Take Down

TWENTY-THREE

Blackjack had always been a popular game, more so after the movie 21 depicted a crew of fun-loving math whizzes taking down Vegas. The movie was typical Hollywood horseshit, but that hadn’t stopped scores of people from teaching themselves how to count cards and descending upon Sin City believing they could beat the house.

Billy spotted several counters in the blackjack pit. Their body language gave them away. Hunched over, never drinking anything stronger than a Coke, they stared at their cards with the intensity of accountants doing an audit. The casinos had developed measures to send them home broke, only they were usually too busy counting to notice all their chips were gone.

He came to the second-to-last table in the pit. The dealer was a woman with perfect posture who slid the cards out of the plastic dealing shoe at a rapid pace. The faster the game was dealt, the more money the house made.

He passed the table without slowing down. The woman at third base was a major speed bump. Mid-thirties, with a great face hidden behind librarian glasses and a blond wig, and a body that looked just right. He couldn’t remember seeing her around before. A newbie.

He parked himself twenty feet past the table to watch her play. To determine if she was cheating, he counted the number of hands the dealer dealt, divided by the number of times she won. She was winning more than 50 percent of the time, which was what marked cards gave you. Crunchie had called it right. She was a Lady Picasso.

He kept watching, hoping to catch her go into her purse and get the substance. Every painter had a little quirk that was unique. Some only marked aces, while others marked ten-value cards. The amount of substance they applied to the card was also unique. Some painters used small marks, while others preferred the larger variety.

Lady Picasso unclasped her purse. Out came a lipstick, which she applied generously to her lips. As she returned the lipstick, her hand stayed a little too long.

Busted.

When her hand came out, her fingers were spread wide and looked frozen. She’d put the substance on all four fingers so she could mark four cards in succession without going back to her purse. It was a nice touch, something he hadn’t seen before.

During the next two rounds, she marked four ten-valued cards that were dealt to her. To the eye-in-the-sky it had to look above suspicion, her fingertips lightly brushing the back of the cards she wished to mark. In reality, she was turning the deck into an open book.

“Guess who,” Ike said, handing Billy the cell phone.

“Is the bitch cheating or not?” Shaz asked.

“I’m not sure. Are you filming her?” he asked.

“Of course we’re filming her. The video’s inconclusive.”

Billy’s appreciation of Lady Picasso grew. She’d honed her cheating to the degree where the surveillance camera could not discern exactly what she was doing. That kind of skill was a rarity, and he found himself wanting to get to know this woman.

“Let me watch her some more,” he said.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Shaz said. “I’m going to tell Ike and T-Bird to pull her in the back and frisk her. If she’s got a substance in her purse, she’s going down.”

“You’re going to kill her?”

“That’s right. It’s how we deal with people that steal from us. Put Ike back on.”

He returned the phone to Ike. Lady Picasso was about to join Ricky Boswell in the closet unless he intervened. He wasn’t sure how to do that without getting himself killed as well, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try.

A slinky cocktail waitress balancing a tray walked past. Liking what she saw, she gave Billy a flirtatious wink. He stuffed a hundred-dollar bill into the tip glass on her tray, then whispered in her ear. She acted mildly disappointed, as if hoping he was in the mood for something else.

“Which seat?” the cocktail waitress asked.

“Third base, second-to-last table,” Billy said.

“Will you call me sometime?”

He said yes, and she gave him her number.

“I’ll take care of it,” the cocktail waitress said.

The cocktail waitress walked up to the table and stood behind Lady Picasso’s chair. She asked if anyone needed a drink. Several players said yes and gave her their orders. As she finished writing the orders down, she glanced Billy’s way. He mouthed the words do it.

The cocktail waitress was right-handed. She transferred her drink tray to her left hand, then deliberately ran her right thumb down Lady Picasso’s back, her thumb following the line of the spine. Gamblers called this the brush. Back in the old days, pit bosses would give players they suspected of cheating the brush as a courtesy. Move on, or else.

Lady Picasso sat up straight in her chair. Four-alarm sirens were sounding in her head, telling her to run. Standing abruptly, she left her winnings on the table and made a beeline for the lady’s restroom located behind the blackjack pit. Billy was impressed. Most cheaters would have stuffed their chips into their pockets before departing and wasted valuable time.

“Hey-where’d she go?” Ike said, just off the phone.

“I have no idea,” he lied.

Ike stood on his tiptoes, his height letting him look over the crowd. “I see her. Come on, T, let’s nail her ass.”

The punishers crossed the pit with the swagger of NFL bounty hunters preparing to cripple a quarterback. Billy followed, keeping his distance. Lady Picasso had run to the john for a reason other than her bladder being full. It was transformation time. She would lose the wig and the glasses, turn the top she was wearing inside out, and throw away her pumps for a pair of flats in her handbag, where she also kept a much smaller purse, the handbag getting stuffed in the trash. Everything about her would look different when she stepped on the casino floor again.

