James Swain - Take Down

His old man had decided to die at home in his favorite chair, hooked up to an oxygen tank, an unlit cigarette dangling from his parched lips. With each passing hour, his old man’s breathing grew more tortured. Knowing the end was near, he’d told his son to get a cardboard box from the closet in the hall. Billy got the box and saw that it was filled with love letters from a woman that was not his mother. Among the letters was a newspaper clipping showing him being presented with an award that he’d gotten during his brief stint at MIT.

Back in the living room, he’d asked his old man what he wanted done with the stuff.

“Burn it,” his old man said. “All of it.”

The day after his old man croaked, he’d done just that.

Galaxy was in his sights. It was a boxy monstrosity consisting of two mammoth hotel towers and a casino squeezed onto a tiny plot of land. As he navigated the winding entrance, floodlights lit up the night sky as if at a movie premiere. To make it in Vegas, a casino had to be themed, the more outlandish the better. Galaxy’s theme was the golden age of Tinseltown, and a medley of popular movie scores played over hidden speakers.

He tossed his keys to the valet and headed inside.

The lobby was designed to resemble the Beverly Hills Hotel, with a circular marble floor, inset ceiling, and cut-glass chandelier. On every table, fresh cut flowers. A man wearing a tux played show tunes on a baby grand piano that made Billy want to dance.

A short hallway led to a casino several football fields in length. Entering, he passed beneath a smoky dome ensconced in the ceiling where an eye-in-the-sky camera recorded his picture and ran it against a facial-recognition program that identified twenty-six points on his face; the profile was then run against a database of known cheaters. To beat the system, all he needed to do was erase three of those points. By wearing glasses, ball caps, changing his hairstyle, or wearing false teeth, he could walk through any casino unchallenged.

There was more to beat than just the cameras. Floor people also studied the customers. Some were ex-cops with a gift for grift. Billy beat them by pretending to be an ignorant tourist and asking dumb questions. Hustlers called this playing the Iggy, and he did it as well as anyone. The high-roller salon was tucked away in the rear of the casino and had a pair of carved white doors at the entrance. As he turned the knob to enter, he reminded himself that his name was Thomas Pico and that he was a hedge fund manager from New York.

The salon was a cozy space with thick gold carpets and muted lighting. By the entrance, a blond she-devil manned an antique desk. This was the salon’s VIP hostess, whose trust he needed to gain before he ripped the place off. Her nameplate said “L. Shazam.” It fit her.

“Is Ed Butler here?” he asked politely.

“Ed’s off this week,” she replied. “Perhaps I can help you.”

“Ed comped me at the Bellagio a few years ago. I’d heard he’d moved over here.”

“Let me see if you’re in our system. Please make yourself comfortable.”

He took a chair beside the desk and passed her his fake ID. A cocktail waitress glided toward him carrying a tray with a single flute of champagne. The drink was offered and accepted. “Here you are,” the hostess said, tapping her computer screen with her fingernail. “I see that the last time you played at the Bellagio, you were extended a hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit. Were you hoping for that same line of credit with us tonight?”

“I just wanted to say hello to Ed,” he said, sipping his drink. “He probably doesn’t remember me. It’s been a while.”

She politely returned his ID. She’d seen enough about him to know that he was worth stealing from whatever casino he was staying at. “Where are you staying in town, Mr. Pico?”

“It’s Tom. I’m at the Encore.”

“Are they treating you well?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Is there something not to your liking?”

“They usually put me in a suite. Not this time.”

“We have some of the most luxurious accommodations in Las Vegas. Some people say we’ve redefined luxury. I’d be happy to comp you a penthouse suite.”

“I’ll stay where I am. But thanks anyway.”

“Are you a music fan? I can get you front-row seats to the Eagles concert this weekend. It’s been sold out for months, but I have tickets left.”

She wasn’t going to let him go without a fight. Billy tipped his champagne flute, as if to say, Well done .

“Just say yes, and they’re yours,” she added.

Rich people never hurried, and Billy took another sip of champagne before responding.

“Can I bring my friends?” he asked.

She nodded, thinking she had him. “How many are in your party?”

“There are seven of us. I brought my team to Las Vegas to celebrate.”

“Your team? Are you in professional sports?”

“I’m a hedge fund manager. They work for me.”

“I don’t see why not.” From her desk drawer she removed a sleeve containing tickets to the upcoming Eagles concert and handed seven front-row seats to him. “Compliments of Galaxy. Would you be interested in staying awhile and playing? Our staff is very accommodating. I can also offer you a ten percent return on any losses you might incur.”

Billy tucked the tickets into his jacket. This was great; not only was he going to rob them blind, but they were going to pay for him to go see one of his favorite bands.

“You know, I might just take you up on that,” he said.

“Splendid. What’s your pleasure?”

“Blackjack.”

She rose and came around the desk, her gold evening dress touching the floor. She was tall and statuesque with a body that could have stopped traffic, the kind of ridiculously beautiful woman that Las Vegas had been built around. She touched the sleeve of his blazer and gave it a little tug. He could not remember a casino employee ever making physical contact with him before. It was out of character, and had he not been absorbed with staring at her jaw-dropping breasts, it might have dawned on him that something was not right.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“It’s Lady. Lady Shazam. Everyone calls me Shaz,” she replied.

“That’s a cool name. Where you from?”

“Southern Cal. Follow me.”

They entered the high-roller salon. The champagne flute was still in Billy’s hand, and he took another swallow, having no idea that his life was about to turn horribly upside down.

The salon’s five carved mahogany blackjack tables could have resided in the main palace at Versailles. Each had a well-groomed dealer standing at stiff attention. At the center table stood an attractive African American lady with long bony fingers. This had to be Jazzy, the flashing dealer that was about to make Billy and his crew very rich.

“This lady could use some company. I’ll sit here,” Billy said.

“Jazzy, make sure you take good care of Mr. Pico. He’s a very special customer.” To Billy, Shaz said, “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do, Mr. Pico.”

“I will. Thanks again for the tickets.”

“My pleasure.”

Shaz returned to her desk to wait for the next well-oiled sucker to step through the salon’s doors. Taking a chair, Billy removed two stacks from his blazer and dropped them on the felt. A stern-faced pit boss appeared. Under his watchful eye, Jazzy tore off the wrappers and counted the bills.

“Ten thousand,” Jazzy said.

“Go ahead,” the pit boss declared.

Jazzy shoved the money down the bill slot in her table. Taking ten thousand in chips from her tray, she slid the stacks toward her only customer.