Take Down

SIX

Billy walked back to the Peppermill with a million watts of neon burning his eyes. As he neared the restaurant’s parking lot, his cell phone came alive.

“I’m just pulling in,” the old grifter said.

“Stop for a haircut?” he asked.

“I got a call right after we hung up that I had to take.”

“You couldn’t talk and drive? It’s the newest thing.”

“It’s complicated, man. Just leave it alone.”

“You’re not going to tell me why you’re running late?”

“No. Drop it.”

Billy felt a breeze. Was the captain trying to set him up? It wouldn’t be the first time that another hustler had tried to put him in a bad light. He decided he’d better find out.

“I’m in the bar having a beer. What’s your pleasure?” he asked.

“Jack Daniel’s, straight up, and a beer chaser,” the old grifter said.

“See you in a few.”

He ducked behind a light pole plastered with flyers for escorts and watched Crunchie park his vintage ’69 Corvette and then get out and stretch. Crunchie had grown up on a ranch in Montana and favored cracked-leather boots and a black Stetson with a rattlesnake band. He was tall and sinewy, his skin rough-hewn. As he crossed the lot and entered the restaurant, Billy noticed that he was limping. Had someone beat him up? It sure looked that way.

A bad feeling settled over Billy. He decided to hang back to see if Crunchie had brought along any unwanted friends. The world being what it was, you could never be too careful.

He’d joined Crunchie’s crew soon after arriving in Vegas. Crunchie had run a cooler mob that specialized in switching cards on unsuspecting blackjack dealers. Billy hadn’t believed such a thing was possible until they’d ripped off the Mirage. The dealer had shuffled her six decks and placed them on the table to be cut. At the next table, a member of the crew had feigned having a heart attack. As the dealer called for the pit boss, she briefly lifted her fingers from the cards. In that split second, the six decks were switched for six duplicate decks stacked to deal nothing but winning hands. Twenty minutes later, they possessed a hundred grand of the Mirage’s money.

Several parties came out of the restaurant, but none went in. He decided it was safe and went inside. The restaurant was packed with tourists eating overpriced food. The hostess flashed a smile but did not offer him a menu. She’d seen him before and knew he was local.

A beaded curtain led to the lounge. Single white candles flickered on tables while a heatless fireplace burned in the room’s center like a campfire. A bar with nine stools took up the sidewall. Crunchie sat on a middle stool, pounding brown liquid. Billy took the adjacent stool and got the attention of a cute bartender wearing skintight clothes and her hair tied back.

“Corona, no glass,” he said.

“Want a lime with that?” the bartender asked.

“I’m staying away from the fruit. I hear it’s bad for you.”

She served him. Under his breath, Crunchie said, “Where you been?”

“Outside. How’d you get the limp? You didn’t limp when we ran together.”

“My arthritis is acting up. I’m getting old.”

The cute bartender offered to run a tab. Billy slid her a twenty, told her to keep the change. She flashed a smile that made him want to come back and see her again. Grabbing his beer, he made his way toward a corner table with Crunchie right behind him.

They sat across from each other at a table the size of a dinner plate. Crunchie had once been good looking, with chiseled features and an easy smile. Hard living had taken its toll, and his face looked like freckled rust, his teeth stained so badly that it was hard to tell if he had any.

“What the hell’s bothering you?” the old grifter asked.

“You’re late. You set a time, you keep it. You taught me that, remember?”

“Did I now.”

“Damn straight. And you’re limping. You never mentioned having arthritis before.”

From the pocket of his jeans Crunchie produced a plastic medicine vial filled with blue capsules, which he placed in the center of the table. “This is the dope I’m taking for my hip. Thirty years ago a security guard at the Dunes threw me down a flight of stairs. My hip’s never been the same.”

“You never limped when we ran together.”

“I hid it, didn’t want to look like a gimp. The older I get, the worse the pain.”

The story added up. But Billy still needed more convincing. “Who were you talking to?”

“My daughter. She’s a real pain in the ass.”

“Since when did you have a kid?”

“Back in ’91, I had a fling with a sexy little cocktail waitress at the Sands. She wanted to get hitched, I balked, she tied a suitcase to the roof of her car and boogied to LA. Twenty years later my phone rings, and this girl says, ‘Hi, my name’s Clarissa, and I’m your kid.’ Let me tell you, it’s been one horror show ever since.”

