Super Con

Twenty-Six

Cory and Morris went to Machine Guns Vegas to blow off some steam. There were many gun ranges in town, but only MGV offered military guns for rent. Just by plunking down a credit card, a customer could shoot a Barrett sniper rifle, a SPAS-12 dual-mode combat shotgun, or an M4 lightweight submachine gun used by SEAL Team Six.

They opted for the Three Gun Experience. For a hundred and ninety bucks, they got to shoot three weapons for forty-five minutes straight. Cory chose the AK-47, the M4, and the KRISS Super Vector, which looked right out of a sci-fi flick. Morris had his own preferences and chose the combat assault FN SCAR, the MP5 with a banana clip, and a fully automatic Uzi.

Together they shredded paper targets in the range. Cory preferred targets of flesh-eating zombies, while Morris liked killing terrorists. They were both steaming mad at Travis and made the targets pay for the big man’s betrayal. It was bad enough that Leon was being held against his will because of Travis. Now Travis had attempted to get Pepper, Misty, and Gabe to jump ship. Travis was trying to destroy Billy’s crew, the rat bastard.

Joining Billy’s crew was the best thing that had ever happened to them. Not that long ago, they’d been selling worthless coupon booklets on the Strip. Billy had plucked them off the street and offered to teach them the art of the grift. They’d signed up, and the money had started to flow. They’d bought a new car, rented a house, and filled the fridge with all the delicious food they’d missed growing up. Their lives were heaven, and they were not about to let Travis jeopardize their good fortune.

Finished, they went to the Sand Dollar Lounge and downed shots of Cuervo with beer chasers while listening to the Moanin’ Blacksnakes on the makeshift stage. Soon they were swimming in their chairs and feeling no pain.

“Want to get another round? My treat,” Morris said.

Normally, Morris’s paying for drinks was enough incentive for Cory to say yes.

“I’m toast,” Cory said.

“You drunk?”

“As a skunk. How about you?”

“I’m on my way. How about shrimp tacos from the truck? I hear they’re decent.”

Cory grunted no. Shooting machine guns and quaffing beer usually lifted his spirits. Tonight was different, and his head was filled with bad thoughts. The band took a break, and the purple spotlights on stage went dark. Cory said, “What do you say we drive over to Henderson where Travis lives, hop the wall, and kill that son of a bitch.”

“Are you serious?” Morris asked.

“Dead serious. Travis needs to be taken out of the picture.”

“Don’t you think Billy’s already thought about this? Let him handle it.”

“Billy’s got enough on his plate. It’s time we start pulling our own weight.”

“I don’t think that’s a smart idea.”

“You’re a chicken. Bock, bock, bock.”

Cory became impulsive when he drank, and his threat to kill Travis was not an idle one.

Morris snatched the car keys off the table and rose from his chair.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

When Billy recruited people into his crew, he made them create identities for themselves in case they had the misfortune of getting arrested during a job and had to answer questions about their background and livelihoods to the police. These identities were natural extensions of who they were, making the details easy to recall.

Cory’s and Morris’s identities were of perpetual college students enrolled at UNLV. To make this look real, they paid tuition and took online courses and lived in a rented house two miles from the university’s main campus, the neighborhood filled with students who never slept.

Morris drove down their block. Six bare-chested guys with long hair were playing a makeshift game of soccer in the middle of the street. A keg of beer was providing libations while flaming burgers cooked on an open grill.

“I want to kill that asshole Travis,” Cory said.

“Stop talking like that, man. It’s not healthy,” Morris said.

“Some people need killing.”

“He’s twice your size. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Muscle doesn’t stop bullets.”

Hearing Cory talk like this upset Morris. They had bounced around together in foster homes and watched each other’s backs. Morris liked to think it was the reason why they weren’t too damaged as adults. He pulled into their driveway and killed the headlights. They’d bought the house out of foreclosure and were still fixing it up. Cory crawled out and threw up in the bushes.

“You want to go to the ER, get your stomach pumped?”

Cory grunted in the negative. When the catharsis was over, he spoke. “The next time we go out, remind me not to drink tequila.”

“You said that the last time you puked your guts out.”

“This time, I mean it.”

Morris unlocked the front door and went to deactivate the security system. To his surprise, it was already turned off. “Didn’t you set this when we left?”

“I thought I did.”

The house had a sprawling free-flow design with partial walls separating the rooms. In the center of the living room was a giant fish tank filled with exotics. Morris suffered from insomnia, and late at night when he couldn’t sleep, he’d sit in front of the tank and watch the fish. The chair he used had a reclining feature, and he often dozed off in it.

