Take Down (21 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

Billy talked to Cory from the balcony of his high-roller suite. Standing by the rail, he sipped on a bottled mineral water while letting the desert sun bake his face.

“Did Gabe have any problems getting the paint?” he asked.

“Nope,” Cory said. “Gabe’s in the garage now, starting to make the fake chips. He gave me and Morris a lecture on negativity. You should have heard it.”

“You be nice to Gabe. Agree with whatever he says, and don’t you dare piss him off. That goes for Morris, too. Gabe’s our ticket to paradise.”

“I know, I know. He’s a downer sometimes.”

“Deal with it. How’s the horse-race scam looking?”

“We’re all set. You’re playing with Tony G at the Bali Hai at three thirty. Morris and I will be playing in front of you. The scam is for the twelfth race at Santa Anita. Once we know which horse is the ringer, we’ll pass the information to you, and you’ll place a bet with Tony G and fleece him. The ringers are always long shots. Once we had one at fifty-to-one odds, if you can believe it.”

Vegas bookies were tough to fleece. Billy couldn’t see Tony G accepting a large bet on a long shot from a stranger, couldn’t see it at all. Cory was leaving something out.

“You’re telling me you’ve been fleecing bookies with this scam, and none of them wised up? What are you doing, hitting them over the head with a lead pipe?”

“We’re not fleecing bookies, we’re hitting sports books,” Cory explained. “Sal, the guy who’s fixing the races, has a web. Morris and I are part of the web. I probably should have told you sooner how this worked. Sorry.”

Billy’s blood began to boil, and he sipped his water to calm down. Webs were used by fixers to place bets on rigged sporting events. Most webs were spread across the country and employed a dozen or more bettors in different cities whose job was to place medium-sized wagers on rigged events with different bookies. The beauty of a web was that it spread the pain around, and no one bookie got beaten for too much money. The drawback was that it required a large group of people to pull off, as well as a large pool of victims. For Cory to think that the horse race scam at Santa Anita could be used against a single bookie—i.e., Tony G—was insane.

“If I didn’t care about you, I’d throw your ass on the street,” Billy said. “Morris, too.”

“I’m sorry, Billy. I didn’t think it through,” Cory said.

“We’ll talk about this later. In the meantime, I want you and Morris to stop smoking weed. It’s killing your brain cells.”

“Will do. You want me to ice the round of golf?”

“Fuck no. I need to get Tony G off Gabe’s back. Meet me in the Bali Hai parking lot at three fifteen sharp. I’ll think of something between now and then.”

“I’m really sorry, Billy. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Yes, you will.”

The sound of scratching glass snapped Billy’s head. Inside the suite, Ike stood with his back to the slider, using the diamonds on his Super Bowl ring to let Billy know that they had company. Marcus Doucette, his crazy bride, and Crunchie had appeared in the living room wearing angry faces. Making his cell phone disappear, he went inside to face the music.

“Hit the little bastard,” Doucette said.

“What did I do—at least tell me that,” Billy said.

“Fuck you, you little rat shit. Ike, do as I say.”

Ike was unusually fast for a big man. He grabbed Billy by the front of the shirt, lifted the young hustler clean off the carpeted floor, and smacked him in the mouth with a loose fist. It was a pussy punch, real loud, but without mean intentions. Their eyes met. Ike winked.

Billy knew that he had to sell the idea that Ike was beating him up. Otherwise, he and Ike were both in a world of trouble. He flopped his head to one side as if his neck were broken. Ike threw another pussy punch and he flopped his head to the other side. To sell the notion that he was being hurt, he bit down hard on his lower lip, causing it to bleed. Opening his mouth, he pushed the blood out with his tongue.

“Want me to smack him again?” Ike asked.

“No, that’s enough. Sit him down,” Doucette said.

Ike grabbed a chair and threw Billy into it.

“You know why I had Ike do that?” Doucette asked.

Billy continued to play hurt and shook his head.

