Take Down

FORTY

The Bali Hai golf course was part of the shimmering-gold Mandalay Bay Resort. Billy parked his Maserati in the gravel lot and sat very still. It didn’t seem real. Mags had gone over to the dark side. And to think that he’d asked her to work with him ripping off casinos.

A tap on his window got him out of the car. Cory had a bag of golf clubs slung over his shoulder, Morris a racing form. Cory passed Billy the golf bag.

“Tony G’s waiting for you by the first tee in his cart,” Cory said. “He’s got his enforcers with him, Guido and Snap. Guido won the Las Vegas bodybuilder championship last year; Snap fights mixed martial arts. Guys who don’t pay get their arms snapped.”

Morris handed him the racing form. It was for today’s races at Santa Anita. It was in the twelfth race that Sal the fixer would switch in the Brazilian ringer. Sal was purposely not letting his web of bettors know which horse was the ringer until right before post time. That way, his web couldn’t share the information and bring down the ringer’s odds.

“How are we going to work this?” Billy asked.

“Sal will text me a few minutes before the race starts with the ringer’s name,” Cory said. “I’ll text the information to you, and you’ll scam Tony G.”

“If Tony G sees me reading a text and then betting on a long shot, he’ll feel a breeze. Try again,” Billy said.

“We can send the information to you by code on your Droid,” Morris suggested. “You’ll put your cell phone on vibrate and stick it in your pocket.”

“Vibrating cell phones make noise. If Tony G hears the vibration, he’ll get suspicious. Try again.”

“Here’s an idea,” Cory said. “The club has a drink service. Cute girl drives out in a cart, brings you an ice-cold beer. I’ll bribe her into passing you the information on a cocktail napkin.”

“What if she gives the napkin to Tony G by mistake? Is that when Snap breaks my arm?”

Beaten, Cory and Morris gazed shamefully at the ground. They were the little brothers that he’d never had, yet there were times when he wanted to throw them both down a flight of stairs. Still holding the racing form, he slapped it against Cory’s chest.

“Find a pencil, and draw circles around the horses that should win the other races, but don’t draw anything on the twelfth,” he said.

Cory went inside the clubhouse to get a pencil. An idea was brewing in Billy’s head, and he popped the Maserati’s trunk. He carried a variety of stuff in the trunk, including a box of magic props. He frequented the local magic shops, always on the lookout for a new gimmick that could be used to beat the casinos. His favorite shop was Houdini’s inside the MGM Grand, where every purchase came with a free lesson from one of the demonstrators.

He removed a swami gimmick from his collection and shut the trunk. It was made of brass and prefitted with a tiny piece of lead that fit comfortably under his right thumbnail. With it, he could secretly write on a piece of paper-or a racing form-without being detected.

Cory came back outside. He’d done as told and circled the favorites on the racing form while leaving the twelfth race blank. Billy stuck the form in his back pocket.

“Do either of you know semaphore?” he asked.

“I learned in the Boy Scouts,” Morris said.

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do. When Sal texts you the ringer, drop your beer on the ground and curse. Then grab two clubs from your bag and start loosening up. Use the clubs to signal the first three letters of the ringer’s name. That’s all I need to find it on the form.”

“Got it,” Morris said.

It was 3:20 p.m. Billy still needed to buy golf shoes from the pro shop before heading out to the first tee. He put his arms on their shoulders and drew them close.

“Tell me you’re ready,” he said.

They swore to Billy that they were ready.

“I want to ask you a question. If you found out that someone you knew was a snitch and was working with the gaming board, what would you do to them? Be honest with me.”

“I’d kill them,” Cory said without hesitation.

“So would I,” Morris said.

Billy felt the same way. It didn’t matter that he’d carried a torch for Mags all these years. The betrayal was too great.

The first pair of shoes he tried on fit perfectly. He paid up and left the shop with his bag of clubs slung over his shoulder. Painted signs directed him down a crunchy gravel path to the first tee. Tony G used the Bali Hai course as his office and was probably a strong player and would hustle Billy once he’d sized up Billy’s game. That was how it usually went.

Golf was not a friendly game in Vegas. Every club had hustlers who paid golf pros to arrange matches for them. Some hustlers were scratch players who practiced in shaded areas and had pale white skin that matched the tourists they fleeced. Others resorted to cheating, and spread Vaseline jelly on their clubs’ faces to better control their shots, or wore golf shoes with the soles removed, allowing them to move their balls out of unfavorable lies with their toes.

