Super Con

Nineteen

It was time to go see Night Train. Billy left the cabana and went to the front desk, where the manager on duty had already been alerted of his pending arrival. The manager said, “Mr. McClain said you’d be coming. Do you know the way?”

“Yes, I’ve been here before,” he said.

While Billy took the long walk back to the villas, he tried to figure out why the head of the NFL had flown to Vegas to meet with Night Train and his teammates. There had been no agents or lawyers in attendance, which would have suggested that it was a friendly gathering, only the looks on the football players’ faces had suggested the meeting was anything but that.

Choo-Choo greeted him at the door. “I’m not playing cards with you anymore. Night Train’s on the patio waiting for you.”

He made his way back to the patio. Night Train sat at the head of the table with a shopping bag before him. He guessed the bag contained his winnings and took a chair.

“Want something to drink?” Night Train asked.

“I’m good,” he said.

Night Train slid the loot toward him. He opened the bag and had a look inside. Money made the world go round, and there was enough inside the bag to make it go around several times. From his pocket he removed Night Train’s father’s watch and placed it on the table.

“Here you go.”

“Don’t you want to count your money?”

“I just did.”

“You’re a hustler, aren’t you?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

Night Train picked up the watch and gazed at the inscription on the back. It was a cheap watch, but that didn’t diminish its value. Night Train’s old man had toiled for years to earn that watch, and his son kept it to be reminded of the sacrifices his father had made.

“I’ve been beaten at cards before, but never so quickly,” Night Train said. “You cheated us.”

“Takes one to know one,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You rang in a cooler on me, and I spotted it and spilled my drink on the cards.”

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

Night Train’s cell phone rang. The famous football player cursed and dug through his pockets. Out came a fancy alligator-skin wallet, which was dropped onto the table, followed by the cell phone, which Night Train answered. He frowned and rose from the table.

“I’ll be right back.”

Night Train went into the villa and shut the door, leaving Billy to wait. Night Train’s denial didn’t shock him; the first rule of getting caught cheating was to deny it and make the accuser prove the allegation. Most people didn’t have the courage and would back down.

Ringing in a cooler during a card game required skill and timing, plus stacking the deck to be switched into the game. If one card was out of order in the stack, the scam wouldn’t work, and the victim might end up winning the money. Hustlers who used coolers relied on formulas to set up the cards. These formulas were written down and kept hidden in the hustler’s wallet. During the game, the hustler would take a bathroom break and use the time away from the table to set up the deck to be switched in. The formula would calculate the game that was being played, along with the number of players, thus ensuring that the hustler got the money.

Every hustler who employed coolers used formulas to stack the deck, and Billy had to believe that Night Train did as well. The formula was written on a piece of paper in the event there was trouble during the game and the hustler had to get rid of the evidence. This was done by crunching the formula into a ball and swallowing it.

He glanced through the glass door into the villa. Night Train was still talking on his cell phone. Reaching across the table, he picked up Night Train’s wallet and did a quick search. Every fancy men’s wallet had a secret compartment that was nothing more than a clever fold of leather; Night Train’s wallet was no different, and he extracted a slip of paper and unfolded it. As he’d expected, it contained Night Train’s winning formula for seven-card stud, the same game in which Night Train had switched decks and tried to cheat him.

Night Train was finishing his call. Billy placed the formula beneath the wallet so it was hidden from view. Night Train returned to the patio and took his seat at the table.

“Where were we?” the famous football player said.

“You were denying that you used a cooler on me yesterday.”

“I never cheated anybody in my life, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

The best way to catch a cheat was to paint him into a corner with his own lies. Billy reached across the table and dramatically lifted the fancy wallet off the formula.

“What are you carrying this formula in your wallet for? Shits and giggles?”

Night Train was not going down without a fight. “Give me a break, man. That’s a game the team plays during trips. I wrote it down because it’s complicated, that’s all.”

“Nice try. Actually, it’s the stack you used in our game. There’s a code written across the top for easy reference: 6612. The first number tells you how many hands the deck is stacked for. In this case, it’s a six, which is how many players we had.

“The second number in the code tells you which hand will be the winner. That number is six, the last hand, which happened to be yours.

“The third number in the code tells you the strength of the winning hand. One is a four of a kind, two is a full house, three is a flush, four is a straight, and five is three of a kind. The third number in the formula is a one, meaning the winning hand will be a four of a kind.

“The last number tells you which player will get fleeced. In this case the number is two, the second player to the dealer’s left, my seat. I was supposed to get a full house and bet all my money thinking it was a winner. Only things didn’t work out the way you planned.”

Night Train stared at the formula before meeting Billy’s gaze.

“You’re good.”

“Glad you think so.”

“How long you been in the rackets?”

“Since I was fifteen. You?”

“Twelve. My father ran crooked card games in our basement and taught me the ropes. So how the hell did you cheat us, anyway?”

“I bought a few decks from the hotel gift shop and doctored the edges with a nail file. Then I convinced the girl working the counter to take the doctored decks back.”

“So when I had the concierge bring up a couple of decks, he brought decks from the gift shop. That’s sweet. I didn’t suspect a thing.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Night Train took the news in stride; he’d been beaten at his own game and wasn’t afraid to admit it. Billy pushed the paper bag across the table to his host, who acted surprised.

