Take Down (8 page)

FOURTEEN

THE HOT SEAT: SUNDAY, MIDDAY

At noon the gaming agents broke for lunch. Trays of food were brought up from the jail’s cafeteria that weren’t fit for a dog. Billy thought the session had gone well, and he sipped from a can of ginger ale while watching LaBadie, Zander, and Tricaricco chow down on baloney sandwiches on Wonder Bread and cups of greasy potato salad. Bad food was part of a cop’s daily existence, and the gaming agents made sure to clean their plates.

“You haven’t told us how Maggie Flynn plays into this,” LaBadie asked when they were done. “That was part of our agreement.”

“Mags didn’t come into the picture until Thursday night,” Billy explained. “I didn’t want to jump ahead of myself.”

LaBadie also had a briefcase, although not as pretty as Underman’s. Placing it on the table, he popped it open, and removed a glossy eight-by-ten photograph of Billy and his crew taken inside Galaxy’s employee parking garage a few hours before they ripped the joint off.

“Yesterday afternoon, you and eight other people were secretly photographed by one of our agents inside Galaxy’s employee parking garage before the casino was robbed,” LaBadie said. “We know the two black guys in the photo worked for Doucette. I want you to tell me the other six people’s names.”

“That photograph isn’t want you think,” Billy said.

“Really. Then what is it?”

“Well, I was doing a job for Marcus Doucette. Doucette thought some cheaters were staying in his hotel, and asked me to sniff them out. I asked six friends of mine to help me find them, and on Saturday afternoon we met in the employee garage to talk things over.”

“You honestly don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

“Ask the woman who runs the bridal shop. Lucille Gonzalez. She knows all about it.”

“This Gonzalez woman will back up your story?”

“Yes, sir.”

LaBadie looked stymied. If Lucille Gonzalez backed up the story—which Billy believed she would, considering how they’d left things—the gaming board would not be able to charge him with conspiracy, which seriously weakened their case against him.

LaBadie pointed at the photo. “These six friends of yours—are they part of your crew?”

“I don’t have a crew,” Billy said.

“Don’t get smart with us, Billy. You’ve been running a crew for years.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You had a crew when we busted you at the Hard Rock. You met with them yesterday afternoon in the employee parking lot, and conspired to rip off Galaxy’s casino.”

“My client was never busted at the Hard Rock,” Underman said.

“He was released on a technicality.”

Billy leaned forward and brought his mouth next to the tape recorder. “For the record, I’ve never had a crew that worked for me, and I wasn’t busted at the Hard Rock, and I did not conspire to rip off Galaxy’s casino with my friends.”

LaBadie looked ready to pull his hair out. Billy decided to shut him down.

“Want to hear the rest of my story?” the young hustler asked.

LaBadie slammed the briefcase and dropped it on the floor. He sat down in his chair hard, making the hinges sing. The expression on his face was anything but friendly.

“Start talking,” the gaming agent said.

FIFTEEN

THURSDAY, TWO DAYS BEFORE THE HEIST

Billy awoke the next morning sprawled across the leather couch in his living room. His body was a feverish mass of hurt from the beating Ike and T-Bird had inflicted upon him, his skin covered in bruises of every shade, from mauve to lilac to violet to plum.

In the bathroom he downed eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen while examining his face in the mirror. He had the beginnings of a world-class shiner. How did Doucette expect him to impersonate a whale looking like this? His job had just gotten that much tougher.

He kept a collection of designer shades in his bedroom, well over a hundred pairs. He rummaged through them and settled on a pair of mirrored Ray-Bans that could have belonged to Steve McQueen. When he’d first come to Vegas, you couldn’t wear shades inside a casino without drawing heat. Then the poker craze had started, and wearing shades became cool.

In the kitchen he brewed a pot of coffee and drank a cup. It had been years since he’d risen this early. Normally, he slept until noon, exercised in the building’s health club or worked on his golf game, ate an early dinner at a good restaurant, and started swindling the casinos at six, his work lasting until the small hours of the morning. The next three days were going to be different. He was going to have to keep a schedule and follow other people’s rules, no different than a regular job.

