Take Down

SEVENTEEN

Driving down Boulder Highway with the desert wind stinging his face, Billy remembered that Crunchie still had his Droid. Without a cell phone, he could not communicate with his crew, nor could any of them call him.

He needed to change that. There was a Verizon store located in practically every strip center in town, and his eyes searched for their distinct white and red sign. He soon found a store on the east side of the highway by Nellis Boulevard. He parked in the empty lot and went inside.

The store was a gallery, the merchandise displayed in glass cases as if precious works of art inside a museum. The manager, an alert young woman with dyed-red hair flecked with white frost and fingernails painted in a rainbow of colors, seemed eager to help him.

“I lost my cell phone last night, and need a new one,” he explained.

She typed his name and address into her computer, working off the driver’s license he handed her. She studied the photo on the license, then gave him a hard look.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Can I see you without the shades?” she asked.

He didn’t like to play the sympathy card but didn’t see that he had much choice if he wanted to get a new phone. Her mouth dropped open as the shades came off.

“Oh my God-were you mugged?” she asked.

“Yeah. They took everything.”

“I can’t fix your face, but I can get you a new phone.” She stared at her computer screen. “You purchased a Droid Maxx last year and signed up for Backup Assistant. That means I can transfer your contact information from your old phone to your new phone. The Maxx you purchased also has a factory data-reset option. That will let me wipe out the information on your old phone once the new phone is up and running.”

“You can really do that?”

“Sure can. What kind of phone do you want?”

“Another Droid Maxx.”

He handed her a credit card. Had he gone to a Verizon store last night and gotten a new phone, the contact info on his old phone would now be wiped out. Live and learn. Soon he had a brand new phone with all of his contact info installed. The manager was sharp and knew how to think on her feet. As he signed the credit card slip, he asked if he could call her sometime. She wrote her personal number on the back of a business card and gave it to him.

“My name’s Cassidy. I’m off on weekends,” she said.

Cassidy had passed the first interview. If he made it out of this situation unscathed, he planned to give her a call. Over dinner and drinks he’d find out if she had moral issues with robbing casinos. If not, he could see her being a valuable addition to his crew.

Back on the highway, he decided to call Travis, and got patched into voice mail. “Hey, Travis, it’s me. I had a brainstorm and bought a new cell phone. I broke the news to the others. Do me a favor, and check up on them. I’m worried about Gabe.”

He bit his lip, wanting to say something that would end the message on a high note. He heard a loud beep and realized he’d hit a dead zone and the connection had ended.

He couldn’t win for losing, and concentrated on the drive.

Pulling into the Galaxy’s valet area, he grabbed his garment bag off the passenger seat and got out. A pair of black-and-whites were parked by the entrance, their bubble lights flashing. Cops were rarely seen inside the casinos, the belief being they were bad for business. When they did show up, it was through a back entrance or underground garage.

“Last name?” the valet asked, writing up his stub.

“Pico. Who called the five-oh?” Billy asked.

“Sorry, I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

Something unpleasant had happened, and Billy was not going to venture inside without knowing why the cops were there. He slipped a twenty into the pocket of the valet’s vest.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?” the valet asked.

“Do reporters drive Maseratis?”

“About an hour ago a guy wearing a motorcycle helmet robbed the cage. He ran out with a bag of money, jumped on his Harley, and took off.”

“How much did he get?”

“A hundred grand. Nice work if you can get it, huh?”

“You’re telling me.”

At the front desk, he presented the fake ID in Thomas Pico’s name and learned he was staying in a luxury suite on the concierge level on the twenty-eighth floor of the first tower.

Taking the elevator up, he thought about the desperado who’d ripped the joint off. He’d known several guys who’d pulled this stunt; to a man, they were two-bit losers who’d reached the end of the line and had resorted to sticking guns in innocent people’s faces to make a lousy score. He inserted the room key to his suite and entered. It was two thousand square feet of excess, the walls decorated with iconic movie stills from the days when the world was black and white. Crunchie sat on a leather couch in his cowboy attire, wearing an ugly scowl. The cage had gotten robbed on his watch, and Doucette had no doubt given him hell for it.

“Well, look who’s here,” the old grifter said. “Didn’t I say three, asshole?”

“Traffic was a bitch,” he said.

“Traffic’s always a bitch. I’ve got something for you.” Crunchie pulled Billy’s cell phone from his breast pocket and tossed it to him. “I copied down the names of everyone in your address book, just to be safe. Right when I was done, the phone went blank.”

“Imagine that.”

“Don’t pull any more shit. Now, where have you been?”

Billy wasn’t about to tell him the truth. “I was getting laid,” he said.

“You’re a horny little fucker, aren’t you?”

“It beats being sterile.”

“This is getting off to a bad start. I think you need a little attitude adjustment.” To the punishers he said, “Kick his ass.”

Ike and T-Bird sat on the other couch, watching a mindless game show. They were sitting so close, their shoulders were touching. They rose, their hands clenched into fists.