“Because you’re waltzing around my casino grilling my employees, and not bothering to tell me what you’ve found. From now on, you’re going to communicate with me. No more bullshit games. Are we clear on this?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy said softly.

Doucette turned to his bride. “Tell him we’re ready.”

Shaz’s eyes were glistening, the sight of blood turning her on. Going to the hallway door, she unchained it and stuck her head out.

“We’re ready for you,” she called into the hallway.

Rock and his two leathered-up bodyguards entered the suite and stood directly in front of Billy’s chair. Rock wore pretty, fat-man clothes—black pants with billowing legs, a tent-sized purple shirt hanging out of his pants, and a snappy fur hat—and clutched his walking stick as if he planned to use it very soon. His bodyguards flanked him like a pair of backup singers.

“I want you to tell me what’s going on in the casino Saturday afternoon,” Rock said. “If you leave anything out—anything at all—I’ll crack your skull open. Now, start talking.”

Billy didn’t understand what was going on. Why should he be telling Rock about the scam? His eyes found Doucette’s face. The casino owner dipped his chin.
Tell him.

He looked back at Rock. The man acted as if he owned the joint. And the other people in the suite acted as if Rock owned the joint as well. Which could only mean one thing: Rock
did
own the joint; Doucette was fronting for him and was on Rock’s payroll.

It made sense, when he thought about it. Bugsy Siegel had built the Flamingo Hotel with mob money, the Cleveland Outfit had built the Stardust, Fremont, Marina, and Hacienda Hotels with mob money, and Rock had built the Galaxy Hotel and Casino with drug money. The more things changed, the more they remained the same.

The realization made him look at Rock differently. Beneath the clownish clothes and swagger was a man of superior intellect and street smarts who’d built an empire in a business where a single mistake or slipup meant loss of life or a lengthy stretch in the pen. To Billy’s way of thinking, it made Rock smarter than Donald Trump or Warren Buffett, because those men had all fucked up at one time or another in their illustrious careers, while Rock had never fucked up. Not once. Because if Rock had fucked up, he wouldn’t have been standing there.

It also made him look at Rock’s bodyguards differently. The women were not physically imposing, nor did they appear to be carrying weapons of mass destruction strapped to their bodies. But they were lethal. They had to be, because their boss was a constant target.

Knowing these things made him choose his words carefully. If he tried to bullshit Rock the way he’d bullshitted Doucette and his bride, it would end quickly, in bloodshed.

“On Saturday afternoon around four, a wedding party staying in the hotel is going to rip the casino off for a major score,” he said. “The party is named Torch-Allaire, although they’re really part of a Gypsy clan that specializes in taking casinos down for huge scores.”

“Define
huge
,” Rock said.

“Millions.”

“How long have you known it was these people?”

“Since I spoke with the mother of the bride in the hotel’s bridal shop. Her name’s Cecilia Torch, and she’s as phony as a three-dollar bill.”

“You didn’t answer my fucking question. How
long
have you known?”

“Not long. Maybe a half hour.”

“Why didn’t you call Doucette and tell him?”

Rock’s fingers tensed on the grip of his stick. If Billy’s answer didn’t ring true, he was going to split Billy’s head open, causing Billy’s lovely brains to ooze out of his nostrils. He took a deep breath, hoping it wasn’t his last.

“I didn’t call Doucette because I didn’t have any proof,” he explained. “Shit, I don’t even know what their scam is. Without knowing that, the information’s worthless.”

“Why’s it worthless?” Rock demanded.

“Say I tell Doucette I think the Torch-Allaire party is the Gypsies. If he tosses them out of the hotel, they’ll just come back under different names and rip the place off. If Doucette has security rough them up, they’re going to fight back, and that could get messy. The best way to deal with them is to figure out their scam and catch them in the act, with videotape evidence as backup. By doing that, you own them.”

The suite fell silent as Rock considered what Billy was telling him.

