Super Con

Forty-Three

Thursday, ten days before the Super Bowl

Early morning was Billy’s least favorite time of day. Beneath the breaking sunlight’s harsh glare, there was no magic in Sin City, the casinos’ garish facades showing every crack and paint chip. Pulling into Caesars, he grabbed the two bags of money he’d stolen from Broken Tooth off the passenger seat and got out.

“Would you like a bellman to help you with your luggage?” the valet asked.

“I can manage,” he said.

He walked unescorted to the football players’ villa. Choo-Choo greeted him at the front door. “You again. What’s in the bags?”

“Money. Lots and lots of money,” he said.

“Well, come on in.”

Choo-Choo led him into the dining room. Room service had delivered a spread of food befitting an Arab prince sneaking away for an illicit weekend. Bagels, lox, caviar, cream cheese, champagne, bacon, eggs, and sweet-smelling sausage. Night Train sat at the head of a long table with Sammy, Clete, and Assassin beside him.

“Help yourself,” Night Train said.

“I already ate.” He cleared a spot and put the bags on the table before taking a chair. He’d constructed a story that he needed to sell to Night Train and his teammates. The story had just enough truth in it for them to believe him and become partners in the super con. “I hit a snag with the Super Bowl scam. My partner got busted and is cooling his heels down at the Clark County jail. He’s going to be out of commission for a while.”

Night Train chewed on a piece of bagel. “What did he get busted for?”

“Seems he murdered a guy.”

“That’s heavy. Can he be tied to us?”

“No, you’re in the clear.”

“Then why kill the scam? We’re still willing to fix the plays. You can place the bets yourself, and we’ll split the winnings. That’s a hell of a lot better deal for you. You’ll make more money with your partner gone.”

“My partner is known for fixing sporting events. The only sporting event on the horizon is the Super Bowl. The gaming board isn’t stupid, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re saying there’s going to be extra scrutiny on the game,” Night Train said.

“That’s right. If something suspicious happens, it will draw heat.”

“Not necessarily,” Night Train said. “Every player steps on that field with butterflies in his stomach. I know, because I’ve been there. Balls get fumbled; players screw up. No one’s going to cry foul if we fix a few plays. You rig the coin toss, and we’ll do the rest.”

“You sure about this?”

“Positive. We’ll make a killing.”

It couldn’t have gone better if Billy had scripted it. Cory, Morris, and Gabe would need to go to Phoenix to rig the coin toss, but that was easily done. Not wanting to appear too anxious, he let a moment pass, then took his next shot. “I have another business proposition for you. Tomorrow, I want you to help me burn several MGM casinos with a super con. It won’t require any rehearsal or lines to memorize. It’s a piece of cake.”

“Sounds interesting,” Night Train said. “What’s our take?”

“Half, just like the Super Bowl fix.”

“Which is what? Say fifty grand, and I’ll toss you on your ass.”

The message was clear. Night Train and his buddies would not rob for chump change. If you’re going to sin, sin boldly, or so the sentiment among the thieving class went.

“It all depends upon the size of your credit line with MGM. I’m assuming you guys have large ones,” he said.

“My credit line with MGM is two million bucks,” Night Train said.

“Same here,” Choo-Choo said.

“One point five million,” Sammy said.

“Me, too,” Assassin said.

Clete’s credit line was the same. Billy couldn’t have asked for a better crew to pull off Victor’s super con. Night Train and company were built in with MGM. None of the MGM casinos would get suspicious if they gambled for high stakes, since they’d done so before.

“You want us to put up our own money? Is that the deal?” Night Train asked.

Billy’s cheeks burned. “You think I’m trying to hustle you?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“No, you don’t have to put up your own money. You’ll use the good-faith money I was going to give you to fix the game.” He turned the bags upside down, and the money he’d stolen from Broken Tooth poured onto the table.

Night Train looked confused. “I’m good with that. But why did you ask about our credit lines?”

“Your credit line is your identity inside a casino,” he explained. “The pit boss pulls it up on his computer, sees that you’re a high roller, and won’t get nervous when you place big bets.”

A smart cheat never admitted he didn’t understand something. The remark put Night Train in a new light and made Billy wonder if the famous football player was just a dumb jock with a portfolio of bankrupt business ventures. It was how most pro athletes ended up.

“With our credit lines, how much can we steal?” Night Train asked.

“Multiply your credit line by two,” Billy said. “That much. Maybe a little more. Then the casino cuts you off. There’s only so much bleeding they’ll take.”

“Our combined credit line is eight and a half million bucks. You’re saying we can steal twice that much with this super con, and we get to keep half?”

“That’s right.”

Night Train glanced at his teammates. A silent agreement was reached, just like that.

“Count us in,” Night Train said.