“You guys want to flip a coin?” Billy asked.

The beating wasn’t as bad this time around. They worked him mostly in the gut and around the rib cage, adding more bruises to the assortment he was already sporting. Tomorrow morning he’d piss some blood, and by tomorrow night the pain would be a memory.

A chair was produced and he sank into it. A cell phone rang. Crunchie pulled one from his pocket, said, “It’s Doucette,” and went onto the balcony to take the call.

The punishers stood next to the balcony’s glass slider, the magnificent Vegas skyline turning them into movie stars. Billy thanked them for not messing up his face.

“Were you really getting laid?” Ike asked.

“What else would I be doing?” he lied.

They dug that. He reminded himself that Ike was the smart one. If he got on Ike’s good side, T-Bird would tag along. The dumb ones always did.

“What’s with the cop cars outside?” he asked.

Ike took the floor, happy to talk. “Round one o’clock, this skinny dude wearing a motorcycle helmet walks up to the cage, sticks a popgun in the cashier’s face, and steals a hundred grand. Dude flies out the side door, jumps on his bike, and he’s gone.”

“That’s a lot of money. Did he steal it in cash or chips?” he asked.

“Cash.”

“Did he bring a bag with him?” he asked.

“Yeah. Flipped it to the cashier, had her fill it up. He came prepared.”

Casinos got robbed every day, mostly by their own staff. Dealers stole chips off the games and hid them in secret pockets on their uniforms called subs, while technicians filched handfuls of silver dollars while emptying out slot machines. Thefts committed by outsiders were different. Usually it came in the form of the thief stealing a woman’s purse, a bucket of coins, or a man’s wallet. What Ike had just described was neither of these things. Or perhaps, it was a combination of both.

The door to the suite banged open, and Shaz made her entrance, dressed in a glittering hostess costume and a fake casino smile.

“Where’s old smelly?” she asked.

“On the balcony talking to the boss,” Ike said.

“Has he figured out how we got robbed?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” Ike said.

“That son of a bitch is out there, having a laugh at our expense,” she said. “If I ever get my hands on that skinny bastard, I’ll kill him. You’re a thief-tell me how we catch this guy.”

She was looking at Billy as she spoke these words. It occurred to him that the theft would be figured out eventually, either by a smart cop or a gaming agent. It was too obvious not to be. Better for him to do it, and get something in return, he decided.

“I can catch him, if you want,” he said.

“Aren’t we being cute.”

“I can.”

“Don’t fuck with me, you little shit.”

“I’ll figure it out in ten minutes.”

She drew closer, her nose sniffing the air. “You smell like perfume. What have you been doing, banging one of your babes?”

“You want me to help you or not?”

“So sensitive. Men are stupid when they’re getting pussy. Yes, I want you to help me.”

“Show me the surveillance tape, and I’ll tell you how to find your thief.”

“You can do that?”

He nodded. He was 99 percent certain of how the theft had gone down; seeing the surveillance tape would only confirm it. Shaz produced a smartphone and punched an app. A surveillance tape of Galaxy’s cage played on the small screen. A skinny motorcycle dude wearing a helmet with a black visor came up to the bars and stuck a.45 in the face of an older female cashier with a beehive hairdo. A cloth bag was pushed through the bars, and the cashier stuffed it with money and passed the bag back through. The motorcycle dude disappeared, and the cashier sounded the alarm.

He looked up into Shaz’s cold blue eyes. “Cashier’s involved.”

“Give me a break. You can tell that by watching one time?”

“It’s obvious, if you know what to look for.”

“Show me.”

Watching the tape again, he said, “There are three bill drawers inside the cage. The drawer directly beneath the bars contains singles, fives, tens. The next drawer contains twenties and fifties, and the last drawer contains hundreds. Watch the cashier when she’s given the bag. She goes directly to the hundreds drawer. Another cashier would have dumped stacks of twenties into the bag, and only taken the hundreds if your thief had told her to. Your cashier’s part of it.”

Shaz lowered the phone and looked at him, still not quite there.

“The tip-off was the score. You can’t steal a hundred grand without inside help,” he said.

“So you knew it before I showed you the tape.”

“I had a good idea. The tape confirmed what I knew.”

“Why didn’t that asshole Crunchie see this?”

“Maybe he needs a new pair of glasses.”

She let out a mean little laugh, leaned in as if to kiss him; instead she sank her teeth into his earlobe and tugged it hard, sending him to the floor. A different kind of mating ritual, he supposed. Going to the slider, she banged on it with her fist. Crunchie came inside, red-faced from the tongue-lashing he’d just received.

“Pretty boy figured it out,” she said. “We need to tell Marcus.”

The look on Crunchie’s face said he wanted to kill Billy. Shaz went to the door and the old grifter followed her liked a whipped pup. She turned before going out.

“Stay here,” she told the punishers, “and don’t take your eyes off this little bastard.”