“I don’t want your money,” he said. “But I do want to talk to you and your teammates. I have a business proposition for you.”

Night Train scratched his chin. “And what would that be?”

“I want you to fix the Super Bowl.”

“You’re crazy. The league constantly watches for fixes. We’d all go down.”

“No, we won’t. I want to fix some prop bets. The game’s outcome won’t be affected.”

“Hey man, don’t think the players haven’t discussed fixing prop bets. Problem is, you don’t know who’s going to get the ball first.”

“I have that covered. The coin toss will be rigged.”

“Meaning you’ve got the head referee in your back pocket. Well, that’s an interesting angle. Our kicker always boots the opening kickoff out of the end zone, which takes special teams out of the picture. The defense could then commit the game’s first penalty from scrimmage and suffer the first injury, and no one would be the wiser. I like it. For the sake of argument, let’s say I get my boys to agree to your fix. What’s our take?”

The deal that Billy had struck with Broken Tooth was that Night Train and his pals would receive four million to fix the game. But Billy had decided he didn’t like those terms. Broken Tooth couldn’t be trusted to hold up his end of the bargain, leaving Billy with little choice but to cut Broken Tooth out and offer Night Train a more lucrative arrangement.

“Half,” the young hustler said.

“Half of what?”

“Of every bet we place with the Vegas sports books. Since I don’t know what the line on the prop bets is, I can only guess.”

“Try me.”

“Seven and a half million.”

“You’re going to give us half of seven and a half million bucks?”

“No, your take will be seven and a half million, give or take a few hundred grand. You’ll get a full accounting of every bet and every payoff. After the money is collected, your share will be wired to an offshore bank account, which I assume you have. Sound good to you?”

“I’d like to see some good faith money first. It will help me sell this to my boys.”

“How much do you need?”

“A hundred grand apiece up front.”

“Five hundred thousand bucks. I can do that.”

Night Train flashed a smile. Billy had said all the right things. The famous football player rose from the table and escorted his guest through the villa to the front door.

“Do we have a deal?” Billy asked.

“I’m sold, but my boys will need convincing,” Night Train said. “They usually do what I say, but I still need to say it. Clete and Assassin are playing golf and won’t be back until later. Let me huddle up and discuss. When do you need an answer?”

“Tonight. Sooner if possible.”

“I’ll call you once I have things nailed down.”

They shook hands. It was how business deals were done between hustlers — no contracts or fancy lawyers in pinstripes, just a pumping of the flesh.

“One more thing,” Night Train said. “I want you to teach me how you doctored the cards. I’d like to use that.”

“You got it,” Billy said.

He took the Strip home. It was late, and the sun had started to descend. As it did, partiers appeared on the Strip’s wide sidewalks like predators beginning their daily hunt. Rain or shine, the ritual was always the same; with daylight’s passing, the real adventure began.

Traffic crawled. Casino billboards ran continuous loops of the acts playing in their showrooms. Singers came and went, but it was the magic acts and impersonators who hung around the longest, their illusions more in keeping with the false dreams of wealth that the casinos pushed upon their customers. “Caller Unknown” lit up his cell phone’s screen. It was a fifty-buck fine to talk while driving. He decided to risk it.

“Hello?”

“This is Broken Tooth. Did you get this thing nailed down?”

“I just left Night Train’s villa. Night Train is on board but needs to talk to his teammates and convince them. We’re going to talk later and finalize the deal.”

“Night Train the boss. The others will go along, don’t you think?”

“They should. There’s been one change in plans. Night Train wants five hundred thousand in good faith money. I told him yes.”

Broken Tooth cursed up a storm at this unexpected change in plans. Billy smiled into the cell phone. The fact that Broken Tooth was going to get cut out of the deal didn’t mean that the Chinese gangster shouldn’t pay for Night Train and his pals’ signing bonuses. To Billy’s way of thinking, this was only fair, considering the crap Broken Tooth was putting him through.

“You think I’ve got that kind of money lying around?” Broken Tooth yelled.

“You want me to call him, tell him the deal’s off?” Billy said.

“I’ll get money, but if you pull a stunt like this again, I’ll put a bullet in your driver’s head. You want that?”

“No.”

“Then stop pulling shit with me.”

Leon’s life was on the line, and Billy needed to be careful. “Speaking of my driver, how’s he holding up?”

“Your driver’s got a big mouth. Real asshole.”

“You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“My bodyguards stuck his head in toilet and he nearly drowned. Guess he didn’t know how to hold his breath. You want to talk to him? He sitting right here.”

“Hey Billy, how’s it going?” a weakened Leon said moments later.

“You don’t sound good,” Billy said, regretting the exchange with Broken Tooth.

“I’ve been better. You really think you can pull this thing off?”

“I’m sure going to try.”

“Give me some odds.”

“I’d say I’ve got a sixty-forty shot at making it happen.”

“I can live with that.”

Broken Tooth came back on the line. “I’ll call you later to hear how things are going. Don’t let me down, Cunningham.”

“I’m going to make this happen. Just don’t kill my driver,” he said.

A bicycle cop appeared in his side mirror, pedaling fast. The sheriff’s department maintained hundreds of hidden surveillance cameras on the Strip, the cops doing their best to keep order. He pulled his registration and proof of insurance out of the glove compartment.

“I’m about to get a ticket for talking on my cell phone. Talk to you later.”