“She hitting you up for money?”

“Every damn time we talk. She’s got two little brats, no job, no child support. I send her a check every month, but it’s never enough. What are you grinning about? You think this is funny? Fuck you, Billy.”

“I’m just trying to imagine you getting hustled, that’s all.”

“This is different. She’s my daughter.”

“So you were talking to her, and she made you late, is that the deal?”

A wall of anger rose in the old grifter’s face. Producing his cell phone, he showed Billy the recent call memory. In the past twelve hours, he’d gotten three phone calls originating from a 310 area code, which was Southern California.

“Call her, you don’t believe me.”

Billy nearly did, just to get the old grifter’s goat. But he leaned back in his chair instead. There was still a deal on the table, and money made the world go round.

“You and I have known each other a long time,” Crunchie said. “You think I’d double-cross you? Hell, I taught you how to rob, kid.”

“You taught me a lot of things,” Billy said.

“You thought I was setting you up?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“Jesus, Billy. I’d never do that. You’re the kid I wished I had.”

Billy’s old man had cheated at cards but had never been willing to teach Billy the ropes, wanting his son to go to college and make something of himself. When Billy had arrived in Vegas, Crunchie had taken him under his wing, and it had been one long joyride ever since.

“You really mean that?” he said.

“Damn straight, I do. I’d never screw you.”

“Then I was out of line. Sorry.”

“You still want to do this?”

Billy said that he did. Flagging the cute bartender, he pointed across the table.

“Another round. Make my friend’s a double this time.”

“So let’s hear your deal,” Billy said after the bartender served them.

“I’ve been making a killing off a blackjack dealer at the Rio named Jazzy,” Crunchie said. “Jazzy has this bad habit of rocking her hands and flashing her hole card every fifth hand. The other day I found out Jazzy left the Rio and took a job dealing at the high-roller salon at Galaxy. I racked my brain thinking of who I knew could play a whale. Then it hit me. I’ll call Billy.”

“So how are you going to get me into the joint?”

“There’s a fake identity in Galaxy’s computer just waiting for you.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“I didn’t. Skip Johnson did. Remember Skip? He ran with us for a while.”

“I remember Skip.”

“Skip had a dream. He thought he could walk into a casino, sign a marker for a few hundred grand in credit, get the chips, and cash out without having to pay the casino back.”

“Nice dream.”

“Skip nearly pulled it off. He hacked into a national credit data system and stole the credit histories of six wealthy guys back east. He set up bank accounts in these guys’ names and applied to the casinos for lines of credit, which of course they gave him.

“When Skip visited a casino, he’d show one of his fake IDs to a VIP host. The host gave him twenty grand to play with, which Skip lost playing craps. Skip’s brother Ronnie was in the game, betting against him. The money Skip lost, Ronnie won. You familiar with this?”

“Offsetting betting procedures,” Billy said.

“Right. Skip did this all over town. When he got home, he paid off the markers, so the casinos jacked up his credit line. In some joints, it reached two hundred grand.”

Billy was impressed. Crunchie’s big score was sounding better by the minute.

“On New Year’s Eve, Skip and Ronnie went for the kill. They checked into hotels where Skip had high credit lines. That night, Skip visited the first casino, signed a marker, and was given two hundred grand in chips. He passed the chips to Ronnie, who cashed them in. Skip was on a roll until he hit the Wynn. A security guard recognized him, and the thing fell apart.”

“So how does that get me into the high-roller salon at Galaxy?”

“One of Skip’s false identities never got used on New Year’s and is still in the casinos’ computers,” Crunchie explained. “I bought the false identity from Skip so he could post bail. It’s for a hedge fund manager named Thomas Pico. He’s thirty years old, same as you. You get into Galaxy’s salon by pretending to be Pico.”

“How can Pico be in Galaxy’s computer? The joint just opened.”

“The VIP host at Galaxy’s salon is named Ed Butler. Butler used to work at Bellagio. When Butler switched jobs, he brought his database with him, including Pico.”

“So Butler met Skip when he was impersonating Pico.”

“That’s right.”

“How many times?”

“Skip said he met Butler once. Butler sees a hundred high rollers a month. Trust me, he won’t remember meeting Skip.”

“So all I have to do is waltz into Galaxy, show them false ID, and rob them blind.”

“That’s right. So what do you say?”

“I’m in,” Billy said.