Only two things were capable of ruining her escape. The first was if Ike and T-Bird managed to recognize her. Perhaps she had a distinct mole on her face, or a tattoo on her neck. Those things couldn’t be erased and had done in more than one cheater.

The second would be her reaction to seeing Ike and T-Bird when she came out. They were scary looking even in their new clothes. If she stopped in her tracks, brought her hand to her mouth, or displayed any of the telltale signs that guilty people showed, she’d be history. He’d done what he could; now, it was up to the gods.

He stopped by a bank of slot machines and watched the scene unfold. He put Lady Picasso’s odds of making it out of the casino unscathed at fifty-fifty. There weren’t many games in this town where you could get even money, and he liked her chances.

Lady Picasso left the restroom a much different person than the one who’d gone in. Her blond hair was now brunette and done up in a bun, the glasses were history, her shoes had turned into a pair of embroidered slip-ons, and her blouse had changed color. The only thing the same were her pants, a pair of stylish black capris. The punishers hardly gave her a glance.

Her escape was textbook. Not too fast, not too slow, don’t run if you’re not being chased, eyes straight ahead, a dead cell phone pressed to her ear as she sailed through the casino. Once outside, she’d either hit the street running or grab a cab, never to be seen again.

You rock, girl, he thought.

A scream snapped his head. A scuffle was taking place outside the lady’s restroom. Ike and T-Bird had grabbed a middle-aged blond who bore a passing resemblance to Lady Picasso and were holding her down. The blond’s blouse was torn, and she’d lost her shoes.

“Security! Security!” the blond shouted.

“We are security. Shut your yap,” Ike said.

The blond gave Ike a swift kick in the shins. She was spitting mad, and Billy could only guess the size of the lawsuit she’d end up filing against the casino. There was no reason to let this poor woman take a beating that she didn’t deserve, and he hurried over.

“She’s not the one,” he said.

“Say what?” Ike said.

“I’m positive. You’d better let her go.”

Ike made a call on his cell phone. The blond continued to struggle. T-Bird twisted her arm and she doubled over in agony.

“Cunningham doesn’t think it’s her,” Ike said into the phone. To Billy he said, “Crunchie says mind your own fucking business.”

So Crunchie was directing the action now. That was a different story, and Billy raised his arms in mock surrender and backed off.

“Get your dirty hands off me,” the blond yelled as the punishers dragged her away.

He was suddenly alone. He didn’t think anyone was watching him through the eye-in-the-sky, too preoccupied with the mistaken cheater to care about him right now. He decided to try to run Lady Picasso down. He wanted to meet this woman and get to know her. She had the chops and the moxie and hadn’t panicked when the ceiling was caving in. Those were admirable qualities in his line of work. Best of all, she was hot, and to the casinos that made her a dumb broad, which was the best disguise of all.

He followed her trail and headed outside to the valet stand. The cool night air was a jolt to his senses, and he shivered from the sudden drop in temperature. Stretch limos and a cluster of yellow cabs were letting passengers out, the drivers dragging luggage out of the trunks. The valet captain blew his shrill whistle while imploring the drivers to hurry up.

No sign. Had she hit the Strip and run? That was a definite possibility, only there were a lot of tourists walking the Strip tonight, which meant a lot of uniformed cops as well, a pair on every corner. Billy avoided contact with the police whenever possible, even chance meetings on the street, and he didn’t think Lady Picasso was any different in this regard.

Which meant she was still here. He decided to check out the line of people waiting to take cabs out of the casino. He counted seven couples, all dressed for a night on the town, the men looking impatiently at their watches, asking themselves if it would be faster if they walked. He approached a distinguished white-haired man at the front of the line.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’ve lost my girlfriend. She has dark hair tied in a bun and is wearing black capris. Have you seen her?”

The key to lying was to give the lie a ring of truth. The man bought the story and consulted with his wife, who was draped on her husband’s arm. The wife pointed a manicured finger at a concrete pillar behind the valet stand.

“She’s over there,” the wife said. “I thought she looked a little upset.”

“Thanks,” he said.

He cautiously approached the pillar. He could see a haze of cigarette smoke and figured Lady Picasso was on the other side, trying to calm down. He knew it would be awkward at first, but he was going to speak with her regardless. He wanted to do business with this woman.

He took out his cell phone and held it the way people did while texting, and walked around the pillar. And there she was, sucking on a menthol cigarette. The smell did a number on his head, and the euphoric recall of that first encounter came back in a flood of memories that sped up his heart. He lowered the phone and stared, just to be sure.

Mags stared right back at him. The years had been kind, and she was still as pretty as a magazine cover. She knew she’d been made, yet didn’t seem to be terribly upset. It made him dig her that much more.

He’d been in love with her for as long as he could remember. Whenever he had sex, he imagined it was the magnificent Maggie Flynn that he was inside of. It was his fantasy, and so far, it hadn’t gotten old.

Kismet, fate, whatever the hell you wanted to call it, they were together again. He was not going to let her go this time, at least not if he could help it.

“I guess you don’t remember me,” he said.

Mags ground her cigarette into the pavement. “Holy shit. You’re the paperboy.”

