Super Con

Twenty-One

Back when the mob ran Vegas, lifeguard chairs could be found on casino floors, in which sat cigar-smoking gangsters who’d stared down at the tables, trying to catch cheats. After the corporations took over the town, these chairs were replaced with catwalks, letting security experts with binoculars watch the action through two-way mirrors in the ceiling.

Over time, cameras replaced catwalks. These cameras had pan-tilt-zoom lenses and were wired to the casino’s surveillance room, where heavily caffeinated techs sat zombielike in front of monitors, hoping to nail a bad guy. These surveillance rooms were also above casinos, on floors with restricted access.

This arrangement had changed with modern casinos. Today’s surveillance rooms were in basements and had special cooling systems so the equipment ran properly. They also had their own elevators, which eliminated any social contact with the casino’s employees.

Special Agent Grimes awaited them in the lobby of LINQ. The knot in Grimes’s necktie was undone, and his chin sported a dark shadow.

“Catch any bad guys?” Mags asked as they took the elevator down.

“Slow day so far. Like the present I sent over?” Grimes asked.

“What present? I didn’t get any present.”

“Let me guess. You’ve never heard of Louisa Cruz.”

“Sorry. Name doesn’t ring any bells.”

Rand stared at the floor, pretending not to hear. The elevator landed and they walked down a hallway to a steel door with a security camera perched over it. Grimes hit a buzzer.

“Before we go inside, I need to remind you that it’s against the law to take photos of the equipment. If I catch either of you doing that, I’ll confiscate your cell phone. Got it?”

“Of course,” Rand said.

“You’re the boss,” Mags added.

A short man wearing a turtleneck ushered them in. The room was dimly lit and designed like a bunker, and it took a moment for Mags’s eyes to adjust. Twenty-eight monitors took up the main wall; in front of them sat a dozen techs at desks, using joysticks, keypads, and desktop screens to jump among feeds from the casino’s many cameras.

At one desk sat a plump guy eating a burger in a fast-food wrapper. Frank slapped him on the shoulder. “This is Blake, one of LINQ’s table games specialists. How’s it going, Blake?”

“Living the dream,” Blake replied without humor.

“Any bites?”

“Not yet, but the day’s still young.” With a flick of the joystick, Blake jumped from a craps table to a blackjack game with lightning speed. “I thought I saw your boy earlier, but it wasn’t him. Is your offer still good?”

“Absolutely. Five hundred bucks if you nail him,” Grimes said. “That goes for the other techs as well.”

A glossy photograph was propped on Blake’s desk. It was the same photo Frank had shown Mags of the Gypsies having lunch with the claimer. Frank had nailed two of the Gypsies already but let them slip through his fingers. Now he was offering a bounty to capture the third Gypsy in the photo — the one with the prominent Adam’s apple, who would be easy for Blake or one of the other techs to spot if he entered LINQ’s casino.

“You must really want to catch this guy,” Rand said.

“That would be an understatement,” Frank said. “The gaming board busted three hundred cheats last year, and all of them were small fries. The big ones almost always elude our net. But that’s about to change.”

Rand picked up the photo and stared at the faces in the group. “Who are they?”

“They’re a family of thieves called the Gypsies who prey on the casinos. They specialize in well-orchestrated scams that have netted them millions of dollars.”

“Millions? Wow.”

“Wow is right. The older lady in the photo is a retired school principal and in cahoots with the Gypsies. She claimed a jackpot from a slot machine that the Gypsies rigged and split the winnings with them.”

“I thought it was impossible to rig a slot machine.”

“So did we. But the Gypsies figured out a way to open a machine and nullify the antitheft device while adding a special code that made the machine pay a jackpot if played a certain way. That’s what makes the gaming board’s work so challenging. Even when we’re right on top of things, we’re still a step behind.”

“That’s a good quote. Can we use it in the show?”

“No.”

“Got it. Do you ever resort to unusual methods to catch cheats?”

Frank flashed a smile. “I’ll have to take the fifth on that one.”