The coffee brought him around, and he stared at the coffee grinds swirling in the bottom. Kismet, the religion of all gamblers, was calling to him.

Three days.

There was a significance to that number, an event which occurred every three days inside a casino that had once been very important to him. Now, not as much.

Three days.

A minute slipped away. Nothing clicked.

Casinos were models of efficiency and worked on systems that were predictable and exploitable. Smart cheaters knew these systems inside out, and he was going to kick himself until he remembered what it was that happened every three days inside a casino.

The landline rang. Caller ID said it was Travis. The big man called once a day to talk shop; outside of that, they rarely communicated. Travis had recently gotten hitched and his new wife had two young sons. Karen knew about the thieving but the boys were in the dark, and Travis wanted to keep it that way.

The call went to voice mail. The enormity of Billy’s fuckup suddenly hit him, and he pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down. If he returned the call, Travis would want to know if the heist of Galaxy’s salon was still on, and that would lead to a conversation that Billy wasn’t ready to have. But if he didn’t call back, Travis would get worried, wondering what had happened to him.

The phone rang again. If not now, when? Billy asked himself. He took the receiver out of the cradle and in a calm voice said, “Hey, tough guy.”

“Jesus, Billy, I was starting to think you were in jail or something,” Travis said. “You okay? I called your cell phone, and some asshole answered it, so I hung up.”

Billy shuddered. Crunchie had answered his fucking cell phone. The damage was done, and he was going to have to tell Travis what had gone down last night.

“I had a little problem last night. What are you doing up so early?”

Travis also slept in, and rarely awoke before midafternoon.

“Karen called. Stevie got hit in the face with a soccer ball at school, and she’s taking him to the hospital so they can X-ray his nose. I’m going there once I get off with you.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s a tough little fucker. Oh, shit, there’s Karen calling me. Let’s talk later. I want to hear how things went.”

Breathing room. Billy needed some of that. It would give him time to construct the story he’d tell Travis and the rest of his crew. He started to say good-bye, then remembered that he had a question for the big man. “I need to ask you something. What procedure takes place every three days inside a casino? I know there’s one, but I can’t remember what it is.”

Travis was the only member of the crew that had worked in a casino, and was what people in the industry called a gamer. If anyone knew the significance of three days, it was him. Travis took the call from his wife, then came back on the line.

“Is this a big casino or a little casino we’re talking about?” Travis asked.

“Does it matter?” Billy said.

“In a big casino, nothing happens after three days. The smaller joints are different. Every three days they erase the surveillance tapes, and use them over. It saves a ton of money.”

“How about the Four Queens? Would they erase their tapes after three days?”

“Sure. All the joints on Fremont Street do.”

Billy walked into the living room with the cordless phone pressed to his ear. His crew had ripped off the Four Queens on a Wednesday. By Saturday night, the surveillance tapes of their misdeeds would be erased, and the evidence would disappear. The same was true of the gaffed-chip scam he’d pulled at Slots A Fun. By Saturday night, the tape would be blank. All he needed to do was last until Saturday night, and he and his crew would be home free.

“Did we slip up last night?” Travis asked, sounding worried.

“Last night ran perfectly,” he said.

“Come on, Billy, I wasn’t born yesterday. First some asshole answers your phone. Now you ask me if I thought the tapes from last night will be erased. What the hell’s going on?”

Billy cursed himself. He hadn’t phrased his questions right, and now Travis was suspicious, as he should have been.

“I don’t want to discuss this right now. We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

“Are we going down?” Travis asked, not hearing him.

“Who said anything about going down?”

“Are we?”

“No.”

“Are we at risk of going down?”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Fuck it, Billy, give me a straight answer, will you, man?”

There was a click on the line. Travis said, “There’s Karen again,” and stuck him on hold. Billy sat on the couch, feeling his world starting to implode. He hadn’t come clean with Travis, and the big man knew it. If Travis didn’t trust him, he’d go work for someone else. The rest of the crew would find out, and they’d leave as well. Hustling was all about trust, and right now, his was wearing thin. Travis came back on.