He’d been hawking the Providence Journal in front of DelSesto’s Bakery on DePasquale Square when Mags’s sputtering Toyota had kissed the curb. Irish hot and exquisitely dressed, she could have been your best friend’s gorgeous sister, but in fact was a thief. The proof was the stacks of Yves Saint Laurent apparel boxes in the backseat. The easy narrative said she worked the floor at Macy’s and had swiped the clothes when her boss was on break.

“Hey, cutie, want to make some money?” she asked.

“You talking to me?” he said.

“Who else would I be talking to?”

“How much?”

“Fifty bucks for a half hour’s work.”

He threw a plastic sheet over his papers and hopped in. She hooked him no differently than the mythical Greek sirens who lured lovesick sailors to shipwreck on the rocky coast of their island, and they floated down the uneven road as if riding upon a magic carpet.

She explained the deal. The boxes contained knockoff cashmere sweaters made out of fiberglass, cost zilch to manufacture. Folded nice and pretty, each had an impressive gold-foiled guarantee that read “Made in Ireland.” Just don’t light a cigarette near them, or they’ll blow up. His job was to hold the boxes and keep his mouth shut while Mags gave her spiel.

They pulled into a construction site on Federal Hill, and Mags quickly gathered a crowd. It was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. The construction workers shoved money into her hands without a second thought. Most didn’t know what they were buying, just that it was hot, and they had to have one. Every line that came out of her mouth was designed to separate them from their hard-earned dough. Soon all the sweaters were sold.

They hit it off, and Mags sprang for a chocolate shake at the Mickey D’s on Broad Street. They sat in her car while she sucked on a Kool. He tried to drag every piece of information about hustling out of her that he could. Finally she had enough of his questions.

“I’ve got to beat it. You take care of yourself,” she said.

“Take me with you. We’ll make lots of money.”

“You’re a sharp kid. Do yourself a favor, go to college.”

“You sound like my old man. He wants me to go to MIT.”

“Do as he says. Father knows best.”

“This is better. I like you. I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

She smiled dreamily. Leaning forward, her lips brushed his, became a lingering kiss. Her breath tasted like a menthol cigarette. For the rest of his life, the smell would turn him on.

She pulled away, lit up a fresh cigarette. She was all business now. Whatever had passed between them was gone.

“You really want to fleece people?” she asked.

Billy didn’t know if he wanted to fleece people or not. What he knew was that he wanted to make lots of money, wear fancy clothes, live in a beautiful house, drive an exotic sports car, date great-looking women, and he didn’t want to spend thirty years getting there.

“Where do I sign up?” he said.

“Sherwood Manufacturing on 75 Eagle Street. There’s no sign. Just go upstairs and bang on the door. A black guy will come out. Tell him you want to speak to Lou Profaci.”

“Who’s he? What do they do?”

“Lou owns the place. They make knockoffs that street hustlers sell to suckers. The big movers are the fake sweaters and counterfeit Rolex watches called one-lungers. The watches last about a week before falling apart, even though there’s a lifetime guarantee on the box. Lou will pair you with a pro, and you’ll learn the ropes before he turns you out. In six months, you’ll be making a grand a week easy.”

“Turn me out where?”

“On the street. Every street hustler in Providence rents his turf from Lou. Some guys work the malls, others the train stations; my turf is the construction sites.”

“Can he teach me how to cheat at cards and dice? My old man won’t.”

“Sure. Lou knows all the angles. Now, let me go.”

He slurped down the last of his shake. It washed away the taste of her kiss but not the euphoric rush that had gone with it. She had opened his eyes to so many things; letting go wasn’t going to be easy. “Eagle Street’s on the other side of town, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

“Lou Profaci.”

“That’s the man’s name.”

“You sure he’ll do it?”

She reached across the seat and tousled his curly hair.

“Just tell him Maggie Flynn sent you,” she said.

“That’s right. I’m the paperboy. Let me buy you a drink,” Billy said.

Mags knew better than to set foot back inside Galaxy. She shook her head.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. They grabbed another blond,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not a blond.”

“You were back inside the casino.”

“I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”

“I saw you at the table painting the cards.” He held up four fingers and wiggled them playfully. “Your chops are outstanding.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You have a can of daub in your purse. You were sitting at third base, painting the ten-valued cards. A guy in the surveillance room made you, so the casino sent me to take a look.”

Fear crept into the corners of her eyes. “You work for the casino?”

“I’m doing a job for them. Now, let me buy you a drink. I’ve got a business proposition to discuss with you.”

“A business proposition.”

“That’s right. One that involves making lots of money. Does that sound appealing?”

Mags looked confused and a little scared. She hadn’t figured out what Billy’s deal was and didn’t know if he was friend or foe.

“You’re not going to bust me?” she asked.

“Hell no,” he said.

She glanced furtively at the valet stand, as if weighing an all-or-nothing dash down the sidewalk to the Strip. Taking her arm, he steered her toward the entrance.

“You’re safe with me,” he said.