No one ever said yes that quickly to a heist. There were always fine points to be ironed out and agreed upon. His suspicion that Night Train might be broke now included his pals. That was why they’d jumped at the chance to make a quick hit on fixing the Super Bowl, and it was why they were talking to him now. They needed the dough.

He’d found the perfect partners. Thieves by nature with nothing in their wallets. If the super con went according to plan, who knew what the future might hold?

“I think this calls for a toast,” he said.

“Have to be quick. We’re due at practice in two hours,” Night Train said.

“I’ll make them light,” he said.

The villa had an entertainment room with a full bar. Billy offered to fix the drinks and pulled an expensive bottle of champagne out of the fridge along with a carton of OJ.

“How do mimosas sound?” he asked.

The football players chorused their approval. They’d parked themselves in front of a flat-screen TV to watch a video of the Louisville Volunteers, their opponents next Sunday. The video ran in slow motion and was filled with white arrows and lines drawn by an invisible hand.

“Godfrey looks stiff in the pocket, doesn’t he?” Choo-Choo said.

“Sure does. He’s got no lateral movement,” Sammy said.

“What’s wrong with him?” Billy asked, serving their drinks.

“Herniated disc. Got injured in the divisional round against Indianapolis,” Night Train explained. “They’re going to dope him up for the big game and hope he doesn’t say anything stupid when a mic gets shoved in his face.”

The five men erupted into laughter. Neil Godfrey was the Volunteers’ star quarterback and quickly becoming a household name. A fresh-faced kid out of the University of Georgia, he’d set all sorts of passing records during his rookie season last year and become a media darling. It was hard to turn on the TV and not see Godfrey hawking some brand-name product.

“I didn’t see Godfrey listed on the Volunteers’ injury report,” Billy said.

“The league doesn’t want it out. They want to keep the point spread tight,” Night Train said.

“Who’s Louisville’s backup quarterback?” Sammy asked.

“Sycamore. The Jets cut him, and the Volunteers picked him up,” Night Train said.

“Is he any good?”

“Sycamore’s way good. But he gets tight under pressure and starts throwing picks. He’s been released by every team he’s played for.”

The video of Godfrey continued to run. Night Train held up his empty glass. “Hey, barkeep, how about another round? Make it super light so I don’t fall down during practice.”

“You got it.” He collected the empty glass and went behind the bar. Louisville wasn’t going to fare very well next Sunday with an ailing quarterback, all but ensuring a Rebels win. Night Train and his teammates had won the Super Bowl before, and they were about to win it again. They were going to end their careers on top, and then ride off into the sunset.

He fixed the drink. The OJ was done, and he tossed the empty carton away. Lying in the trash was a stack of official-looking documents with the NFL’s logo stamped on the top of each page. Their being in the garbage didn’t seem right, and he pulled them out to have a look.

They were contracts. The first was for Night Train to host the NFL pregame show on NBC, and it included working the playoffs and next year’s Super Bowl. It was a sweet deal, and would let Night Train’s star continue to shine after his playing days were over.

The next contract was for Choo-Choo to work as a color commentator for the NFL Network. It had lots of perks, including first-class travel to all the games and a generous food and wardrobe allotment. The other contracts were for Clete, Sammy, and Assassin to work as talking heads for ESPN and Fox Sports One. The terms were also lucrative.

He returned the contracts to the trash. Just a few days ago, the NFL’s commissioner had met with the football players on the villa’s balcony. He had to believe the commissioner had flown to Vegas to discuss the jobs described in these contracts. Why they’d ended up in the garbage was a mystery, and he supposed the football players were holding out for more money.

He served Night Train. The video of Neil Godfrey was still running. Night Train sipped his drink and said, “The things you just heard about Godfrey are top secret. Understood?”

“Loud and clear,” he said.

“When do we get to see this super con?”

“Don’t you have to go to practice?” he asked.

“We’ve got time.” Night Train made the screen go dark with the remote. “Me and my boys want to see what we’re getting ourselves into.”

“Understood. Step right this way,” he said.

Billy decided to use the antique card table in the corner of the entertainment room for the demonstration. The football players pulled up chairs while he remained standing. “MGM owns twelve casinos on the Strip. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to rig a blackjack game in five of those casinos. I will then contact you and tell you which casinos are your targets.”

“Why not tell us now?” Night Train asked.

“Because I don’t know which ones they are.”

“You’ve lost me, man.”

“MGM’s blackjack tables have been compromised by a faulty piece of equipment that makes it impossible for the pit boss to detect marked cards. I plan to secretly mark cards in five MGM casinos. I need to visit the different MGM properties to determine which are the best targets. Then I’ll contact you and give you the names of which casinos will be taken down.”

“Don’t the casinos change their cards every few hours?” Night Train asked.

“They used to, but it was costing too much money,” he said. “Now they change cards once a day, early in the morning. It’s an easy schedule to work around.”