“Karen’s fit to be tied. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

“Tell me everything’s cool, man. My heart’s racing a hundred miles an hour.”

“Everything’s under control.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you? Because it sure sounds that way.”

An invisible knife stabbed Billy in the chest. He’d discovered Travis switching dice at a sawdust joint called Palace Station, using moves he’d learned from an amateur’s book on hustling he’d picked up at the Gambler’s Book Club, yet still robbing the place blind. Travis was a natural, and Billy had recruited the big man on the spot. Now it was all going into the toilet because he hadn’t played straight with Travis. Without truth, there was nothing.

“I screwed up,” Billy said.

“Jesus Christ. You?”

“Yeah, me. Big time. I’m sorry I didn’t come clean with you.”

“Fucking A, what happened?”

“The scam at Galaxy I told you about was a trap, and I walked right into it. Another hustler set me up. He’s working for the casino, and wants me to stop a family of cheaters from robbing them. He’s got my cell phone, and knows about the Four Queens scam. He threatened to turn us over to the police if I don’t play ball with him.”

“Is that why you asked me about the tapes being erased in three days?”

“Yeah. If I can hold him off until Saturday night, the crew’s safe.”

“Jesus Christ—you’re going to help him?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Do I need to lawyer up? Just in case?”

“You’re not going to get arrested, and neither is anyone else in the crew. Your world is safe. Now go take care of your son.”

“What about you? Are you safe?”

That was a good question. And Billy was pretty sure he knew the answer. If he didn’t stop the Gypsies, his sorry ass would get dragged to an unfinished floor of Galaxy’s hotel, and he’d get snuffed for his failure. All he could hope for was that they’d get it over quickly and wouldn’t make him suffer.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

“There’s Karen. I’ll call you later.”

A dial tone filled his ear. He went into the kitchen and hung up the phone. He had let Travis down, and realized that he was dreading having to break the bad news to the other members of his crew. It was going to be painful, but it had to be done.

SIXTEEN

Billy pulled into Gabe’s driveway a few minutes before one. Gabe’s Mercedes was missing, and he found himself getting pissed. They were supposed to be going to a Gamblers Anonymous meeting to help Gabe get the monkey off his back, so where the hell was he?

Soon Billy’s hand was sore from banging on Gabe’s front door. Not having his cell phone was proving to be a royal pain in the ass, and he drove out of the subdivision to a Fresh and Easy and called Gabe from a pay phone.

“Hey, Billy, what’s shaking?” Gabe answered, his voice high-pitched.

“We were supposed to meet up this afternoon, remember? Where you hiding?”

“I don’t want to go to Gamblers Anonymous. That shit bothers me. All those strangers pouring their guts out, talking about their problems. No thanks, man.”

“You don’t have to go.”

“I don’t?”

“Not today. But we do need to talk. Something bad went down last night. What’s that loud music in the background? You in a bar or something?”

“I’m at Misty and Pepper’s place. We’re having a little party to celebrate our newfound fortune. Cory and Morris are here, too. You’re welcome to join us, isn’t he, ladies?”

The girls’ voices floated merrily in the background, inviting Billy to come over and get stoned. Billy brought his hand to his face. There was no newfound fortune, no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Breaking the bad news had just gotten a lot tougher.

“I’ll be right over,” he said.

Misty and Pepper had been sharing an efficiency apartment with their pound mutts when Billy first hooked up with them. They’d come to Vegas to be cocktail waitresses, thinking it would lead to better things. When they got tired of having their asses pinched, they’d started making porn, and discovered it was another bum deal. The actresses got paid a flat fee, with no royalties or health benefits to cover disease or injury.

They’d been at a crossroads when Billy met them. They still had their looks and could snap a man’s head just by walking by. They were willing to use their charms to make a buck but didn’t want to take their clothes off anymore, or go down on strangers.