Billy guessed that Tony G also had tricks that he used. That was fine. While Tony G was hustling him on the greens, he’d be hustling the bookie at the racetrack.

He came to the first tee. Tony G sat in a cart with an iPhone, making book. Late fifties, fat as a tick, with a thick matte of white chest hair creeping out of his V neck.

Behind the bookie was a second cart with the enforcers. Guido was at the wheel and wore a sleeveless black muscle shirt that showed off his massive arms. He was jotting down the bets his boss was making on a legal pad and paid Billy no attention. Snap sat next to him and had a wiry body without an ounce of fat. Snap’s nose had been honked a few times and was as thick as a blood sausage. His weak spot, Billy guessed.

“You must be Billy,” Tony G said, covering the mouth of the cell phone. “Toss your bag in the cart and grab a drink. There’s beer and spritzers in the cooler. We’re up next.”

“Appreciate it,” Billy said.

Cory and Morris had strolled onto the first tee and were hitting their drives. They were both out of practice and needed to work on their games if they planned to pull off any more golf scams. Done, they got into a cart and drove down a dirt path.

Billy pulled a driver out of his bag and walked onto the tee, where he took several practice swings. Tony G approached holding a sleeve of new golf balls.

“Let’s use these,” the bookie said. “You can have the number-one ball.”

They hadn’t even started, and Tony G was already hustling him. During their match, Tony G would make Billy’s ball vanish and would drop a ball with identical markings in a sand trap, costing him several valuable strokes.

“How long you in town?” the bookie asked, making small talk.

“I’m here for the weekend. Weather sure is great.”

“You’re telling me.”

Tony G got a call from a client. The bookie stepped off the tee and passed the information to Guido. Knowing Tony G wasn’t looking, Billy removed the racing form from his pocket, refolded it lengthwise, and returned it to his pocket so it was partially exposed.

“Let’s play some golf,” Tony G said. “You like to gamble?”

“Doesn’t everyone? What’s your handicap?” Billy asked.

“I’m an eight. How about you?”

“I’m an eight, too. How about we bet five hundred a hole?”

“I’m game. You do the honors.”

Billy teed up and hit his drive. Every golf course in Vegas followed a basic premise. If a player drove his ball straight and stayed out of the rough, he was rewarded with a decent score.

Tony G went next and hit a powerful ball that sailed forty yards past Billy’s. Like hell you’re an eight, he thought.

They drove down the path. Halfway down the fairway, they got out and found their balls. Up on the green, Cory and Morris were putting out. Tony G waited until they had left before taking his next shot, which landed five feet from the flag. Billy’s shot sailed over the green into the rough. They returned to the cart.

“You into the ponies?” Tony G asked.

Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Tony G had spied the racing form in his pocket.

“Love ’em,” he said.

“What’s your favorite track?”

“Santa Anita. My father used to take me there when I was a kid, taught me how to handicap. He died a few years ago, left me his company. He was the best.”

He turned his head and pretended to wipe away a tear.

“I’m happy to take your action,” Tony G said. “You can bet on the races while we play.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that.”

He pulled the racing form from his pocket. It was 3:50 p.m. Each race had a post time, and he flipped the pages and stopped on the eighth race of the day, which was listed to start at 3:55 p.m. Cory’s pick for the eighth race was a horse named Solid Gold.

“Five grand on Solid Gold to win,” he said.

“Five grand? That’s some serious money, kid.”

“I can handle it.”

Tony G pulled out his iPhone. Most bookies relied on apps to check the results of sporting events in real time to prevent being swindled on events that had already occurred. Using an app named Today’s Racing, he checked the eighth race at Santa Anita.

“There’s a lot of money riding on Solid Gold. The odds have dropped to even money. You still want it?” Tony G asked.

Billy said yes. He needed to stick to the script and not improvise. Tony G drove to the green, and they finished the hole, which the bookie won by two strokes.

When they returned to the cart, the eighth race was over. Tony G pulled up a replay on his phone using the Today’s Racing app, and they watched Solid Gold stumble out of the gate and finish sixth. Billy had lost the hole and the race, and was down fifty-five hundred bucks.

“Too bad,” Tony G said without a hint of sympathy.

Billy hid a smile. The fish had taken the bait. All he needed to do now was reel him in.