James Swain - Take Down

“Admit, it, these two women work for you,” LaBadie said.

“Never seen them before,” he said.

“They’re not part of your crew?”

“Stop saying that.”

“Then explain this.”

Three more surveillance photos were produced and placed on the table. The cameras had caught his crew doing the pigeon drop and stealing the eight million in money orders from Ike and T-Bird.

Shit, he thought.

LaBadie had a smug look on his face, having backed his suspect into a corner.

“Ready to confess?” the gaming agent asked.

“To what?” he asked innocently.

“We’re willing to cut you a deal, provided you give us the names of the people in your crew. And, we want the eight million in money orders returned. Give us those two things, and we’ll go light on you. Think about it, Billy.”

Even the best cops made mistakes, and LaBadie had just made a major one. The gaming board didn’t know the names of Billy’s crew.

“I’m not interested in cutting any deals because I didn’t do anything,” Billy said. “Do you want to hear the rest of my story or not?”

LaBadie left the incriminating photos on the table and returned to his chair.

“Go ahead with your story,” he said. Then he added, “It’s your funeral.”

Saturday morning, 6:00 a.m., the dingy motel room filled with harsh sunlight. It was a rude way to wake up, and Billy crawled off the couch to pull the blinds.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. Ly murmured in her sleep, and he looked at her lying in the big bed by herself. He’d stayed up late, come into her room to watch a little TV, and had crashed. He checked his Droid to see if he’d been missed, and saw no messages.

He took a short walk to the 7-Eleven at the end of the block. The pastries had just come out of the oven, and he bought doughnuts and chocolate cookies. He held the mouth of the bag beneath her nose upon returning to the room.

“Here’s some yum for your tum,” he said.

She rolled over and started to snore. He turned on the TV, and checked the weather while munching on a doughnut. It rained less than five inches a year in Vegas. The rest of the time, it was hot and dry. Today would be no different.

He thought about his old pals Wolf and Fleshman. He’d done a search not long ago and discovered that Fleshman was a personal injury attorney, while Wolf had gone to work for one of the financial institutions that had bankrupted the country. Their gutless betrayal had ruined his life, yet he didn’t think they particularly cared. It had been a good lesson. He chose his partners carefully now and did not tolerate betrayal.

Time to go. He took half the money from his wallet and left it on the night table.

He made sure to hang the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign before walking out.

A cab dropped him off at Galaxy’s entrance. The joint was a tomb, and he heard a lone slot machine being played as he walked through the lobby. He would have bet that the player had blue hair and a Popeye-sized forearm, only there was no one to take his action.

He went upstairs to his suite. An empty bottle of Jack sat on the bar, the TV showing the porn channel, a pair of hot blonds doing each other while a tattooed dude masturbated. According to Pepper and Misty, the porn shown on hotel channels was shot in an industrial warehouse. It took the fun out of watching it, and he killed the picture.

The door to the punishers’ bedroom was ajar. He stole a look inside and saw them passed out in each other’s arms. He’d told them to dial back the partying, and they’d gone and gotten shit-faced anyway. He couldn’t wait to lose these two guys.

He got a bottled water from the fridge. A message pad lay on the bar. The top sheet had been written on, then scribbled over. People only scribbled over things they wanted to hide. He tore away the top sheet and studied the indentations on the sheet below. It was a woman’s name-Amanda Fernandez. And a long phone number that suggested another country.

It didn’t feel right, and he decided to call the number. A Mexican woman answered in Spanish. Should he pretend to be Ike or T-Bird? He covered the mouthpiece of the phone.

“This is Ike Spears. Did you call me?”

“Mr. Spears? I didn’t recognize your voice,” the woman said, switching to English.

“I’ve got a cold. What’s up?”

“I sent you an e-mail last night. Did you get it?”

“Afraid not. My cell phone’s been acting up.”

“I’ll resend it. Take a look, see what you think. It’s a wonderful property-perfect for you and your partner. I will tell you up front that the price is firm. It’s a hot market these days.”

“I’ll look for your e-mail.”

“Talk to you soon. Feel better!”

He ended the call. So Ike was talking to a Mexican real estate agent about buying a house. Not a bad idea, only he didn’t understand why Ike had gone to the trouble of scribbling out the woman’s name. Was Ike trying to hide something?

He searched the suite for Ike’s cell phone. Not finding it, he decided to chance it and slipped into the punishers’ bedroom, where he discovered Ike’s cell phone lying on the dresser. It was a newer-model Droid. He left the bedroom and silently shut the door.

He locked himself into the bathroom. The Droid needed a password. He guessed it was something easy, and typed Ike’s name in, no spaces. The phone unlocked itself. The screen was covered with apps. He pressed the e-mail app and went to Ike’s inbox. In it were two e-mails from Amanda Fernandez, one sent moments ago. Its subject matter: “Your house-SMDA.”

He read the e-mail. SMDA stood for San Miguel de Allende, a small colonial town tucked away in the heart of central Mexico. The property Fernandez was trying to sell Ike was called Ranchos de los Olivos. Fernandez claimed it was “perfect for two gentlemen” and that it offered “all the amenities.” Included was a link, which he clicked on. Soon he was taking a virtual tour of the ranch of the olives.

It was opulent by anyone’s standards. Twelve acres of lush landscaping with a kidney-shaped swimming pool, four-stall horse barn, and a magnificent eight-thousand-square-foot ranch house with high-ceilinged rooms, polished wood floors, working fireplaces, and plenty of old-world charm. The asking price was $2,550,000, which Fernandez had said was firm.

The price raised a red flag. Ike and T-Bird’s take from the scam was two million. Not enough to pay for this joint. So where was the rest of the money coming from? It certainly wasn’t going to fall out of the sky.

He hadn’t been born yesterday. Ike and T-Bird were planning to double-cross him and take it all.

He returned Ike’s cell phone to the bedroom without waking them. Soon he was descending in an elevator to the main floor, where he got out and boarded a service elevator. He punched in the code that Ike had used the day before and hit the button for the fourteenth floor.

He started to rise and realized he was trembling. The fourteenth floor was his personal house of horrors, a place that he’d never wanted to return to. But it was also an area of the hotel that only a limited number of people had access to, and that made it valuable to him.

The doors parted and he stepped out. The floor was humming with activity-electricians installing light fixtures in the ceilings, carpenters firing nails, dusty men laying Sheetrock. The last unfinished rooms were coming together. Soon they’d be filled with guests, and the ghost of Ricky Boswell would have someone to keep him company.

He spent a moment checking the ceiling light fixtures in the hall. The covers had not been installed and the security cameras used to monitor guest activity were in plain view. The tiny red light that flashed when the cameras were operating was dark, and he guessed these cameras would not be operational until the floor was finished.