Super Con

Fifty-Two

Like a play, cheating a casino had three distinct acts. The beginning, the middle, and the end.

In the first act, the cheat sat down at a game and pretended to be a sucker. Since 99 percent of players in a casino were suckers, this was relatively easy and required little more than the cheat yucking it up and having a good time.

In the second act, the cheat turned the tables on the casino and began to win. This was when the play became complicated. The cheat needed to stay in character and give the casino the false impression that his winnings would be returned in short order.

In the final act, the cheat walked away with the casino’s dough. In many ways, this was the hardest act of all, for it was totally out of character for anyone who gambled to quit while ahead. Gamblers lived for lucky streaks, and a winning gambler rarely quit.

Night Train and his buddies knew these things. They’d been cheating at poker for years, and a poker scam was structured the same as a casino scam, with three distinct acts. This was why Billy believed the football players would pull through with the super con.

After parting with Mags, Billy took the elevator to his condo and donned a new disguise. This time, he opted for jeans, a lime green polo shirt, a navy blazer with mother-of-pearl buttons, and cowboy boots that made him three inches taller. Cotton balls were shoved into both sides of his mouth to widen his face. To further trick the cameras, he treated his hair with a product called Caboki. Derived from a plant, Caboki instantly bonded to his existing hair and erased any visible spots in his scalp. His hair looked like a lion’s mane.

He applied gel and spiked it. The face in the mirror didn’t look anything like the guy who’d just helped Maggie Flynn paint cards in five MGM casinos.

In his dresser were a dozen pairs of shades, ranging from cheap to expensive. He chose a pair of Ray-Ban Predators. Dark sunglasses were needed to read luminous marks, the darker the better. Some cheats preferred shaded contact lenses, but Billy had found that they impaired his vision.

He got a call from Night Train. Yesterday at the villa, he’d instructed Night Train to stop communicating via phone calls until the super con was over. It had obviously escaped Night Train’s memory.

“We finished practice early. Coaches had us in full pads in this heat. Guys were passing out,” Night Train said. “I was just calling to see if the blackjack scam was all set.”

“It is indeed,” Billy said. “Do yourself a favor and don’t call me anymore. If we get caught, the police will confiscate our cell phones and look at our calls. If they see we’ve been talking, we’re screwed. We’ll communicate by text message from now on. When we’re done, you erase the texts, and the evidence disappears.”

“That’s smart. You know all the angles, don’t you?”

“It’s all in the details. Hang up, and I’ll send you the schedule.”

The call ended. Billy sent a text to Night Train with the names of the five MGM properties they were going to rob, along with the times Night Train and his teammates needed to arrive at the casinos.

Night Train sent him a reply.

Smart question. Billy took a selfie and sent it to Night Train.

Night Train replied.

He waited a minute to see if Night Train needed any more clarification. Mags telling him about the baseball players screwing up her play in Atlantic City had planted a seed of doubt in his mind, and that was never a good thing.

he texted back.

Another minute passed.

Night Train finally replied.

He started to steam. He had half a mind to walk away and not look back. Only millions of dollars were waiting to be stolen from Luxor, Mandalay Bay, MGM Grand, the Mirage, and Aria, and he was willing to work with dumb jocks to make it happen.

he texted back.

Luxor was their first target. At 3:40, Billy parked in the two-story garage behind the hotel and strolled down a covered walkway to the rear entrance. Taking an escalator to the casino, he got a beer at the bar and headed over to the blackjack pit. The casino was quiet, and he took a chair at a slot machine across from the rigged blackjack game and slapped on his Ray-Bans. It was like having X-ray vision, and he knew exactly what the dealer was holding.

At four o’clock, one of the football players would appear and start playing blackjack. It would take roughly ninety minutes to steal the desired amount. Once the money was won, he’d head down the street to the MGM for the six-thirty start, steal their money, walk to Mandalay Bay, scam them, then retrieve his car and hit the Mirage, then drive to Aria. By early tomorrow morning, they would have seventeen million bucks of casino money. It got him excited just thinking about it.

