Super Con

Sixty

A man’s foot stopped the elevator doors from closing all the way.

“Drop the knife and put your arms in the air,” a voice said.

The doors opened, and Grimes entered the car aiming his gun. The bellman was no fool and let the knife slip from his fingers before lifting his arms over his head. Billy spied a colorful scorpion tattoo beneath his starched shirt collar.

“You know this guy?” Grimes asked.

“Believe it or not, he’s Chinese and an assassin,” Billy said. “I guess the first one was a decoy. Be careful, he’s got a gun in his pants pocket and the knife is filled with poison.”

“Thanks for the warning. Okay, friend, step out of the car, real slow.”

The bellman stepped out of the car, and Grimes stuck his hand in the bellman’s pocket and relieved him of his weapon. He had the bellman put his hands behind his back so he could cuff him. Then he read the bellman his rights, which he recited from memory. It was all Billy could do not to give the special agent a hug, but he didn’t think the gesture would be appreciated.

“How did you spot us?” he asked.

“I’ve developed a sixth sense whenever you’re in a casino,” Grimes said. “The hairs on the back of my neck go straight up. Lucky for you, huh?”

“I’ll say. I could have been ripping off the joint.”

“Get the hell out of here,” Grimes said.

The Montecristo Cigar Bar was designed for private conversation. A hostess escorted Billy to a private room called the Vault, where Night Train sat on a leather couch puffing on a cigar and watching a wall of TVs. The room was otherwise empty, and Billy pulled up a chair.

“Cigars are bad for your health,” he said.

“Haven’t you heard? This is my last game. Might as well start enjoying myself.” Night Train picked up a box from the table and offered his guest one. Billy accepted and lit up.

“Tasty. What are they?”

“They’re called PGs. They’re from the Dominican Republic.”

He blew a smoke ring and watched it rise to the ceiling. “It took me a while to put the pieces together. Sometime after the playoffs, the NFL asked you to take it easy on Neil Godfrey, who’s playing injured. That would let your opponent win, because Godfrey can pick you apart if he has the time. You didn’t like it and started hanging out at Caesars to blow off steam.”

Night Train puffed on his cigar and said nothing.

“The NFL commissioner flew in to Vegas and had a meeting at your villa. The commish offered you sports-casting jobs if you agreed to throw the game, only you said no dice.”

“Who told you about the sports-casting jobs?”

“I found the contracts in the garbage in your villa. You thought the whole thing was settled, but then the NFL did something to you and your teammates that wasn’t right. It made you so angry that you threw a party at Caesars with hookers and blow and plenty of booze. Normally, you’d never do something that reckless before the Super Bowl, but this situation was different. The NFL fucked you, and you were mad as hell about it.”

“You don’t miss much,” Night Train said.

“Like I said, it took me a while to piece it together. But I’m still missing the important part. I don’t know what the NFL did that made you guys blow up. What do they have, photographs of you robbing a bank?”

“Worse. They kept files on us dating back to our rookie years, stuff so old that we’d forgotten about it. If we don’t do as they want, the stuff gets leaked to the press.”

“Must be bad.”

“It is. When we entered the league, the NFL let us think we could do whatever we pleased, that there were no consequences. But they were writing everything down in case they needed to use it as leverage someday.”

They smoked their cigars and watched the college basketball games playing on the TVs. Night Train had gotten away with crap his whole life, not realizing there were strings attached. Everyone needed to have principles, even thieves. Somehow, Night Train had lost sight of that.

“You ever play sports?” Night Train asked.

“I was in the math club,” he said.

“I played football the whole time I was growing up. Pop Warner, junior high, high school, college. I loved every game. Then I got drafted. My first year in the NFL was a real wake-up call. The amateurs were about winning and losing. Not the pros. It was all about TV ratings.”

“You’re saying the pros are fixed?”

“The games are scripted. Not all of them, but enough to drive ratings.”

“Do the owners know this?”

“Hah. It was their idea.”

“You’ve lost me. Why would the owners do that?”

