Take Down (15 page)

“They got flushed down a toilet inside the casino.”

“What?”

He found the strength to meet her gaze. “The Hard Rock’s surveillance director broke the news to me. He said the tapes showed Billy passing off the gaffed dice to one of his bimbos before coming outside. She ran to the bathroom and flushed them away.”

“So what did Billy throw on the awning?”

“Nothing. His hand was empty.”

“He faked you out?”

“Yeah, and I fell for it. We had to let him go.”

It was as delicious a cross as Mags had ever heard, and a tiny laugh escaped her lips. Her mother had warned her never to laugh in a man’s face. The difference between men and women, her mother had claimed, was that men were afraid of women laughing at them, while women were afraid of men killing them. Somehow, she’d forgotten her mother’s sage advice.

Frank’s hand slapped her face. The next thing Mags knew, she was lying on her back, watching the room spin like a pinwheel. Frank threw on his rumpled clothes and grabbed his wallet and keys off the bureau. Standing over her, he spoke in a dead, emotionless tone.

“Don’t ever laugh at me again.”

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“You okay?”

“I’ll live.”

“That’s my girl. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.”

“Okay.”

“Mad at me?”

“I’ll get over it.”

“Good answer.”

The door slammed, and Mags listened to his footsteps tread down the hall to the elevators. Only when she was certain he was gone did she pull herself off the floor.

She sat on the edge of the bed. She was seeing double, and she tried to will it to stop. It seemed a perfect metaphor for the two worlds she was living in. She’d gotten herself into this mess, and she was the only one who could get herself out.

The room returned to normal. She went to the slider on wobbly legs and pressed her face to the glass. The Strip’s neon bathed her in false colors, and she forced herself not to cry.

TWENTY-SEVEN

At midnight, Billy scratched the podiatrists off his list of groups the Gypsies might be using as cover. Wearing a waiter’s uniform and balancing a tray on his palm, he’d been canvassing a banquet room where the foot doctors were having dinner. Older, bespectacled, with big marriage bellies and soft hands, they wore suits that only saw the light of day a few times a year, and sat at round tables drinking decaf and discussing such scintillating topics as foot fungus, ingrown toe nails, and plantar fasciitis. Nearly all had spouses, an equally unexciting group of half-asleep women with stiff heads of beauty-parlor hair. None appeared in any great hurry to visit the casino, or take advantage of the other pleasurable pursuits Galaxy had to offer, and he couldn’t imagine any of them being a member of the Gypsy clan. Too dull, too old, and too heavy. The Gypsies had started out as shoplifters, meaning they were fleet of foot and as lean as circus acrobats. Not a single person in the banquet room fit that description.

As he took a final swing through the room, his brand new Droid hummed in his pocket. Caller ID was local but unfamiliar. He walked over to a dessert table with a melting ice sculpture and took the call.

“Billy, it’s me,” Ly said. “I’m in trouble.”

“What’s wrong? What’s that noise in the background?”

“I got busted for cheating at the casino tonight. I only got one phone call, so I call you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Don’t get mad. Not my fault.”

“How can it not be your fault?”

“Because I don’t do nothing wrong. Come bail me out.”

She made it sound like an order. And maybe it was; if he didn’t bail her out, she might get pissed and spill her guts about their little enterprise to the cops. He couldn’t take that risk and decided he’d better spring her out of jail.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he said.

“Hurry. This place scary,” she said.

He put the phone away. A podiatrist at a nearby table with his wildly drunk wife was trying to get his attention. He was done playing waiter and flipped the podiatrist the bird.

He came out of the banquet hall tugging off his waiter’s jacket. Ike and T-Bird hadn’t strayed far, and waited in the hall. Trying to slip away was out of the question, and he said, “Interested in making a quick five grand?”

Money made the world go round. They decided they wanted to hear more and followed Billy down a hallway past the hotel lobby until they were standing outside the entrance to the casino. It was packed, the air electric. A hot zone.

“What’s the deal?” Ike asked.

“I need you guys to cover for me while I bail a friend of mine out of jail.”

“You want to leave the property?” Ike asked.

“Just for a couple of hours.”

“Whatta ya think?” Ike asked his partner.

“We could get our asses fired,” T-Bird said, the voice of reason.

“They ain’t paying us shit anyway,” Ike reminded him.

“I ain’t risking my job for a lousy five grand. Get more.”

Ike shifted his attention to Billy. “You willing to go higher? You go higher, we might agree. Marcus and his bimbo left an hour ago, and old smelly has gone home, too. Nobody will know you left but us. We’ll keep quiet, but it’s got to be worth our while.”

Shakedown time. Billy had half a mind to ask Ike the last time someone had paid him five grand for keeping his mouth shut, but knew that line of reasoning wouldn’t go very far. Ike had him by the short hairs and was going to extract every penny out of Billy that he could.

“I’ll give you five grand apiece,” he offered.

“You’re offering us five grand each,” Ike said, just to be clear.

“That’s right. Cash.”