Billy had come to their apartment with Chinese takeout and a DVD. While eating pork-fried rice in the cramped living room, they watched a dopey sitcom called
Sweet Nothings
that starred everyone’s favorite comedic actress, Lydia Fallon. Fallon was a fixture on network TV, her giggling laugh known to millions. Misty and Pepper professed to be big fans.

When the show ended, Billy told Misty and Pepper a story. Once upon a time, Lydia Fallon had lived in Las Vegas and worked with a crew of cheaters that past-posted at roulette. Placing a wager after the little white ball had fallen was no small feat, and Fallon used her persuasive charms to distract the croupier while her partners did the dirty work.

One night Fallon was scamming a fancy Strip casino when a big-shot Hollywood producer sitting at the table spotted her and was blown away. Instead of alerting security, he whisked her away to la-la land and turned her into a household name.

There was a moral to Billy’s story. Cheating wasn’t the end of the road, but the beginning of a new life. With the money Misty and Pepper would make working with his crew, they could lead the kind of lives they’d always dreamed of, just like Lydia Fallon.

Misty and Pepper signed up on the spot.

It was one of the smarter things he’d ever done. When Misty and Pepper were on the casino floor strutting their stuff, the rest of his crew could operate practically unseen.

The uniformed guard at the entrance of the Las Vegas Country Club waved him through, and he drove to the three-thousand-square-foot, three-bedroom luxury house the girls now called home. Filling the circular driveway was Gabe’s Mercedes, Cory and Morris’s black Infiniti SUV, Misty’s BMW 4 Series convertible, and Pepper’s champagne-colored Lexus 350. Whoever said that crime didn’t pay wasn’t doing it right.

He rang the bell. A melodic chime filled the interior, followed by bare feet pounding tile floors. Misty greeted him with bloodshot eyes, her sensuous mouth parted in a loopy grin. She wore a white string bikini and a glistening diamond in her navel. She sunbathed in the nude every day and did not sport a single tan line.

“What took you so long?” she chastised him.

“I drove here as fast as I could.”

“It wasn’t fast enough.”

Giggling, she dragged him down the hall to the living room. Gabe lay sprawled on the recliner and flipped Billy a stoner’s salute. Cory and Morris shared the couch, studying racing forms on their cell phones while taking hits off an acrylic bong with multiple rubber hoses. Bowls of junk food covered the coffee table, much of it on the floor.

“Yo, Billy. Those shades are awesome,” Cory said.

“What are you guys doing?” Billy asked.

“We’re working a scam with a racetrack in Santa Anita.”

Misty had not let go of his arm, her nails digging hard enough to break the flesh.

“Keep moving,” she commanded.

“I need to talk to everybody. Pepper needs to hear this, too.”

“Well, let’s go get her.”

Pepper’s bedroom was down the hallway. The redhead lay on the water bed in her birthday suit, watching a video playing on a flat-screen TV. In it, she and Misty were tag-teaming a very drunk Billy, whose prick resembled a bayonet.

“You trying to blackmail me?” he asked.

“No, we’re trying to fuck you. Lie down.” Misty tugged at his belt buckle.

“Not now. There’s some serious shit going down.”

They were either too stoned to hear him or too stoned to care. His pants started to fall, and he struggled to pull them back up. He was getting aroused, and that would lead to him hopping in bed with them and forgetting about life for a little while.

“He’s resisting,” Misty said. “Help me.”

Pepper slithered sensually across the bed. Taking a big fat joint off the night table, she fired it up, then hopped to her feet and tried to shotgun him. He pushed her away.

“Stop fucking around,” he said.

Pepper acted put out. She grabbed his shades and yanked them away. Seeing his banged-up face, she let out a startled cry.

“Oh my God. You get into a fight?”

“I ran into some trouble last night.”

Their eyes met. In Billy’s gaze she saw nothing but fear.

“Oh, fuck,” Pepper said.

His crew huddled around the breakfast table in the kitchen nook, acting scared. Talking to stoned people was a waste of time, and Billy brewed an extra-strong pot of coffee and poured them each a cup. Pepper and Misty had put on grungy workout clothes and stopped being sex kittens. Cory and Morris had put away their cell phones and were looking at him, knowing that things had just gotten hairy. Gabe simply stared into space.

