blackjack dealer named Ly.

A week after Sal got sent away, Billy had called Ly to see how she was holding up. She’d sounded depressed and had talked him into meeting her at a fleabag motel on North Seventh Street. Pulling into the motel’s parking lot, he’d spied Ly’s junker parked outside a room. He’d knocked on the door, found it open, and gone in. Burning candles everywhere, and on the bedside table, a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a pack of Trojans.

Ly stood beside the bed wearing a red satin kimono and a spray of flowers in her hair. As if by magic, the kimono slipped to the floor, revealing erect nipples rubbed with ice cubes, and no pubic hair. The sight of her took his breath away.

“Get in here, and shut the door behind you,” she’d said.

Ly meant lion in Vietnamese. Billy had started backing up.

“You no like?” she said.

“I don’t sleep with my friend’s girlfriends,” he explained.

“I need money. You gotta help me.”

“I’ll help you, but I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Suit yourself,” she said.

Slots A Fun offered an arcade-like atmosphere created by rows of noisy slot machines. In the back were five purple-felted blackjack tables that were hard on the eyes. Ly’s table was empty, and Billy tossed down a wad of cash and sat down. She was as pretty as a doll and wore a tight-fitting purple vest over her uniform. She counted the money with the precision of a bank teller.