“Because they have a revenue share with the TV networks that broadcast the games. CBS, NBC, ESPN, the NFL Network, they split the money they make with the owners. The amount is supposed to be a secret, except the Green Bay Packers released it in a financial report. Each team’s owner gets a quarter billion dollars a year just from the networks.”

He was starting to see the picture and nodded.

“Like I said, it’s supposed to be a secret,” Night Train said. “TV ratings drive revenue for the owners, so it’s in their best interest to broadcast games that generate big ratings.”

“How many games are you talking about?”

“It’s different every year. The season starts, and the teams play for a few weeks, and the NFL looks at the ratings. Maybe Buffalo has an explosive running back who’s breaking all sorts of records. Or the Dolphins’ quarterback is on fire. The NFL looks for good story lines, and those are the teams that get the help. Happens every year.”

“What kind of help?”

“A ref calls back a crucial play during a tight game. Or a placekicker is told to miss an extra point. I played a game where the other team’s defense had microphones hidden in their helmets that picked up our offense’s plays. The referees could hear static coming out of the helmets but ignored it.”

“Did you ever do that?”

Night Train gave him a look. “I’ve shaved points a few times. But I’ve never gone into the tank.”

“You’ve never deliberately lost a game.”

“Never.”

“But why would the NFL do this? The Super Bowl is the most watched sporting event in the world. People are going to tune in regardless. They don’t need to fix it.”

“That’s not how the NFL sees it. Neil Godfrey is a rising star. Time to pass the torch and make him a superstar. It will be good for ratings next season.”

“Is that what the commissioner told you?”

“In so many words. When we said no, the NFL manufactured broadcasting jobs for us. When we said no to that, the front office leaked a story to ESPN saying we were retiring.”

“Weren’t you?”

“It was up in the air. Our contracts were up, but there were plenty of teams that would sign us. Once the NFL leaked the story, the decision was out of our hands. No team will sign a player who’s thinking about spending Sundays mowing the lawn. Our careers were done.”

“But you still said no.”

“Yes, we did. That’s when the NFL told us they had files with every bad thing we’d ever done. If we didn’t play along, they’d release stuff to the media and screw us over. It made me feel so shitty that I put a brace on my knee so I could sit out the game and not be a part of it.”

It was as ugly as it got, and they stopped talking for a while.

“What’s Godfrey’s deal?” Billy asked. “Is he a phony?”

“Hell no. Neil Godfrey’s legit. He’s the next big superstar. That’s why the owners want him to shine this Sunday.”

“Can the Rebels’ defense stop Godfrey if you’re not playing?”

“Probably not.”

“So you’re still throwing the game even if you sit out.”

The words were slow to sink in. When they did, Night Train shifted uncomfortably on the couch. He had allowed a group of filthy-rich owners to compromise his principles so they could line their pockets with gold, and it was tearing him up.

“Makes you feel like a slave, doesn’t it?” he said.

“Watch it,” Night Train warned.

“You were a slave the day you signed your first contract; you just didn’t know it.”

“Shut up, or I’ll rip your fucking head off.”

“What would your old man say if he knew?”

“Leave my daddy out of this, or I’ll hurt you. I mean that.”

“What are you getting in return for selling out? A crummy broadcasting job? Does that come with another script with your lines spelled out for you? You’re at the end of your career. Be your own man, and walk away on your own terms. Make your old man proud.”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“Do it for him. You won’t regret it.”

Night Train backhanded him in the mouth. It was like having a door slammed in his face, and Billy tumbled out of his chair. His head banged against the floor and he momentarily blacked out. When he came to, the couch beside him was empty.

He left the cigar bar rubbing his chin. The people he cared about were ending conversations by smacking him in the face. He was only being honest with them, which maybe was the problem. The truth hurt, so they took their pain out on him.

But had he broken through? Would Night Train see reason and not sit the game out? He didn’t know Night Train well enough to hazard a guess.

He walked through the lobby of Caesars. The promenade of shops was lined with windows overlooking the hotel swimming pool, and he spotted the figure of a man sprinting across the grass, his legs pumping furiously. It was Night Train, and he was running like a man possessed.