Take Down

EIGHT

The houses in Gabe’s subdivision looked the same, and Billy drove around until he passed the empty guardhouse and knew he was home free. He connected with Las Vegas Boulevard, the Strip’s casinos lighting up the northern horizon with the intensity of a nuclear detonation.

He did the limit, deep in thought. He’d never impersonated a hedge fund manager before, and he needed to find out what their deal was. He pulled into the Fatburger across the street from the Monte Carlo and was soon sitting in the parking lot, eating greasy onion rings while studying photos of hedge fund managers on his Droid that he’d pulled up using Google Images. To a man, it was a boy’s club of soft-looking white guys with spiffy haircuts and teeth as white as piano keys. Blazers and gray slacks were the norm, the shirts button-down.

Preppies.

By clicking on the images, he was taken to several online newspaper bios, which he read to get a feel for the lifestyle. Hedge fund managers were übersmart, with MBAs from Wharton, NYU, and Ivy League programs. On a whim, he typed “Thomas Pico” into Google, and discovered there were no photos on the Internet of the man he was impersonating.

Beautiful.

He got out, popped the trunk, and rummaged through his box of disguises containing wigs, glasses, ball caps, and several sports jackets. He tried on a pair of black eyeglasses and a blazer with gold buttons that screamed conservative, combed down his spiked hair with a stiff brush, and had a look in the driver window’s reflection.

That worked.

Back in the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and filled his pockets with stacks of hundred-dollar bills that he planned to play with tonight in Galaxy’s high-roller salon.

He left the Fatburger lot thinking that only suckers walked around with this much cash, and laughed out loud.

One a.m. and the Strip was jamming. He drove the Strip whenever possible, the glittering casinos and blinding neon never failing to flip on the pleasure switch in his head. Vegas made Providence feel so small and dirty that he’d never wanted to go back, and if his old man hadn’t croaked one dreary Christmas a few years ago, he never would have.

His old man had decided to die at home in his favorite chair, hooked up to an oxygen tank, an unlit cigarette dangling from his parched lips. With each passing hour, his old man’s breathing grew more tortured. Knowing the end was near, he’d told his son to get a cardboard box from the closet in the hall. Billy got the box and saw that it was filled with love letters from a woman that was not his mother. Among the letters was a newspaper clipping showing him being presented with an award that he’d gotten during his brief stint at MIT.

Back in the living room, he’d asked his old man what he wanted done with the stuff.

“Burn it,” his old man said. “All of it.”

The day after his old man croaked, he’d done just that.

Galaxy was in his sights. It was a boxy monstrosity consisting of two mammoth hotel towers and a casino squeezed onto a tiny plot of land. As he navigated the winding entrance, floodlights lit up the night sky as if at a movie premiere. To make it in Vegas, a casino had to be themed, the more outlandish the better. Galaxy’s theme was the golden age of Tinseltown, and a medley of popular movie scores played over hidden speakers.

He tossed his keys to the valet and headed inside.

The lobby was designed to resemble the Beverly Hills Hotel, with a circular marble floor, inset ceiling, and cut-glass chandelier. On every table, fresh cut flowers. A man wearing a tux played show tunes on a baby grand piano that made Billy want to dance.

A short hallway led to a casino several football fields in length. Entering, he passed beneath a smoky dome ensconced in the ceiling where an eye-in-the-sky camera recorded his picture and ran it against a facial-recognition program that identified twenty-six points on his face; the profile was then run against a database of known cheaters. To beat the system, all he needed to do was erase three of those points. By wearing glasses, ball caps, changing his hairstyle, or wearing false teeth, he could walk through any casino unchallenged.

There was more to beat than just the cameras. Floor people also studied the customers. Some were ex-cops with a gift for grift. Billy beat them by pretending to be an ignorant tourist and asking dumb questions. Hustlers called this playing the Iggy, and he did it as well as anyone. The high-roller salon was tucked away in the rear of the casino and had a pair of carved white doors at the entrance. As he turned the knob to enter, he reminded himself that his name was Thomas Pico and that he was a hedge fund manager from New York.

The salon was a cozy space with thick gold carpets and muted lighting. By the entrance, a blond she-devil manned an antique desk. This was the salon’s VIP hostess, whose trust he needed to gain before he ripped the place off. Her nameplate said “L. Shazam.” It fit her.

“Is Ed Butler here?” he asked politely.

“Ed’s off this week,” she replied. “Perhaps I can help you.”

“Ed comped me at the Bellagio a few years ago. I’d heard he’d moved over here.”

“Let me see if you’re in our system. Please make yourself comfortable.”

He took a chair beside the desk and passed her his fake ID. A cocktail waitress glided toward him carrying a tray with a single flute of champagne. The drink was offered and accepted. “Here you are,” the hostess said, tapping her computer screen with her fingernail. “I see that the last time you played at the Bellagio, you were extended a hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit. Were you hoping for that same line of credit with us tonight?”

“I just wanted to say hello to Ed,” he said, sipping his drink. “He probably doesn’t remember me. It’s been a while.”

She politely returned his ID. She’d seen enough about him to know that he was worth stealing from whatever casino he was staying at. “Where are you staying in town, Mr. Pico?”

“It’s Tom. I’m at the Encore.”

“Are they treating you well?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Is there something not to your liking?”

“They usually put me in a suite. Not this time.”

“We have some of the most luxurious accommodations in Las Vegas. Some people say we’ve redefined luxury. I’d be happy to comp you a penthouse suite.”

“I’ll stay where I am. But thanks anyway.”

“Are you a music fan? I can get you front-row seats to the Eagles concert this weekend. It’s been sold out for months, but I have tickets left.”

She wasn’t going to let him go without a fight. Billy tipped his champagne flute, as if to say, Well done.

“Just say yes, and they’re yours,” she added.

Rich people never hurried, and Billy took another sip of champagne before responding.

“Can I bring my friends?” he asked.

She nodded, thinking she had him. “How many are in your party?”

“There are seven of us. I brought my team to Las Vegas to celebrate.”

“Your team? Are you in professional sports?”

“I’m a hedge fund manager. They work for me.”

“I don’t see why not.” From her desk drawer she removed a sleeve containing tickets to the upcoming Eagles concert and handed seven front-row seats to him. “Compliments of Galaxy. Would you be interested in staying awhile and playing? Our staff is very accommodating. I can also offer you a ten percent return on any losses you might incur.”

Billy tucked the tickets into his jacket. This was great; not only was he going to rob them blind, but they were going to pay for him to go see one of his favorite bands.

“You know, I might just take you up on that,” he said.

“Splendid. What’s your pleasure?”

“Blackjack.”

She rose and came around the desk, her gold evening dress touching the floor. She was tall and statuesque with a body that could have stopped traffic, the kind of ridiculously beautiful woman that Las Vegas had been built around. She touched the sleeve of his blazer and gave it a little tug. He could not remember a casino employee ever making physical contact with him before. It was out of character, and had he not been absorbed with staring at her jaw-dropping breasts, it might have dawned on him that something was not right.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“It’s Lady. Lady Shazam. Everyone calls me Shaz,” she replied.

“That’s a cool name. Where you from?”

“Southern Cal. Follow me.”

They entered the high-roller salon. The champagne flute was still in Billy’s hand, and he took another swallow, having no idea that his life was about to turn horribly upside down.