“In the movies, the cheats get dragged to a back room and get the tar beaten out of them before they get turned over to the police,” Rand said. “Does that really happen?”

Every damn day, Mags almost said.

“Not anymore,” Frank said.

Blake leaped out of his chair like he’d been hit by a cattle prod. “Got him! Our boy just sat down at a hundred-dollar blackjack table.”

“Put him on the wall,” Frank said.

The twenty-eight wall monitors became filled with a live feed of the Gypsy with the pronounced Adam’s apple. He was dressed casually, his face hidden by a pair of cheap shades and a baseball cap. The disguise had flown by the other techs; only Blake’s trained eye had picked him up. Frank removed his wallet and slapped the bounty on Blake’s desk.

“Treat your girlfriend to a nice dinner tonight,” Frank said.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Blake replied.

Frank enjoyed busting cheats more than screwing. Mags knew this as fact, because Frank had once left their bed after getting a call about a cheat ripping off a casino.

Frank moved closer to the monitors with Rand glued to his side. Mags stayed by Blake’s desk, wishing she’d never agreed to take this little tour. She’d said good-bye to the grifter’s life and did not want to participate, even as a casual observer.

The Gypsy on the monitors didn’t have a prayer. Frank would catch him in the act, video the crime from every conceivable angle, and bust him. Frank would also interrogate him and ask him to give up the rest of the members of his family. If the Gypsy didn’t play ball, Frank would put him away for a long time.

The game was blackjack. On the monitor, the Gypsy was dealt a pair of aces. The Gypsy slid a second bet into the betting circle, indicating he wished to split the hand. Then a miraculous thing happened. The Gypsy’s original bet of two black chips grew to three. The new bet also contained three black chips. Black chips were worth a hundred bucks. The Gypsy had added $200 to his bet without the dealer being the wiser.

“We need a close-up of that,” Frank called over his shoulder.

“I’m all over it,” Blake said.

“Did something just happen?” Rand asked, clueless.

“Our thief had an extra chip palmed in his hand, which he added to his original bet. Hustlers call it capping a bet.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Rand marveled.

“He’s pretty slick. We’ll need to record him the next time he moves. That’s the only way we’ll be able to convince a jury that he was cheating.”

“Are juries hard to convince?” Rand asked.

“In this town they are. Without rock-solid video evidence, a jury will not convict.”

Frank went to Blake’s desk and used a house phone to call the head of casino security. “The guy sitting at first base on table seven is capping his bets. Once we have enough evidence, I’ll call you. Make sure you get his cell phone when you bust him.”

Hanging up, Frank glanced at Mags. “Having fun?”

Mags thought she might get sick. The Gypsies were in Vegas running a scam with Billy, and there was every likelihood that Billy’s number was logged on the guy’s cell phone. That would put Billy in a bad light and allow Frank to ask a judge for permission to tap Billy’s phones and put a tail on him. Eventually Billy would slip up, and Frank would nail him.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

Mags blinked awake. Billy had never used or abused her, and he would always occupy a special place in her heart, even if he was a devious little shit.

“Afraid not,” she said.

“I asked you if you’re having fun.” Frank stepped closer, his eyes burning a hole into her soul like he knew something wasn’t right.

“Time of my life,” she said.

“Why do I think you’re lying to me?”

“That’s because everyone lies to you, Frank. You should be used to it by now.”

Frank lifted his hand as if to slap her. He’d struck her several times when she was a snitch, then tried to make up for it with a shitty box of candy or flowers.

“Go ahead, try it,” she said.

Frank growled under his breath and moved back to the monitors. Seeing her chance, Mags turned to Blake. “Where’s the ladies’ room? I need to powder my nose.”

“It’s behind the file cabinets.” Blake lifted his bag of fries. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

Mags found the restroom and went in. What she was about to do was illegal and could land her in hot water. She was risking everything, yet her heart said do it.

Her hand shook as she typed a text message to Billy on her cell phone.