“That might be true, but it doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell nobody,” Rock said. “You were holding out. I get mad when people hold out on me.”

Billy sat up straight in his chair. “I did tell someone. I told Ike and T-Bird. Ask them if you don’t believe me.”

Rock directed his attention to the punishers. “Is this candy-ass nigga telling the truth?”

T-Bird knew better than to open his yap and get caught in a lie. Instead of responding, he simply nodded, his dreadlocks bouncing on his broad shoulders. Ike took up the slack.

“Yeah, he’s telling the truth,” Ike said. “Cunningham came out of the bridal shop, and I asked him how it went. Cunningham said he’d made the cheaters, now he just needed to figure out what their scam was so he could tell Marcus. Those were his exact words.”

“You think he was trying to pull a fast one?” Rock asked.

“No, suh.”

“Could he have been stalling or plotting something?”

“Cunningham knows what we’ll do to him if he double-crosses us. Marcus told us to keep him in line, and we’re keeping him in line.”

“Is that so. How many times have you smacked him around?”

Ike counted on his fingers. “Four.”

“Did you make him bleed?”

“Yes, suh. Every time.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Rock, and he shifted his attention back to Billy. “I’m buying your story this time. But from now on, no holding back. Next time you learn something of significance, call Doucette right away. Am I making myself clear, pretty boy?”

“He’ll be the first to know,” Billy said.

“How come every time you open your mouth, I think you’re lying to me?”

“I must remind you of someone.”

“You’re right—you do remind me of someone.”

Rock flicked his wrist as if executing a trick Ping-Pong shot. The walking stick became horizontal and sliced the air with a sharp hissing sound. An invisible hand grabbed Billy by the nuts and gave them a squeeze.

The inquisition was over. Rock’s bodyguards sprang to life and went to the door. They both instinctively touched the sleeves of their leather jackets, and Billy guessed each was packing a knife sharp enough to slit a man’s throat. They unchained the door, stepped into the hallway, and cautiously looked both ways. Rock’s enemies were everywhere, their actions seemed to imply, even in a hotel he’d built with his own money.

“We’re good,” one of the guards called into the suite.

The drug kingpin shuffled out of the suite, followed by Doucette, his bride, and Crunchie, who hung back long enough to flash Billy the evil eye. It occurred to Billy that what had just happened was the old hustler’s doing in an effort to take him out of the picture.

“Pistols at ten paces,” he said.

“I can’t wait,” the old grifter replied.

The door clicked shut. Ike was grinning from ear to ear.

“So how’d we do?” Ike asked.

Billy got three cold ones from the fridge and popped the tops. If he’d had any doubt about the punishers’ desire to rip off their boss, it had been erased, and they clinked bottles in a toast.

“I’d say you both have a real future in this business,” he said.

THIRTY-NINE

The afternoon was slipping away, and Billy decided to head out to the Bali Hai golf club for his three-thirty game with Tony G. But first, he needed to transform himself into a sucker and get decked out in an overpriced polo shirt and obnoxiously loud pants in the casino’s men’s shop.

“Do me a favor and call Shaz,” he said to Ike. “I need to leave the property for a few hours and want to get her permission.”

“You think she’ll let you?” Ike said.

“Sure. She’s got a thing for me.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

“I don’t know—I’ll think of something.”

Ike put his half-finished beer on the bar and made the call on his cell phone.

“What do you want now?” came Shaz’s greeting through the phone.

“Cunningham needs to speak with you,” Ike said.

“Is that so? Put him on.”

He took the cell phone and raised it to his face. “I need your permission to go play a round of golf with three members of the Torch-Allaire wedding party. Your concierge pulled some strings and got me invited to their group at the Bali Hai course at the Mandalay Bay this afternoon. I want to schmooze them, see what I can pick up. You cool with that?”

The lie was filled with enough information to make it sound right. Her tone softened.

“Little Billy plays golf. How cute. You any good?”

“Good enough to hustle.”

“Go ahead. Just be sure to pass any information to Marcus.”