“That’s good, because we don’t take credit cards. Try ten.”

“I just offered you ten.”

“Each.”

He rocked back on his heels. To pay Ike that much, he’d have to visit his condo and make a withdrawal from his wall safe.

“Come on, give me a break,” he said.

Ike’s eyes turned cold. “That’s my final offer. Take it, or leave it.”

He almost said fuck you. But a little voice inside his head said no, you need to get Ly out of jail before she goes south on you.

“You’ve got a deal,” he said instead.

Ike smiled. “Pay up.”

“The money’s in my condo. I’ll get it while I’m out and pay you when I come back.”

Ike grabbed Billy by his shirt and lifted him off the floor so he was dangling in the air. A gang of pretty young things strolled past and shot pouty looks his way. In any other city, they would have snapped a photo on an iPhone and called the cops. But Vegas had a way of desensitizing people to pain and suffering, and the girls entered the casino without breaking stride. Bringing his face close, Ike said, “We want the money now, asshole.”

“The money’s in a wall safe in my condo.”

“Hear that, Bird? Man’s got so much fucking money, he needs a safe to keep it in.” Ike’s eyes narrowed. “Give us the combination. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“You can’t go into my building. The night guard won’t let you onto the elevators. Trust me, I’ll get the money for you.”

“You’ve got other things to do,” Ike reminded him. “Give me the combination, and we’ll get our money while you’re bailing out your friend. Call the night guard, and tell him we’re coming. That’s the deal.”

Billy knew when he was beaten. “I live in Turnberry Tower, Building B, in the penthouse. The safe’s in the clothes closet. Get a piece of paper, and I’ll give you the combination.”

“Hoowee. You got a penthouse at Turnberry? All the rich motherfuckers live there. Being a cheater must pay real good.”

“It beats working. Let me down, will you?”

Ike lowered him to earth and patted down the front of his shirt. T-Bird got a piece of paper and a pen from the front desk, and Billy wrote down the combination, having to believe it was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. Fifty grand was sitting in the safe along with a Rolex gold submariner he’d ripped off from a snotty trust-fund kid during a not-so-friendly game of backgammon at the pool, and he knew damn well that the punishers were going to take it all.

“What’s the night guard’s name?” Ike asked.

“Joey, but everyone calls him Jo-Jo,” Billy said.

“Call him, and tell him we’re coming.”

Billy called Jo-Jo and set the wheels in motion for the punishers to rip him off. It felt funny setting himself up to be taken down, and he supposed someday he’d have a good laugh over it, just not today. They went outside to the valet area, and Ike patted him on the shoulder.

“Be back before dawn, junior.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Laughing to themselves, the punishers headed down a walkway that led to the employee parking garage, the money already burning a hole in their pockets. They were the lowest form of thieves, and he could not wait to pay them back for taking advantage of him like this.

“It’s going to be about ten minutes. We’re jammed right now,” the valet said.

He waited on a bench for his car. He’d done a bad job of ending his partnership with Ly and had probably hurt her feelings. He needed to fix that, and he went back inside.

The gift shop was just off the lobby. He pored through racks of T-shirts and knickknacks that lined the shelves. It was made-in-China crap, all of it outrageously priced. Once upon a time, Vegas had been a bargain—cheap hotel rooms, inexpensive show tickets, endless buffets. Those days had faded; now the town was a rip-off, everything overpriced. He found a sleeveless blouse that matched Ly’s eyes, and took it to the counter.

“Fifty dollars,” the salesgirl said.

“Can you wrap it in some nice paper?” he asked.

“Gift wrapping is an extra two dollars.”

“I can handle it.”

As the salesgirl wrapped the blouse, his eyes were drawn to a display case. Among the rings and bracelets was a magical gold color.

His heart skipped a beat. They couldn’t be that stupid, could they?

He reminded himself that Doucette was not a gamer, and therefore susceptible to a variety of scams that seasoned casino people would never fall for.

He pointed into the case. “Let me see that.”

The salesgirl slid open the back panel and grabbed a flashy cigarette lighter.

“No, not that. The key chain next to it. The one with the gold chip.”

The salesgirl removed a souvenir key chain with a rubber gold chip and handed it to him. Its gold color looked just like Galaxy’s hundred-thousand-dollar gold chip.

He took the gold chip he’d stolen from Rock from his pocket and compared it to the rubber chip. The colors were
exactly
the same.

Casinos guarded the formulas they used to make their chips the way Coca-Cola guarded the formula to its soft drinks. Only Doucette had slipped up and let an outside vendor use the gold color to make a souvenir key chain. He looked for the manufacturer’s mark on the chip, hoping it wasn’t made in China. Finding none, he said, “Where do you get these? I want to get some made for my company.”

“A vendor here in town makes them for us,” the salesgirl replied. “The salesman was just here filling up the case. We move a lot of them.”

“Do you have his business card?”

The salesgirl rifled through a drawer and produced the salesman’s card. AAA Novelty & Gift, located on Industrial Road on the north side of town.

