Super Con

Fifty-Eight

Saturday, eight days before the Super Bowl

Billy went to Scottsdale to work on his golf game and decided to stay at the Phoenician. The luxury property sat on two hundred and fifty manicured acres and had security guards roaming the grounds. Broken Tooth’s hired killer would have a hard time locating him here.

Saturday morning found him playing in a foursome on the resort’s championship course. His playing partners were ophthalmologists attending a convention who boasted how they were able to write off their stays if they attended a single one-hour-long seminar. Everybody had an angle they were working; for the eye doctors, it was ripping off Uncle Sam.

The golf over, he retired to his residence and ordered room service. Soon he was eating a club sandwich and watching ESPN’s SportsCenter. Next Sunday’s Super Bowl was the hot topic, and nearly every story was devoted to a player profile or an analysis of how the teams stacked up.

If the pundits were to be believed, the Rebels were in trouble. A video of Sammy passed out at Luxor had surfaced along with a story about the defense’s wild partying. This news had created a negative spin, and the bookies had made the Rebels a ten-point underdog.

Finished, he pushed aside his plate. There were no stories about Night Train punching the drunks or cheating the Mirage. It was like it had never happened. Then the announcer said a story about Night Train was coming after the commercial break. Here we go, he thought.

The commercial ended and the story began. In a somber tone, the announcer stated that Night Train had suffered an injury and was doubtful for the Super Bowl. A video played of Night Train in practice wearing a bulky knee brace. It switched to a female sportscaster interviewing the famous football player on the sidelines.

“I’m here with Night Train McClain, captain of the Rebels’ defense,” the female sportscaster said. “Night Train, can you tell us what’s wrong with your knee?”

“I hyperextended it in the first round of the playoffs, and it flared up a few days ago,” Night Train said.

“How does it affect your play?”

“My lateral movement’s not a hundred percent.”

Billy was stunned. He’d been around Night Train plenty and hadn’t seen evidence of any physical problems. The guy was in incredible shape.

“Do you think you’ll be ready for the game?” the sportscaster asked.

“I’ll have to see how my knee feels,” Night Train replied.

“Do you want to play?”

“Of course I want to play. But I’m not going to play injured. That will only hurt my team’s chances, and I’m not going to do that.”

“That sounds like a no.”

Night Train shook his head, as if to say, It’s out of my hands.

“The game won’t be the same without you,” the sportscaster said.

“I have to do what’s best for my team,” Night Train said.

The interview ended. He killed the picture and leaned back in his chair. Without Night Train in the game, the Rebels’ defense would likely sputter and give up a lot of points, and they’d probably lose. Worse, there would be no one making sure that the defense fixed the prop plays. All his hard work had gone up in flames, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

He sent a text to Cory, Morris, and Gabe, and shared the bad news.

The room’s minibar had vodka and Bloody Mary mix, and he fixed himself a drink. He normally didn’t drink this early but needed to kill the pain of losing such a huge score. It would be a long time before a scam like this came along again.

He drank the beer while staring at the blank TV. Night Train’s decision not to play didn’t make sense. Even if his knee was hurting, he could still start the game and set up the fixed plays before hobbling off the field. Night Train was a hustler, and hustlers didn’t walk away from scores that put money in their pockets.

So why was Night Train taking a powder this time? There had to be a real good reason, and he found himself thinking back to his conversation with a coked-up Choo-Choo in the john at the MGM Grand. Choo-Choo had said that the NFL had stuck a knife in their backs, and when Billy hadn’t understood, Choo-Choo had told Billy to forget the conversation had ever happened.

Stuck a knife in their backs how? This was Night Train’s and his teammates’ last game in the pros, and they were prepared to knock an injured Neil Godfrey out of the game and all but ensure a Rebels win. It was a storybook ending to five storied careers, so how could the NFL possibly screw them?

He spent a while thinking about it. The Bloody Mary was feeling like a bad idea, and he made himself a cup of coffee with the Keurig machine and let the caffeine do its thing. As the last drop touched his lips, the answer became as apparent as the nose on his face. Night Train and his pals had been breaking the rules for years, and the NFL had been letting them get away with it. Now the NFL was calling in their chits, and had told Night Train and his teammates that it was time to let the new kid on the block have the glory, and to go soft on Godfrey. To make this easier to digest, the NFL commissioner had flown to Vegas and offered Night Train and his pals lucrative jobs as sportscasters. When they’d balked, the NFL had turned ugly and blackmailed them.

That was the reason behind Night Train’s knee injury. Night Train didn’t want to end his career by besmirching himself, so he’d decided to sit on the bench and not participate.

It didn’t need to end like this. Night Train needed to be shown there was another way out, and Billy was willing to be the one to do it. But before he flew back to Vegas, there was the matter of the hired Chinese assassin looking to take him out. He called Grimes and left a message on the special agent’s voice mail. An hour later, Grimes rang him back.

“Your ears must be burning. We got him.”

“The Chinese assassin hired to kill me?”

“Yes, sir. Eight o’clock this morning. He was stopped at a traffic light at the corner of Sahara and the Strip. He tried to pull a piece and the police shot the bastard dead. You should have seen the arsenal stowed in the trunk. Two assault rifles, two handguns, and a sniper rifle. You wouldn’t have stood a chance if he’d found you.”

“You sure it was the right guy?”

“He had your photograph in his wallet. And a scorpion tattoo beneath his shirt collar. That’s his society’s secret symbol. We got the whole thing on cruiser cam. I’ll text it to you.”

“Is it safe for me to come back?”

“It’s safe. Remember, you’ve got to keep your nose clean.”

“You got it.”

Grimes sent him a text with an embedded video of the shootout. Billy watched as two Metro LVPD cops approached a car parked at the intersection with the Chinese assassin at the wheel. Like a scene out of the Wild West, everyone drew their guns, and the assassin lost.

He normally didn’t get his jollies watching people get shot to death, but the Chinese assassin had been gunning for him, so he watched it again. It was safe for him to go out in public, and he picked up the house phone and called guest services.

“How may I help you, Mr. Cunningham?” a cheery receptionist answered.

“I need a cab to the airport,” he said.