James Swain - Take Down

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“You’re pathetic. Get out of here, before I smack you in the mouth. I mean it.”

“Stop talking to me like that.”

“Leave.”

Cory kicked the shopping bag. Hadn’t he and Morris helped this big sack of fertilizer settle his huge gambling debt? But it was the wrong time and the wrong place to be having this discussion, and he left the casino without another word.

The sky was falling, and Mags didn’t know what to do.

All of Billy’s crew were now inside Galaxy. Just a few minutes ago, the last two members had parked a red Chevy Malibu in a spot next to the casino’s back entrance. Both had curly hair and boyish faces and reminded her of Billy, long ago. One had gone inside the casino with a brown shopping bag. When he’d come out, no shopping bag.

Frank and Trixie had joined the three gaming agents inside the truck. The tape of the Chevy was replayed, and watched again. Frank’s boss shook his head.

“That car is a problem,” Trixie said. “They can use it to run over our agents. Call the guys working the back of the casino, and tell them to set up roadblocks on the street.”

“Roadblocks?” Frank said. “How long is that going to take?”

“I don’t care how long it takes,” Trixie said. “Just do it.”

Frank went outside the truck to make the call. Mags leaned back in her chair. It was now or never to alert Billy. Not having Frank in the truck emboldened her, and she rose from her chair.

The three gaming agents sat in front of a large console onto which they’d tossed their car keys and cell phones. Mags backed up to the console, looking at Trixie as she did. As their eyes met, one of the agents’ cell phones found a home in her back pocket.

“Go sit down,” Trixie said.

“I need to take a piss,” she said.

“You’ve got some mouth on you, you know that?”

“Want to wash it out?”

Trixie led her to the lavatory and jerked the door open. It was smaller than the johns on airplanes, and she had to wedge herself inside.

“Make it fast,” Trixie said, shutting the door.

The overhead light flickered on. She pulled out the stolen cell phone and sat on the toilet. She was in luck; it did not require a password, and she unlocked the screen and located the phone icon. She got an outside line and got the main number for Galaxy’s casino from information. The call went through. Through the door came the unmistakable sound of Frank’s voice.

“Where’s Mags? She didn’t slip out, did she?” Frank asked.

An operator answered her call. Mags covered the phone’s mouthpiece.

“Hi. Can you please page someone in your casino for me? It’s an emergency.”

“Let me check. What’s their name?” the operator asked.

“Billy Cunningham.”

“Please hold on.”

Recorded music filled her ear. Frank pounded his fist on the door. “You dirty little shit! Who the hell are you talking to in there? Open the fucking door, goddamn it, or I’ll break it down.”

“I’ll be right out,” Mags said, trying to buy more time.

“Right now!”

“I’m taking a leak. You can watch. I won’t charge you.”

Frank hit the door with his shoulder, causing the hinges to give way. He was going to kill her, only Mags didn’t care. Billy’s crew meant more to her than any promise she’d ever made to the gaming board. She was going to join them one day, even if it meant first going to jail.

Billy was glued to the potted plant in the lobby. The three-thirty wedding had wrapped up, and the chapel was ready for the next couple to tie the knot.

An announcement over the PA snapped his head. He glanced at Ike.

“Did you hear that?”

“I think you’re being paged. Want me to check?” Ike asked.

“Yeah, do it.”

Ike crossed the lobby and picked up a white house phone that hung on the wall. He had a short conversation before returning to Billy’s side. “Operator said some woman urgently wanted to speak to you, only she hung up,” he said.

“Did the operator get a name?”

“Nope.”

Only a handful of people knew that Billy was here; those that did would never have him paged. Was someone trying to warn him? It sure felt that way. Crackling static filled the earpiece he was wearing, and Rock’s voice invaded his head.

“Here come the Gypsies,” the drug kingpin said.

“I’m not seeing them,” Billy said into the mike pinned to his lapel.

“They just got off the elevators. They’ll be down your way in a second.”

It was time to rip off Galaxy, and Billy put the page out of his mind. Slipping his hand into his jacket, he flipped off the power on the receiver clipped to his belt.

“Get ready to bolt,” he told Ike.

“I got butterflies in my stomach,” Ike confessed.

“Just do as I told you, and you’ll be fine.”

He flipped the receiver back on. Rock was talking to him.

“You see them now?” the drug kingpin asked.

“I sure do,” he said into the mike.

The Gypsies were booking down the lobby. At the front of the pack were the bride and groom. They were holding hands, and he realized that the groom was helping the bride keep her balance as she hustled along with the plastic dealing shoe strapped between her legs. Behind them was the bride’s mother, Cecilia Torch, wearing a subdued burgundy dress. Her husband strode beside her, fifteen years her senior, well tanned and fit. The husband had the air of being in charge, and Billy pegged him as the ringleader. Behind them was another older couple, posing as the groom’s parents. Bringing up the rear was a drop-dead-gorgeous bridesmaid, a smiling best man, and three twentyish couples posing as guests. The shared bloodline was easy to spot. Each member of the party had a full head of wavy hair and a swarthy complexion. They moved with springs in their steps and reminded him of an acrobat troupe about to enter the big top.

“I count fourteen. How about you?” Rock asked.

“Fourteen it is,” he said into the mike.

“The tan guy is running the show, isn’t he?” Rock said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m looking forward to killing that motherfucker.”

“You going to do him yourself?”

“I sure am.”

The Gypsies entered the chapel and the doors closed behind them. Billy felt certain that Rock was watching the ceremony unfold inside the chapel on the TV screens and was not paying the slightest attention to him, or Ike. It was time for Ike to make himself scarce. He gently kicked the big man in the shin with his heel. Ike stepped backward, out of the frame.

Billy waited for Rock to say something.

Rock didn’t say a thing.

Billy reached into his jacket and turned off the receiver.

“Go,” he said without moving his lips.

Ike hurried away.

Billy flipped the receiver back on. Standing as stiff as a statue, he focused on the wedding-chapel doors, waiting for the Gypsies to emerge.

Ike had touched greatness in his life before, and come up short. In college during a nationally televised bowl game, he’d allowed the opposing team’s running back to slip past him, the play repeated endlessly on ESPN during their end-of-year bloopers festival. In the Super Bowl, he’d tripped over another team member during a crucial play and also made the ESPN idiot reel. And so it had gone-remembered for the times he’d messed up, not for his achievements.

That was about to change, and a new chapter would be written. Walking to the elevators, Ike called upstairs to the suite and, when T-Bird picked up, said, “Everything’s set. Come on down.”

“See you by the elevators,” his partner said.