“I’ll do that. I need to get some clothes from your men’s shop so I look the part. I promise not to spend too much.”

“Aren’t we being polite. Crunchie told my husband that he thinks you already know what the Boswell’s scam is, and that you’re holding out until Saturday afternoon so you can keep us to our word.” She paused. “Is that true?”

“I know part of the scam. It’s tied into the wedding.”

“Tell me, and I’ll go down on you.”

Normally, that kind of invitation got him all hot and bothered. Not this time around. Their last sexual encounter was still fresh in his mind, and he wasn’t about to take that kind of risk again. “Here’s what I figured out,” he said. “On Saturday afternoon, all of the men will be wearing tuxedos, while the bridesmaids will be wearing matching dresses. That’s important, because it’s going to let them trick your security guards while they rip you off.”

“Trick them how?”

“It’s called the Dazzle. The wedding party will converge around a designated area of the casino. The ringleader will give a signal, and everyone will start moving around and talking loudly. The movement will cause their outfits to blend together, and trick your security guards into losing count of how many people are in the party. A member of the party will duck out of sight, rig one of your games, and rejoin the group, with no one being the wiser.”

“You’re saying we won’t see a thing.”

“That’s right. Totally invisible.”

“Which game are they going to rig? You must have some idea.”

He’d given that aspect of the scam a lot of thought. The Gypsies would rig a game with the capability of a monster payout, like craps or blackjack, and would avoid games like keno, which rarely paid out. Telling her this was not in his best interest, and he stalled.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said.

“You’re bullshitting me. I can hear it in your voice.”

“No, I’m not. I’ll call you if I learn anything.”

“Liar.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Every chance you can.”

The connection ended, and he tossed Ike the phone.

Downstairs in the casual men’s shop he grabbed a few pairs of loud slacks off the racks along with several crayon-colored polo shirts. A peppy salesgirl followed him into the back and unlocked a dressing room stall with a brass key attached to the belt of her dress. She counted the slacks and shirts before letting him enter the stall.

“Sorry, but I got burned the other day,” the salesgirl said.

“Get a lot of shoplifters?” he asked.

“It only takes one. Anything stolen gets deducted from my pay.”

“Don’t they have a security camera in the store to stop that?”

“I wish. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be out front.”

“What about the other stores in the casino? Same deal?”

“Yup. The employees are responsible for the merchandise. It sucks, if you ask me.”

He went into the stall to try on the clothes. Every Strip casino had security cameras inside their retail stores to protect the merchandise. Galaxy didn’t, and he guessed there was a reason for that. By entering through a back way, Rock and his bodyguards could visit the casino’s different stores and not be filmed, letting the drug kingpin come and go as he pleased.

He had learned something important. He could use the retail stores inside Galaxy to move around the property and not be detected by the eye-in-the-sky.

He settled on a pair of hideous red slacks and a clashing navy polo shirt with wide green stripes. The clothes scored high on the ugly meter, and he spent a moment appraising his reflection in the full-length mirror inside the stall to make sure he hadn’t gone overboard.

A knock on the door. The salesgirl, checking up on him.

“I’m almost done,” he announced.

“Let me in,” a female voice said.

Not the salesgirl, too sultry. He unlatched the door, and a woman wearing oversized shades and a floppy straw hat meant for the pool stood outside. The face was too hidden to ring any bells, but her body’s tight curves left no doubt who it was.

“For the love of Christ, what are you doing here?”

“Oh my God, what are you doing in those clothes?” Mags asked.

“I’m going to hustle a guy on a golf course.”

“It figures you’d be up to something. I came here because I wanted to see you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, or your offer to join your crew. I want in, Billy.”

He’d told Mags he’d call in a few days, and that should have been enough to keep her happy. Before he could voice his displeasure, she tore away the shades and pulled off the hat, letting her dark locks fall on her shoulders and frame her gorgeous Irish face. That day in Providence came back in a thrilling rush, and his unhappiness melted away.

