James Swain - Take Down

She clicked her fingers and pointed at the bed. He lay down obediently, and she mounted him. He had imagined this moment so many times that he didn’t think it would live up to his expectations. Dreams rarely did.

He was wrong. Being inside her was heaven, and the room started to move as if they were having an earthquake. Shutting his eyes, he thought about the lengths they’d traveled to reach this cheap motel room. The odds of them connecting had to be a trillion-to-one. If that wasn’t fate, he didn’t know what was.

Done, he took several exhilarating breaths.

“Want to do it again?” she asked.

Early the next morning, his Droid started making rude noises. Caller ID said it was Cory, king of the fuckups. Mags was out like a light, and he slid out of bed and took the call in the john.

“What do you want?”

“Hey, Billy, me and Morris just wanted to say hi, see how things are going,” Cory said. Everything’s cool here. No gaming board at the doorstep, ha-ha.”

“Hi, Billy,” came Morris’s voice in the background.

“What do you want ?”

“We’ve been working on this cool scam with a hotel concierge,” Cory said. “We need someone with experience to make the play, so we called you. We won’t let you down this time, and that’s a promise from both of us.”

Scams involving a hotel’s concierge were the bread and butter of many hustlers’ existence. The suckers were usually rich suckers with supersized egos and zero common sense. They took their beatings in stride, and their checks never bounced. He realized he wanted to hear what Cory and Morris had cooked up.

“Lay it on me.”

“You want to hear the scam? Really?”

“Yeah, and it’s the only reason. Start talking.”

“Okay. You’re going to love this. This software king from Silicon Valley flies into Vegas each month to host a private poker game at the Palms. Fifty-thousand-dollar buy-in, winner take all. The sucker brings five of his buddies with him and has the hotel concierge invite a local player to round out the field. Now, here’s the good part. The sucker’s afraid of getting cheated, so he buys the cards for the game from the hotel gift shop. Morris bribed the manager of the gift shop, and we stacked the shelves with a hundred decks of marked cards. The sucker will be bringing marked cards to his own game, and he won’t even know it.”

“What marking system did you use?”

“We juiced them. Just throw your eyes out of focus, and the marks pop out.”

“Juiced them how?”

“We used aniline dye mixed with pure grain alcohol and applied it to the borders with an airbrush. We cut glycerin into the mix to help bring back the shine after the dye was applied to the card. It was a lot of work, but the payoff will be huge.”

“Were you smoking dope when you did it?”

“No way, we’re off the dope. We learned our lesson.”

“You still haven’t explained the play.”

“Morris is buddies with the concierge at the Palms,” Cory said, his voice growing excited. “The concierge will front for you and get you into the game. You know the rest. We’ll go fifty-fifty with you, after we pay off the concierge. The sucker is flying in Tuesday night. So what do you say? Are you in?”

Marking cards was an art and a science. If the marks were too strong, they could be seen under a bright light, exposing the scam to everyone at the table. Knowing Cory and Morris, they probably hadn’t let all of the marked decks dry properly, and a couple decks in the Palms gift shop had too much dye on them. If by chance the Silicon Valley sucker purchased a bad deck and spotted the not-so-invisible marks, he and his pals would put two and two together and know that the stranger in the game was at fault and throw Billy off the balcony.

“You must be out of your fucking mind,” he said.

“Why? What did we do wrong?” Cory choked on the words.

“Figure it out for yourselves.”

He ended the call and slipped back into bed. The sheets were still warm, and he snuggled up next to Mags and heard her murmur.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“No one important,” he said.

They ate a late breakfast in the hotel coffee shop and decided it might be a good idea if they both left town for a while.

“Where do you have in mind?” he asked.

“LA. I’ve always wanted to visit there,” Mags said.

“You’ve never been to LA? It’s my favorite town next to this one.”

“Where should we stay?”

“Venice. The beach scene is really cool.”

They used his Droid to find a boutique hotel in Venice called the Erwin. Mags dug the decor, and he booked a partial ocean view that set him back six hundred bucks. Normally, he’d never spend that much, but Mags had given him what he wanted, and he felt whole again.

His Droid was making noises again. He checked it in the parking lot. His attorney had sent him a text. Desert Springs Medical Center, ICU, #224 . He had one last unfinished piece of business to attend to, and he took Koval north until he reached East Flamingo and hung a right.

“This isn’t the way to the freeway,” Mags said.

“I need to see a sick friend of mine,” he said.

“I thought you were taking me to Venice to fuck my brains out.”

He stared at the road. She was trying to control him, show him who was boss. He guessed it was to be expected. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“You’d better,” she said.

The hospital appeared in the windshield, and he flipped on his indicator.

Desert Springs Hospital Medical Center was known for its trauma unit. Entering through the sliding glass doors, he detoured at the gift shop and bought a basket filled with purple carnations and white daisy pompons before taking the elevator to the ICU unit on the second floor.

Room 224 was at the end of a hallway and was distinguished by a large gathering of visitors outside its door. It was the Gypsy wedding party, now attired in street clothes.

Seeing Billy approach, one of the clan broke free and came forward. It was the best man who’d asked Billy to take the group’s picture. The best man was in his late twenties with fierce eyes and had the take-charge attitude of being next in line to inherit the throne.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I think you have the wrong room.”

“I was there yesterday. I came by to see how he was doing,” Billy said.

The best man grew flustered. “You’re the guy who stopped to help. You saved my father’s life. The doctors said he would have bled to death if not for you.”

“I’m glad he pulled through. You mind if I say hello?”

“He’s resting right now. I’ll be sure to tell him you asked about him.”

The best man tried to take the get-well basket from Billy’s hands. Billy kept his grip on the handle. The best man’s eyes narrowed, his radar now on full alert.

“I need to speak to your father,” Billy said.

“I just told you-”

“I think he wants to talk to me. Tell him that I’m here.”

“What is this about? Who are you?”

“Just tell him I’m here. I’ll be at the nurse’s station.”

In hindsight, Billy knew he should never have asked dear old Papa where he’d stashed the earth magnet. The old guy had probably spent the night sweating through his hospital sheets, convinced Billy was going to turn his family over to the gaming board. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but how was dear old Papa to know that?

The truth be known, Billy admired the old guy for making such a gutsy play. Certain makes of slot machines had a flaw buried within their design. Many cheaters knew about this flaw but hadn’t found a way to exploit it. The old guy had found a way, and gone and done it.