Super Con

Forty-Five

Pulling into the valet area of Turnberry, Billy spent a moment behind the wheel in thought. He had less than twenty-four hours to find a painter if the super con with the football players was going to succeed. That was hardly enough time with a casino scam.

Rushing a job was never smart, but he didn’t have any other choice. After this weekend, the football players were off to Phoenix for Super Bowl week, and his window of opportunity would be lost.

He scrolled through the names of local cheats in his cell phone’s directory. Painters were in short supply these days. The good ones were traveling the country fleecing the Native American casinos where the security was second-rate. He stopped on the name Casey Duvall. They’d worked together a decade ago running with a crew led by an old-timer named Crunchy. One night on a dare, Casey had painted all the high cards in a blackjack game at Bellagio using Vaseline, the jar conveniently tucked between his legs with the lid unscrewed. Casey had brass balls and would be perfect for this job. He called his old friend and heard him answer.

“Casey, this is Billy Cunningham. How you been, man?”

“Billy C, as I live and breathe, it’s good to hear your voice. What’s shaking?”

“I’ve got some business to discuss. You free tomorrow?”

“For you, man, of course.”

A rapping on the side glass made Billy jump. He turned his head to stare at the ugliest of sights. It was Grimes, and the special agent looked fit to be tied.

“I’ve got company. Let me call you later.”

“You know where to find me,” Casey said.

He ended the call and lowered the passenger window. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Let’s go for a ride,” Grimes said.

“Is something wrong?”

“There sure is.”

Maseratis were designed for people of smaller stature. Grimes climbed into the passenger seat and tried to put his seat back. When it didn’t budge, he let out a curse.

“Who designed this fucking car, a bunch of circus midgets?”

“Any place in particular you want to go?”

“Just drive around.”

The Las Vegas Country Club was Turnberry’s immediate neighbor. Billy did a slow loop around the emerald green eighteen-hole golf course wondering what he’d done to warrant a visit from Grimes. The special agent popped gum into his mouth and chewed vigorously.

“I have a problem that needs fixing. Broken Tooth hired a fancy lawyer out of LA named Max Stein. Stein was originally part of O. J. Simpson’s dream team, only he broke his ankle skiing and had to sit out the trial. Stein appeared in court today and told the judge that neither Broken Tooth nor his henchmen killed Travis Simpson, and that the body in the trunk of the rental was a frame-up. The judge ordered that we do a forensic test on the two handguns we found in the house. Guess what? Neither handgun killed Travis Simpson.”

“That’s a problem,” Billy said.

“Yes, it is. So here’s what I need. One of your friends shot Travis. Call him and find out where he ditched the weapon. I’ll go get it, and we’ll switch it for one of the guns we found at the house. Then we’ll run another ballistics test and get a match.”

“You didn’t share the first test with the judge.”

“That happens tomorrow. When it does, the test will be positive. Now make the call.”

They came to a red light. Billy braked and turned in his seat. “How do I know that you’re not wearing a wire and that this whole thing isn’t a setup to frame me?”

Grimes blew a bubble in the young hustler’s face that burst with a loud snap. “You think I’d incriminate myself and throw my career down the drain by what I just said? Wise up. I need the murder weapon, and I need it right now. Make the call before I get pissed.”

“What if my friend threw the gun over the Hoover Dam, and it can’t be retrieved?” he said. “What are you going to do then?”

“Your friend buried the gun in a deserted lot. I know that because I was a homicide dick for five years, and that’s what most killers do. The deserted lot is within a radius of two miles of where your friend lives, and it’s about three feet down in the ground.”

“Can I pull over?”

“Be my guest.”

Sunrise Hospital and Medical Center was another Turnberry neighbor. He parked in the lot and called Morris’s cell phone. Morris picked up on the first ring.

“Hey Billy, what’s up?”

“I need you to tell me where you ditched the piece,” Billy said.

Morris made a gagging sound into the phone. “What are you talking about?”

“Where’s the gun? Just tell me, and then hang up the phone.”

The line went still. Billy shut his eyes, praying that Morris wasn’t one of those small percentage of shooters who’d buried his gun in some exotic place.

“There’s an empty lot down the street from our house,” Morris said, breaking the silence. “Cory and I buried the gun there and filled the hole with empty beer cans. That was Cory’s idea, in case somebody with a metal detector found the spot and decided to dig.”

“Any landmarks?”

“Not that I can think of. We covered the spot with garbage to hide it.”

“Where in the lot?”

“Dead center. You going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Later. Keep the faith.”

He had no trouble finding the empty lot where Morris and Cory had buried the murder weapon. Parking at the curb, he popped the trunk and got out with Grimes. He grabbed the tire iron from beneath the spare tire and tossed it to the special agent. Grimes tossed it right back.

“You want me to dig it up?”

“Yeah. I want to see you sweat,” Grimes said.

He found a collection of trash in the center of the yard and took a picture on his cell phone, which he texted to Morris with a note. Is this the spot? Morris texted him right back and said it was. He kicked away the trash, then used the tire iron to break away the dirt, which was packed down hard. As it became soft, he switched to using his hands and pawed away like a dog.

“This had better be the right spot,” Grimes said.

The sun was brutal and perspiration poured off his brow. It occurred to him that if this wasn’t where the gun was buried, they had a serious problem that he couldn’t fix.

“Does the judge know that Broken Tooth tried to fix the Super Bowl?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Grimes said, working his gum.

“Why don’t you tell him and get the ball rolling?”

“Can’t. We have our orders, and I’m not going to break them. Do you know how much money the Super Bowl generates for this town? More than a hundred million bucks is wagered at the sports books alone. Nothing is going to be said about the fix until the game’s over. Can’t you work any faster? I’m getting hot.”

He was soon drenched. The hole was three feet deep, so where the hell was the gun?

“Looks like we’ve got company. Stay here.”

Pinning a silver badge to his lapel, Grimes marched over to a white-haired man walking his dog who was coming toward them. They engaged in conversation, and Billy caught enough to realize that the man was part of a citizen’s watch group assigned to keep the neighborhood safe. A pesky bastard, exactly the kind of guy Grimes didn’t want snooping around.

His fingers touched the curved handle of a firearm. He cleaned away the dirt and watched the gun’s barrel take shape at the bottom of the hole. He stole a furtive glance at the man with the dog before pulling the buried weapon from its hiding place. The gun tucked safely beneath his shirt, he hustled over to his car and hopped in. The weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders. Grimes took the passenger seat, and Billy cleaned his fingerprints off the gun, then passed him the weapon.

“Beautiful,” Grimes said.