Travis sat in that chair now, waiting for them.

“Hey guys, hope you don’t mind, but I let myself in,” the big man said. “Still had the key you gave me when you went on vacation and had me feed the fish.”

A half-finished bottle of beer sat on the floor. Travis picked it up and took a swig. Cory started to walk toward their intruder. Morris grabbed his friend’s arm and restrained him.

“You don’t look too happy to see me,” Travis said.

“You broke into our house,” Cory seethed.

“I used a key. We need to talk.”

“Get the hell out, right now.”

Travis didn’t budge. The tank’s bright lights danced across his rugged features. Morris spied a bulge beneath Travis’s shirt and guessed the big man was packing heat.

“I have a business proposition that’s going to make you bookoo bucks,” Travis said, as slick as a used-car salesman. “Sit down and take a load off your feet. You won’t be disappointed by what I have to say.”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Cory spit at him.

“And a traitor,” Morris chimed in.

“I won’t deny it. But I’m not small-time anymore. And you both are. I found this little beauty on your kitchen table. What are we talking about, fifty years old?”

Travis removed a horse booster kit from the pocket of his shirt. The kit consisted of a miniature battery pack, a solenoid, and a radio receiver, the whole thing designed to be woven into a racehorse’s tail. The cheat sat in the grandstands with a radio transmitter disguised as binoculars. During the race, the cheat would press a button that activated the solenoid and triggered a needle that jabbed the horse in the ass, making it run faster.

“It gets the money,” Morris said defensively.

“It’s bush league,” Travis said. “You could drug the horse to run faster or shock it through the jockey’s saddle. But stick it with a needle? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The horse booster was primitive, but sometimes primitive was okay. When the race was over, the jockey could tear the kit from the horse’s tail and dispose of it. There was no telltale evidence, which couldn’t be said for the other ways to fix the ponies.

Cory looked ready to jump their visitor. A capital idea, only Travis would draw his gun and shoot him. Morris dragged Cory over to the couch and made his best friend sit down beside him.

“Explain your deal,” Morris said.

“Broken Tooth uses a network to place his bets for him,” Travis said. “This network is in Asia and Europe, but no one in the good ole US of A. That’s where you boys come in. You’ll place his bets in the States and clean up. Broken Tooth had hoped to strike a deal with Billy, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why not? What did Billy do?” Morris asked.

“Broken Tooth thinks Billy’s a snake. Billy wants five hundred grand in good-faith money to give to the Rebels’ defensive players. Broken Tooth said it’s too much. He thinks Billy’s pulling a fast one.”

“And you agreed with him,” Cory blurted out.

Travis sucked his beer, his eyes never leaving Cory’s face. “Broken Tooth wants to move on. I’m hoping you’ll be smart enough to see what a great opportunity this is.”

“Billy made you rich, and this is how you repay him?” Cory asked, the booze thickening his tongue. “What fucking rock did you crawl out from beneath?”

“Watch your mouth.”

“What did Billy do to make you betray him? Did he say Karen was ugly? Or that your sleight of hand sucks? Come on, I want to know.”

Travis’s eyes flared, and he leaned forward in his chair. “You’re going down the wrong road, Cory. Keep it up, and I’ll make you eat those words.”

“Answer the fucking question.”

Travis touched the handle of his gun through the fabric of his shirt. “All right, I’ll tell you what that asshole Billy did. He kept criticizing me, told me I needed to work on my dice and card switches, like I wasn’t good enough. I got the money, didn’t I?”

“You want to know the truth? Your technique sucks. If Pepper and Misty weren’t distracting the pit bosses, we would have been caught by now, you stupid shit.”

“Is that so?” Travis lifted his shirt, exposing his weapon. “Say it again, I dare you.”

One of the advantages of learning to shoot at MGV was the staff. All ex-military vets from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, they’d drummed into Morris’s head the importance of getting the draw on your opponent. Anyone could fire a gun and hit a target; the key to battle was getting off the first round. Reaching under the couch, Morris drew a Beretta M9 and took careful aim at their unwanted guest. The M9 had been the standard handgun across the military for twenty years and was absolutely lethal at close range.

Travis froze. His arms went into the air. “Morris. Please.”

With his free hand, Morris picked up the remote off the couch and turned on the TV. The voices of two announcers broadcasting a basketball game filled the room, and he jacked up the volume.

Then Morris shot Travis dead.