“God, you look beautiful,” he said.

She smiled and just stood there, torturing him.

“How’d you track me down?”

“I came to the casino earlier and was playing the slots. You came out of the elevator and entered the store, and I followed you.”

“I told you not to come back here. These people are animals.”

“I wore a disguise. I had to see you.”

Mags had been hustling nearly twenty years. She hadn’t lasted this long as a grifter by intentionally walking into bad situations. Her story wasn’t ringing true. He wanted to ignore it, but that was a mistake. He needed to find out why she was here.

“Let me pay for these clothes. Then we can talk,” he said.

He paid with his own money. It was quicker than charging the clothes to Doucette and having the salesgirl make a phone call to the casino boss to verify the charge. The salesgirl put his old clothes into a plastic bag and passed them over the counter.

“Have a nice afternoon,” the salesgirl said.

When he turned around, Mags was gone. A quick search of the store found her on a couch by the pants section. Knowing the store had no surveillance cameras made him feel comfortable enough to sit down beside her.

“I can’t believe we hooked up after all these years,” he said.

“Or that we’re going to be working together. When can I start?” she asked.

“I need to get this job finished up. Then I’ll introduce you to my crew.”

“When will you be done here?”

“Saturday afternoon. Let’s hook up on Sunday, grab some lunch.”

The answer seemed to satisfy her. She wasn’t prodding him for information or asking bad questions, and his earlier suspicions that she was up to something faded away, replaced by the delicious idea of them ripping off Vegas casinos together. What a wild ride that would be.

“I just remembered something. You dropped a photograph of your daughter on the floor in the cocktail lounge the other night.” He took out his wallet and rifled through the billfold. “Damn. It’s not here. I must have lost it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty more. How’d you know Amber was my kid?”

“Come on—she could be your clone.”

“Acts like me, too, got a mouth on her you wouldn’t believe. She’s in community college, going to graduate in the spring. I’ve already got my ticket booked.”

“You must be real proud of her. What’s she majoring in?”

“I’m embarrassed to tell you.”

“Why?”

“She’s studying CSI. My baby wants to be a cop.”

They shared a laugh. Mags had a deep, throaty laugh, and he imagined hearing it in bed and how pleasing it would be. Hooking up hadn’t been right fifteen years ago, but now it felt okay. The age difference between them no longer mattered. He had caught up to her, and the long-awaited prize was about to be his. He decided to test the waters and dropped his hand on her knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. She didn’t seem to mind.

“How did you manage to go to MIT? I hear the tuition’s crazy,” she said.

“I got a full ride,” he said.

“You must be some kind of brainiac.”

“School always came easy to me. During my first semester, they gave me the Bucsela Prize for outstanding achievement in mathematics. The funny part was, I hardly ever studied.”

“Your old man must have been proud.”

“Not for very long.”

“What do you mean?”

“I only lasted two semesters.”

“Why’d you quit?”

The words hit him hard. Mags hadn’t asked him if he’d flunked out or been thrown out. She’d asked him why he’d quit, as if it was a statement of fact. Every time he’d been busted by the gaming board, a nosy gaming agent had dug into his past, seen he’d gone to MIT, and wanted to know why he’d only lasted a year. Rather than tell the truth, he’d made up a lie, and now Mags had repeated that lie. It could only mean one thing: she was an informant working for the enforcement division of the gaming board.

He jumped off the couch, startling her.

“I’m going to be late. I’ll call you Sunday,” he blurted out.

She rose as well. “What’s wrong? Your face is all red.”

“Talking about college isn’t my favorite subject.”

“Did something bad happen? Come on, you can tell me.”

What had happened was that a woman he’d been carrying a torch for had stuck a dagger straight into his heart, and it hurt so bad that he needed to get away from her as fast as he could.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another time,” he said.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

She pressed her body against him. Their lips touched. It was all he could do not to put his hands around her throat and choke the life out of her.