Super Con

Fifty-Three

Billy texted Night Train as he hurried down the sidewalk toward the MGM Grand.

Night Train texted back.

Wow was not the right response. Was Night Train also three sheets to the wind? Night Train and his buddies were like a pack of stray dogs; if one of them got in trouble, they all got in trouble, and Billy couldn’t imagine Sammy getting soused without his pals doing the same. He started to cross when a bus’s horn sent him scurrying back to the sidewalk.

he texted back.

Had Night Train sent Sammy to test the waters? It was a low-rent move but not a total surprise. The light turned red. He texted his reply as he crossed.

That got Night Train’s attention.

Night Train replied.

he wrote back.

Choo-Choo wasn’t drunk when he entered the MGM Grand with a pair of hookers draped on his arms, but he was flying high on coke, the evidence caked on his nostrils. Seeing Billy, Choo-Choo took a chair at the targeted blackjack table, while the hookers remained standing. The hookers had trouble written all over them. One blonde, one redhead, wearing leather miniskirts and stilettos. It occurred to Billy that these ladies hadn’t happened along. They’d been partying at Caesars with the football players and, like a pair of wolves, had attached themselves to Choo-Choo and planned to roll him once the right opportunity presented itself.

The dealer was a jovial guy with a handlebar mustache. “Place your bets.”

Choo-Choo lost the first hand and the ones that followed. Soon half his stake was gone. Billy gave the signal for Choo-Choo to ask the pit boss to raise the table limit.

“These little bets don’t interest me. Can you raise them?” Choo-Choo asked.

The pit boss wore designer threads and a silk tie. The average pit boss took down seventy-five K a year but dressed like a Fortune 50 °CEO. It came with the territory.

The pit boss took the bait and raised the table limit. Choo-Choo placed a big bet and the hand was dealt. Choo-Choo’s hand was a seventeen. Billy read the luminous paint on the dealer’s hole card and knew that the dealer had nineteen. Conventional play said that Choo-Choo should stand on his hand. Only that would have resulted in Choo-Choo losing and further depleting his stack. Billy signaled Choo-Choo to take a card.

“Hit me,” Choo-Choo said.

“But you have seventeen. Basic strategy calls for you to stand on seventeen,” the dealer said helpfully.

“I always lose on seventeen. Gimme a card.”

The dealer dealt a three, giving Choo-Choo a total of twenty. The dealer turned over his hand and acted surprised. The other players at the table congratulated Choo-Choo.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Choo-Choo said.

Billy and Choo-Choo quickly stole a million bucks. Then a bad thing happened. Choo-Choo’s hands began to tremble, and he knocked over his towering stacks of chips.

“Sir, are you all right?” the dealer asked.

It was a legitimate question, seeing that the football player looked ready to pass out. Choo-Choo took a deep breath and tried to collect himself.

“Would you like me to call the house doctor?” the dealer asked.

“No need for that. Where’s the head?” he asked.

The dealer pointed to the restrooms, which were located a few steps from the blackjack pit. Choo-Choo rose and addressed the hookers. “Mia, Roxanne, you guard my chips. Don’t let nobody touch them.”

Asking a pair of hookers to guard your chips was an invitation for disaster. Choo-Choo left the table and disappeared into the men’s room. Mia, the blonde, sat on the corner of Choo-Choo’s chair, while Roxanne, the redhead, sat on the opposite corner.

The dealer glared at them, knowing trouble when he saw it.

A minute passed. The dealer dealt cards to the other players while keeping an eye on Mia and Roxanne. Billy decided it was time to see if Choo-Choo was still among the living.

The MGM’s men’s room was known to cheats for its shoeshine stand. Miguel, the stand’s proprietor, sold information he overheard while shining shoes. Billy had done business with Miguel before and was on a first-name basis with the Cuban immigrant.

“Hey, Miguel, how’s life treating you?” he asked.

“Every day is better than the next. Do I know you?”

“Billy Cunningham.”

“Didn’t recognize you, Mr. C. How you been?”

“Can’t complain. Which stall is the football player in?”

“Third from the end. Your friend’s in rough shape.”

He banged on the stall door with his open palm. “You doing okay in there?”

The stall door cracked open. In Choo-Choo’s massive hand was a tiny spoon with a lump of white powder. “Just getting a little pick-me-up. I’m running on fumes.”

“How long have you been partying?”

“Since we got back from practice. I wouldn’t call it a party. The NFL stuck a knife in our backs, so we decided to tie one on.” Choo-Choo dug out a hit and sent it up his nostril.

“What do you mean, they stuck a knife in your backs? What did they do?”

“Night Train didn’t tell you what happened?”

“Afraid not.”

“Well shut my mouth. Let’s pretend this conversation never took place.”

Choo-Choo pocketed the drug paraphernalia and came out of the stall. He had a real spring in his step and his body language was back to being positive. Billy said, “You need to clean yourself up,” and Choo-Choo joined him at the sinks. “We’re up to one million in winnings. I’m going to end the play when it reaches two and a half million.”

“I thought we stopped at two million,” Choo-Choo said.

“Sammy came up short at Luxor. We need to make up the difference.”

“Got it.”

Choo-Choo left the restroom first. Billy spotted Miguel on his shoeshine chair, reading the sports section. He stuffed several bills in Miguel’s shirt pocket.

“Mum’s the word.”

“You got it, Mr. C,” Miguel said.

The average Strip casino had several million dollars in chips distributed among its table games, and it was management’s job to keep track of this inventory and protect the games where the chips resided. Chips were no different from cold, hard cash. A chip could be cashed in at any time, or it could be taken to another casino and cashed in. They were easy to carry and never lost their value. Money made the world go ’round, but in Las Vegas, chips talked the loudest.

Chaos described the situation Billy found upon returning to the rigged blackjack game. A small army of security guards ringed the table and was warning patrons to stay back. Chips lay scattered beneath the table, and the dealer was busily picking them up. Mia and Roxanne lay facedown on the floor, their blouses torn. Each had a burly security guard pinning them down. Billy came up behind Choo-Choo and gave him a nudge.

“What’s going on here?” Choo-Choo said under his breath.

“Looks like your friends tried to steal your chips, so the casino put the heavy on them,” Billy whispered back. “I’d suggest you disassociate yourself from them when the cops come.”

“I’ll tell the cops I met them at the bar. What about the money I won?”

“The dealer will hold your chips for you. Once the dust settles, cash out and leave.”

“I really messed up bringing them here, didn’t I?”

Billy pulled him away from the table and the security cameras’ watchful eyes. The top of Billy’s head barely reached Choo-Choo’s chin, but he didn’t let that temper what he was about to say. “What’s wrong with you guys? I give you a chance to make a huge score, and you get messed up and call some sleazy hookers? I thought you were smart. I was wrong.”

“It’s not like that,” Choo-Choo said. “The NFL fucked us. We had to blow off steam.”

“You should have done it on somebody else’s dime.”

Choo-Choo acted ashamed, not that Billy cared. The damage was done, and all the apologies in the world were not going to fix things. He left the casino without saying good-bye.