Billy remained standing so he could see their faces. That was important, because he needed to see if anyone was going to crack. In a calm voice, he told them the same story he’d told Travis. He’d fucked up royally and was going to spend the next three days atoning for his sins. He promised that no matter what happened, they wouldn’t get arrested or go to prison.

“That’s the deal. Anyone want to say anything, say it now.”

At first, no one spoke. Big crocodile tears trickled down Misty’s cheeks.

“Does this mean there’s no giant payday?” Misty asked.

“There never was a giant payday,” he replied truthfully.

“That sucks!”

Gabe blew his nose into a paper napkin. He’d been planning to use a portion of his share to pay off Tony G, and now faced the grim reality of having nothing to give the bookie.

“Billy, there’s something I’m not getting,” Gabe said. “Why did these assholes running Galaxy blackmail you into doing this job? Why not call the gaming board instead?”

“They didn’t call the gaming board because they’re afraid of the law,” Billy said. “The owner of Galaxy owns a bunch of titty bars in LA. There’s only so much money you can make hustling friction dances and selling drunk businessmen bottles of pink champagne. I think the place is a front, and they’re laundering money.”

“For who? The mob?”

“The mob, the drug cartels, who knows? They’re bad dudes any way you look at it.”

“Man, you sure stepped in it.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Should we pack a suitcase and get out of town?” Pepper asked.

Billy had never been a proponent of running when things broke bad. In the eyes of the law, a person who ran was already guilty. “Just stay here, and hang out. It will all be over by Saturday.” He nearly added “One way or another” but decided he didn’t want to go there.

“Will you call us Saturday night, tell us how this works out?” Pepper asked.

“You’ll be the first to know,” he said.

Saying good-bye had never been harder. Gabe’s forlorn expression suggested that he’d dug a hole for himself that he could not climb out of. He gave Billy a bear hug and whispered, “Good luck, man,” before shuffling into the living room. Pepper and Misty both kissed him on the lips as if they might never see him again.

Cory and Morris were hanging back, and Billy motioned for them to follow him out the front door so they could talk in private. They’d gotten into the rackets as teens and understood the ramifications better than the others. Billy’s promise to keep them from getting busted was just that, a promise, and they might get arrested, no matter how hard Billy tried to prevent it.

Because Cory and Morris were the takeoff men, and actually stole the money during the scams, the law would seek them out first. Not the regular cops, but special enforcement agents of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, who had the power to confiscate their bank accounts, automobiles, and all their possessions. They’d go down first, and they’d go down hard.

The two young hustlers stood on the lawn, sharing a cigarette. Everything they did, they did together, from sharing a bedroom in a foster home growing up to peddling worthless coupon booklets to tourists on the Strip, which was how Billy had first met them.

“How long have you been working on this horse scam?” he asked.

“Six months. We’ve got a trainer at the track in our back pocket,” Cory said.

“Have you tried it out?”

“A couple of times. It worked like a charm.”

“You need to put it on ice. I want you to hide your computers, along with any electronic devices that might contain your communications with the guy at the track you’re working with. That includes your cell phones and iPads and any devices that carry e-mails. If the gaming board pays you a visit and finds any evidence, they’ll nail your balls to a wall, and try to make you turn state’s evidence. That’s how they operate. So don’t let them find anything.”

Cory flashed a brave smile. “We won’t let you down, Billy.”

“You can count on us,” Morris added.

Billy felt confident that they wouldn’t go sideways on him. To make your bones as a cheater, you had to get busted at least once and get your ass ground through the system. How you dealt with it defined the rest of your career.

“One more thing,” he said. “I want you to stay away from the casinos until this is over. Work on your golf games or take in some movies. It’ll be tough, but you can do it.”

“Stay away from the casinos? Are you out of your flipping mind?” Cory said indignantly.

“No fucking way, Jose,” Morris said.

They waited a beat before breaking into good-natured laughter. The conversation was ending on a high note. Billy appreciated that, and he beeped his horn as he drove away.