“Mark them how?” Night Train asked.

“I’m going to use luminous paint to mark the tens, jacks, queens, kings, and aces.”

“Don’t you need special glasses to read that stuff?”

“Tinted sunglasses do the trick,” he said.

“But a pit boss can read luminous marks,” Night Train said. “That’s why a pit boss will come up beside the dealer and watch the game. They have a special way of reading the backs of the cards. I saw it on the Discovery Channel. Or was it bullshit?”

“It was real,” he said. “Like I said, the equipment at MGM properties is flawed and won’t allow the pit boss to read the marks. We’re home free.”

“If this scam takes place at five casinos, how are you going to be in five places at once?” Night Train asked.

“The scams will be staggered over the course of the day,” he explained. “I’ll hop between casinos and work with each of you.”

He paused to let everything sink in. Satisfied that his partners were on the same page, he continued. “Each of you will scam a different MGM casino. Before you show up, you’re going to call the VIP host and announce your arrival. By doing that, you’re guaranteed star treatment when you walk through the front doors. Got it?”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Night Train said.

“When you visit your assigned casino, be sure you wear your Super Bowl rings and lots of bling. Remember, you’re pretending to be BPs.”

“BP? Like the oil company?” Choo-Choo asked.

“BP stands for Big Player. Also known as a sucker.”

Choo-Choo scowled, as did the others. They’d been pissing away their money for years without understanding the arrangement, so he explained. “There are three kinds of players in a casino. Advantage players, who have an edge over the house. Think card counter. Then there are cheats that rob the joints, like me. Everyone else is a sucker. There are no winners.”

“No winners?” Choo-Choo said.

“No sir. If you won all the time, they’d ban you.”

The football players nodded. So far everything he’d said had made sense. Now came the tricky part.

“Blackjack games have different betting limits,” he said. “Low-limit tables have minimum bets of five dollars and maximum bets of five hundred dollars. High-limit tables have minimum bets of a hundred dollars and a maximum of ten thousand dollars. The games I’m going to rig will be low limit. Know why? Because surveillance hardly watches low-limit games.”

“How do you make money in a low-limit game?” Night Train asked. “Even if you’re cheating, you can’t win that much.”

“You’re going to ask the pit boss to raise the limits at your tables. But first you play for a little while and lose. That’s when you ask the pit boss to raise the table limit so you can bet more. When the pit boss asks you how much, you say, ‘Ten grand a hand.’”

“Will he go along with that?”

“Of course he’ll go along with it. It’s what suckers do when they get behind. At that point, you should have drawn a good crowd. I’ll be in the crowd, wearing my tinted sunglasses. That’s when we start scamming.”

Night Train wasn’t far behind and said, “You’re going to read the dealer’s cards and signal us how to play our hands. Is that the deal?”

“Correct. I play your hands for you, and we clean up.”

Night Train flashed his famous smile. His teammates also looked happy. If the boss was good with the scam, then so were the troops.

“Remember,” he said. “You’re pretending to be suckers. That means talking to the crowd and flirting with the girls. In other words, don’t get serious when you start winning.”

“Just keep acting like dumb shits, is what you’re saying,” Night Train said.

“I can do that,” Choo-Choo said.

“No problem,” Sammy chimed in.

Clete and Assassin grunted that it wouldn’t be hard to act like dumb shits.

“Last thing,” he said. “When you reach a million bucks in winnings, you ask the pit boss to raise the table limit to fifty grand a hand. The pit boss will say yes, in the hopes you’ll lose everything back that you’ve won.” He paused. “Are we good?”

“I think we’re real good,” Night Train said. “Aren’t we, boys?”

His teammates bobbed their heads in unison. Loyal to the point of being blind, they would have jumped into a vat of boiling oil if Night Train had asked them to.

It was time to explain the signals. Signals let a crew secretly communicate inside a casino. For the super con, Billy planned to employ a sky signal. A sky signal was visible to the crew but invisible to the surveillance cameras, which filmed straight down from the ceiling.

The sky signal used a common beer bottle, held at chest height. If the bottle was in the left hand, with the right hand below but not touching it, this meant take a card.

If the bottle was held with the right hand, with the left hand below, this meant to stand pat. The difference in these two actions was plainly visible to a player at the table but couldn’t be seen — or filmed — by the eye-in-the-sky.

Left hand holding the bottle, take a card. Right hand holding the bottle, stand pat.

The third signal was called the chin. If Billy dipped his chin, it meant start the play. This was also invisible to the eye-in-the-sky.

He ran through the signals a dozen times, just to make sure the football players got it right. In conclusion, he said, “If I take a drink of my beer, it means we’re done. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Now get to practice before you’re late,” he said. “The prop bets can’t be fixed if you guys are benched at the start of the game.”

“You got it, boss,” Night Train said.

And with that, the football players burst out laughing.