By 4:10, none of the football players had arrived.

he texted Night Train.

Night Train replied.

A commotion lifted his head. Sammy had arrived with all the bluster of a professional wrestler entering the ring and was stopping to sign autographs. Billy got out of his chair and took his position next to the blackjack game with the painted cards.

Sammy spotted him and sauntered over. His legs were wobbly, and he grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself. Right then Billy realized the problem. Sammy was drunker than a sailor on a navy payday. Sit down before you fall down, he thought.

“Hey!” Sammy said.

A small mob of people had gathered around the table, and the remark could have been directed at anyone. Billy played stupid and sipped his beer.

“This table?” Sammy asked.

Billy nearly ran. But that would have drawn suspicion, and right now, no one else in the casino knew the game was rigged. He decided to use that to his advantage and salvage the situation. “Sit down and enjoy yourself,” he replied.

The crowd laughed. A sloppy grin creased Sammy’s face.

“I think I will,” the big Samoan said.

At first, the scam went like clockwork. Sammy lost every hand by making boneheaded decisions, just like Billy had instructed him to do the day before. Then came the critical part when Sammy asked the pit boss to raise the table limit. Billy gave him the chin.

“Got it,” Sammy said.

Again, the remark caused no problems. Sammy asked the dealer to summon the pit boss. A man wearing a tailored suit came to the table and introduced himself as the pit boss.

“I’m losing my ass. Can you raise the limits?” Sammy asked.

Each shift was judged by the amount of money it made. Sammy was about to put the shift ahead, or so the pit boss mistakenly thought. “How about a minimum thousand-dollar bet, maximum twenty thousand,” the pit boss suggested.

The crowd oohed and aahed. This was big time.

“Works for me,” Sammy replied.

The table had a small LED display with the table limit displayed in red digital numbers. The pit boss punched the buttons and changed the limits to $1,000–$20,000.

“Good luck,” the pit boss said.

Sammy made a twenty-thousand-dollar bet and the dealer dealt the round. Using his glasses, Billy read the dealer’s cards and saw a weak hand. With the beer bottle, he signaled Sammy to take a card. Sammy said, “Hit me,” and was dealt a ten, giving him a total of nineteen. Billy gave the signal to stand pat. Sammy said, “I’m good.”

The dealer showed his hand, a seventeen, a loser. The crowd cheered.

Within twenty minutes, Sammy had half a million dollars of the house’s money. The crowd was now five deep, with people straining to see. A cute cocktail waitress appeared and placed a hand on Sammy’s shoulder.

“Can I interest you in a drink?” she asked.

“Gimme a rum and Coke,” Sammy said.

Billy smelled a rat. The rap against the Luxor was the sparse number of cocktail waitresses, and his gut told him the cute cocktail waitress had been sent over by the pit boss. Soon she would return with a drink made with 150-proof rum and light on the Coke, aka a mickey. And before you knew it, it would be lights out for the big Samoan. It was one way to stop a winning streak, and the casinos did it constantly.

It was decision time. End the play or keep stealing until the final curtain went down. Greedy bastard that he was, he decided to keep stealing.

The cute cocktail waitress returned holding Sammy’s beverage on a tray. Billy considered tripping her but couldn’t get close enough.

The glass was huge and contained a lot of booze. The pit boss wasn’t taking chances. The bloodshed had to be stopped, one way or another.

Sammy sucked the beverage down like a runner on a hot summer day. A magical look spread across his broad face. Billy stepped back, knowing what was about to happen.

“Place your bets,” the dealer said.

As Sammy reached for chips, he froze, his eyelids flickering like a dying light bulb before closing. Pitching forward, his body hit the table and he slid to the floor. A Good Samaritan rushed to his aid and attempted to revive him.

Billy wanted to help but feared the drunk football player would slip up and alert the pit boss they were in cahoots. That left him no other choice but to bolt. Heading for the exit, he spotted the pit boss standing off to the side, nodding approvingly.