Super Con

Sixty-One

Thursday, three days before the Super Bowl

He went into seclusion in his condo at Turnberry. Each morning before hitting the exercise room, he tuned in to ESPN to hear the latest scuttle about the Super Bowl. The Rebels defense’s wild times at Caesars continued to be a hot topic. Every day, a new tantalizing piece of information emerged, with stories about all-night parties, illegal drugs, and high-priced call girls. The Rebels were now a twelve-point underdog, and the announcers were spending more time discussing this year’s star-studded halftime show than the game itself.

He was lacing up his sneakers when there was a news flash from the Rebels’ practice facility. A breathless female sportscaster filled the screen. Next to her stood his old pal Night Train. Night Train had his uniform on, and his brow was beaded in sweat.

“I’m here with Night Train McClain, captain of the Rebels’ defense,” the sportscaster said. “Night Train, I’m told you have some news to share with our viewers.”

“We took the brace off last night and tested my knee. It’s still a little tender, but I should be good to go,” Night Train said.

“That’s fantastic. Will you be starting on Sunday?”

“I told Coach I was ready, so yeah, I’m starting.”

“Any truth behind the rumors that this will be your last game?”

“I’m not thinking that far ahead.”

“Your team is a heavy underdog with the odds makers. How do you feel about that?”

“We’re going to give it our best shot and see what happens.”

“Good luck on Sunday.”

Every interview Night Train gave to the media ended with him flashing his famous smile. But not this time. Today, he was all business, and he gave the camera a cold shoulder before walking away. He acted like a man with something to prove.

Billy killed the picture with the remote. It was all he could do not to start dancing. He used the landline to call downstairs to the exercise room and speak to Bridgette, his personal trainer. “Hey, Bridgette, it’s Billy. I’m afraid I have to cancel this morning’s session,” he said.

“Would you like to reschedule for tomorrow?” Bridgette asked.

“I’ll let you know.”

Going outside onto the balcony, he found a shady spot and waited fifteen minutes before placing a call to Night Train on his cell phone and getting sent to voice mail. “I saw you on ESPN. Glad you’re feeling better. Let me know if our deal’s back on.” A minute later, he got an answer in the form of a text. Can’t talk. Deal’s on. Sorry I smacked you.

The deal was on. It made every bad thing that had happened in the past two weeks seem worthwhile. His next call was to Cory and Morris. They’d gone to Cancun to work on their tans and had e-mailed him photographs of the bikini-clad women they’d met on the beach.

“Hey, Billy, long time no talk,” Cory answered. “How’s it going?”

“Great. You guys still hanging in Mexico?”

“We are. It’s boring. You’ve seen one perfect body, you’ve seen them all.”

“Did you scalp those fifty-yard-line tickets for the Super Bowl?”

“We’re trying to. We put them on Craigslist.”

“Don’t sell them. Get on the next plane to Phoenix. The fix is on.”

“It’s on? That’s awesome.”

“One more question. Is your web still good?” A web was a network of gamblers spread around the country who placed bets on fixed sporting events. By using a web, a cheat could place large sums on an event and spread the pain around without drawing heat to himself.

“They’re good,” Cory said. “Do you want them to bet on the prop bets we discussed?”

“Yes. We’ve got a new bet to add. The Rebels to win.”

Cory howled disapprovingly. “Have you watched TV recently? The Rebels’ defense is like something out of Animal House. They’re going to get wiped off the field.”

“No they’re not.”

“You know something I don’t?”

“Yes I do.”

“This is huge. How much do you want to bet on them?”

“The farm,” he said.

His next call was to Victor Boswell. Victor ran a bowling alley in Sacramento that acted as a front for the family’s illegal activities. It was here that Billy found Victor working the front desk, the thunder of crashing pins filling the background.

“How’s it going, Billy? Did things work out with the super con?”

“Afraid not. We got caught.”

“Let me put you on hold. Kat, take over for me.” Victor came back on the line a few moments later. “You got caught? Are you calling me from jail?”

“I managed to wiggle my way out of it. I’ll tell you the bloody details over a drink someday. I wanted to pass along a hot tip. You should bet on the Rebels this weekend.”

Victor whistled into the phone. “Can they make the spread?”

“Screw the spread. The Rebels are going to win the game.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

“I’m looking at the Vegas odds on my computer,” Victor said. “The Rebels are a huge underdog. The Vegas bookmakers have been right in picking the winner for fifteen of the last sixteen Super Bowls. They’re not dummies, Billy.”

“I didn’t say the bookmakers were dummies. They just don’t know the deal for this particular game. If you don’t want in, just say so, and I’ll call someone else. No hard feelings.”

“Of course I want in. I just want to make sure this is on the level. What do you want us to cover? I know plenty of bookies in Northern California we can hit, and I can send my kids to Reno and Lake Tahoe and have them place wagers with the sports books there.”

“That works. I’ve got Vegas covered, and my guys have a web that will cover the bookies in the rest of the country. We’re going to make a killing, Victor.”

“I would say so. Let me jump on this. Thanks for thinking of me.”

“Anytime, my friend.”

His last call was to Grimes. He would have liked to be in Phoenix this weekend to make sure nothing went wrong with the rigged coin toss, but there was a chance that his face might show up on a camera during the game, and that would look bad, considering he was going to testify in front of a judge about the game being fixed. The smart call would be to stay home, and he decided to rent a suite at a fancy Strip hotel and party with the members of his crew not at the game, so they could dine on great food and drink the best booze. But before he made preparations, he needed to be sure no more men with scorpion tattoos were looking for him.

A receptionist answered Grimes’s line. The special agent was in a meeting and could not be disturbed. Billy told her it was urgent. Grimes called him back within seconds.

“Lay it on me,” Grimes said.

“Is it safe for me to leave my condo?”

“It’s safe. We interrogated the bellman and got him to confess. The first hit man was a decoy, just like you thought. The bellman was the real assassin. I took the precaution of putting Broken Tooth in solitary so he can’t make any more phone calls and hire another killer.”

“You’re my hero.”

“Up yours, Cunningham.”

Billy tried to end the call but Grimes stopped him.

“Before you step foot outside of your building, I want you to promise me that you’ll keep your nose clean until Broken Tooth is charged with trying to fix the game,” the special agent said.

“I already told you I would,” he said.

“I want to hear you say it again.”

“I promise to stay out of trouble until Broken Tooth is charged.”

“Why are the hairs standing up on the back of my neck?”

“Maybe it was something you ate,” he said.