James Swain - Take Down

“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” LaBadie said. “You’re saying Grimes wasn’t shooting at you but was trying to take down a hit man. Is that what you want us to believe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that this hit man killed several people in Doucette’s office.”

“That’s what Lamont told me.”

“And that this character was a threat to the well-being of every person inside the casino.”

“A serious threat.”

“Would you swear to this?”

“On a stack of Bibles.”

LaBadie worked his gum, thinking hard. Either they ran with his bullshit story and used it to fix the mess they’d created for themselves, or they didn’t.

“Excuse us,” LaBadie said.

The gaming agents left to talk things over.

“This should be interesting,” the attorney said.

Billy and his attorney talked meaningless crap while waiting for the gaming agents to return. First they discussed the weather, which was a joke, since Vegas was sunny nearly every day of the year. Then they discussed the rumor that the NBA might let a team come to town, another joke, since the league was afraid the town’s gamblers would fix every game. They didn’t talk about anything of significance, knowing a hidden camera in the ceiling fire alarm was recording them. The tape recorder was just a ploy, put there to lull them into complacency.

The gaming agents returned wearing their poker faces. They stood in front of Billy and his lawyer with LaBadie in the center. With the gaming board, it was never a good cop / bad cop scenario. They were nobody’s friend and never would be.

“We want to strike a deal with you,” LaBadie said.

“A very good deal,” Zander added.

“One that you should take,” Tricaricco said.

“I’m all ears,” Billy said.

“We’ll write up the story you just told us, word for word, and have you sign your name to it,” LaBadie said. “Your story will become the official version of what happened at Galaxy’s casino yesterday afternoon. You will stick to that story come hell or high water, and will not waver from it, especially if you speak to the media. Does that sound good to you?”

“I can do that,” he said.

“We also want you to tell us where the eight million dollars in money orders went,” LaBadie said. “Do that, and we’ll let you walk out of here.”

“The woman in the photo with the briefcase has your money orders,” Billy said.

“We know that. We want to know her name.”

“I don’t know her name.”

“Come on, Billy. That woman works for you.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“You and I both know that woman’s face got captured in a surveillance photo,” LaBadie said, talking straight with him. “We’re going to scan every surveillance tape we can find using OCR, and we’ll figure out who she is, and run her down. You’ve heard of OCR, haven’t you?”

“Optical character recognition. Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

“Then you know it’s not just for text anymore. Its facial-recognition capability is infallible. So do us both a favor and give us her name. We’ll go light on her. You have my word.”

Though originally used for scanning print, OCR was now the latest tool in law enforcement. A computer created an algorithm based upon a suspect’s physical characteristics and scanned it against a surveillance tape. Each time a match came up, the computer would flag the frame. By using OCR, the gaming board would be able to find Misty on other casino surveillance tapes without her disguise and run her down.

But those things took time. Days, even weeks before a match was made. Enough time for him to save Misty’s ass. Leaning forward, he said, “That woman has never worked for me, and I don’t know who she is. Now, do you want me to sign your piece of paper, or what?”

“You’re being a fool,” LaBadie said.

“You’re the one with his balls in a vise.”

The lawyer’s gold pen lay on the table. Billy picked it up.

“Ready when you are,” he said.

Billy walked out of the detention center a free man. Underman offered to give him a lift, and they walked down Lewis Avenue to the county parking facility where he’d parked.

“Where to?” his attorney asked, driving away.

“I need to get my car from Galaxy’s valet,” he said.

“I would advise you not to go back there.”

“I need my car.”

“Can’t one of your friends get it for you?”

Billy wouldn’t ask a member of his crew to do something that he wouldn’t do himself. Underman dropped the subject and turned on the local public radio station that played classical music when it wasn’t begging for donations. They listened to one of Beethoven’s symphonies while driving south on the Strip, the beautiful music colliding with the jarring sight of late-night drunks trolling the sidewalks with drink cups dangling in their hands.

“What happened to Doucette’s wife?” Billy asked, figuring his lawyer would know.

“I’ve heard several versions,” his attorney said. “The most reliable is that she shot one of Rock’s bodyguards, killed the second by smashing an ashtray over her head, and bit Rock in the neck and severed his jugular. She did all of this with a knife sticking out of her chest. By the time the gaming board found her, she’d bled out. Did you know her?”

“A little.”

“What was she like?”

“She had a lot of anger in her.”

“I’ve got a question for you. Is there really a hit man named Lamont Paris?”

“Sure is. I saw his wanted poster when I went to the post office to pick up a package. His name had a nice ring to it.”

Galaxy’s casino was a block away, their trip almost over.

“I need you to do a couple of things for me,” Billy said. “A friend of mine named Maggie Flynn needs to get sprung out of jail. That’s where you come in.”

“Is she a cheater?”

“No, she’s a nun.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Billy turned sideways in his seat. “I don’t care if you have to bribe a judge-just get her out.”

“Be sensible, Billy. I don’t even know what the charges against her are.”

“That’s not the answer I want to hear.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to get her out of jail. You once told me half the politicians in this town were in your back pocket. Pull some strings-I don’t care how much it costs.”

“I’m not going to promise something I can’t deliver.”

Billy grabbed Underman’s arm and gave it a vicious squeeze. The pain was unexpected, and the car swerved dangerously into the next lane before the attorney righted the wheel.

“You’re hurting me,” Underman said.

“Get Maggie Flynn out of jail.”

“All right, all right. I’ll figure out a way to get your friend sprung. Now let go of me.”

Billy released his lawyer’s arm and resumed looking at the road. “I also want you to find out where the guy that got shot is hospitalized, and text me the information.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“I want to send him flowers. Stop asking so many fucking questions.”

They had reached Galaxy’s main entrance. It was open for business, an interim management team running the joint. In any other town, it would have been shuttered until the investigation was complete, but that wasn’t how things worked in Vegas.

Underman pulled into the valet area and hit his brakes. With the restrained fury of a father lecturing his son, he wagged his finger in Billy’s face. “I want you to listen to me. You’re a sharp kid, and you’ve got more lives than a cat. But your luck is going to run out. It happens to every criminal that thinks they can beat this town. They eventually crap out, and it’s one long downhill slide from that point on. When your luck does run out, the gaming board’s going to crucify you and your crew. This woman in the surveillance photo with the money orders is especially vulnerable. She’s a goner, if you didn’t know it.”