“Keep it. I’ll get another the next time he’s in,” she said.

He slipped the salesman’s card into his billfold. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could barely contain his excitement. He’d hit the mother lode.

“That will be another twenty dollars plus tax,” she said, ringing up the sale.

The key chain probably cost nothing to make. Another rip-off, but one that he was happy to swallow. Not many times in his life would he be able to say that he’d turned twenty bucks into several million, and he sensed that his run of bad luck was about to change.

TWENTY-EIGHT

He drove north on the Strip with the souvenir key chain hooked over his thumb. With the help of this fake gold chip, he was going to take Doucette down for the count.

Every casino in Vegas had gotten ripped off by counterfeit chips. The scam was so common that the state required each casino to have a set of spare chips with alternate markings in case the chips on the floor needed to be quickly changed.

He hung a left on Bonneville and was soon at the jail. The Strip did not have its own jail, and people arrested in Strip casinos were transported to the Clark County Detention Center, as depressing a place as he’d ever visited.

He’d been busted several times for scamming. Because he had a slick lawyer and was luckier than a two-peckered puppy, he’d never spent more than a single night in the CCDC. But the experience had still been hair-raising. Cheaters were not liked, and he’d spent ten hours lying freezing naked on a futon before getting to talk to his lawyer.

He parked in the visitor lot across the street and went inside. There was a line of people waiting to speak to the front-desk sergeant. Soon, it was his turn, and he learned that Ly had appeared before a judge, who’d set her bail at ten grand.

Next stop was a depressing chamber called Pre Trial Services, where a hand-printed sign announced a new forty-dollar filing fee for bond payment. Dealing with the system was no different than getting your pocket picked. He dropped a Visa card on the counter and proceeded to bail Ly out of jail.

Ly emerged from the jail still wearing her purple dealer’s vest and ruffled tuxedo shirt, her hair released from its bun. Seeing Billy standing in the sidewalk, she scowled.

“What take you so long?” she asked.

“I got here as fast as I could,” he said.

“How much they make you pay?”

“Ten big ones.”

“Hah. That nothing to rich guy like you.”

Thank you
was not in her lexicon. They got into his car. Ly picked up the blouse on the passenger seat and tore away the tissue paper. She tossed the gift into the backseat.

“Not your color, huh?” he said.

“I’m hungry. Take me some place nice,” she said.

He decided on the El Cortez in old downtown. It would be quiet at this time of night, and they’d be able to sit and talk things out. Ly had gotten busted for cheating a casino, and he didn’t think she understood how miserable her life was about to become.

The El Cortez was a faded throwback to the days when the mob ran the casinos. Its two restaurants served terrific food in generous portions and were open all night long.

A hostess seated them in a corner booth. They read the menu, which was the length of a short novel. Ly decided on the matzo ball soup and Chicago corned beef sandwich, while Billy went for the shrimp cocktail and the signature New York pastrami sandwich served high on rye.

He studied her face while waiting for their food. The false bravado was gone, and she looked scared out of her wits. Their drinks came. Coffee for him, a sweaty Heineken for her.

“Tell me what went down,” he said.

“This afternoon, my neighbor come over,” she said. “He tell me he been practicing chip scam all day, that he ready to go tonight. I tell him, ‘You not ready yet,’ and he leave.”

“You were practicing the chip scam with your neighbor.”

“Yeah. His name Funky Freddie because he wear funny socks.”

“Let me guess. Your neighbor came into your casino anyway.”

“Yeah. Funky Freddy come in tonight, start talking to pit boss. I freak out, you know? He sit at my table, and I see the double-chip in his hand. Under my breath I say, ‘Go away, you dumb shit,’ but he don’t hear. Very first bet, he put down double-chip. Then he realizes wrong side showing, so he flips chip over. Everyone see it not real.”

“Jesus Christ. What’d you do?”

“I back away from the table. I don’t want no part of this crap. Funky Freddie realize what he done and runs out of casino. Pit boss comes over, picks up the double-chip, look at me real suspicious. He says, ‘This guy’s a friend of yours, huh?’ I say I never see him before, but pit boss busts me anyway.”

If it went to trial, Ly’s attorney could tell a jury that she’d refused to take Funky Freddie’s bet. Every BJ game in Vegas was videotaped, and the tape would show Ly backing away from the table and not touching the gaffed chip. A good defense attorney would hang his case on that, and Ly would walk. She’d probably lose her work card and never deal blackjack again, but that was a small price to pay to beat a cheating rap.

“Tell me what you told the police,” he said.

“Police ask me if I know Funky Freddie. I say I never seen this crazy guy before. Police say pit boss tell them my table not doing so good, that I may be stealing.”

The pit boss had cast a shadow of doubt over Ly’s integrity. He felt himself growing worried. “Did Funky Freddie leave a paper trail inside the casino that could be traced?”

“What you mean?” she asked.

“Did he buy anything with a credit card? Or use the ATM?”

“I see him at ATM machine before he sit down.”

“Did the pit boss see him?”

“Pit boss see him, too.”

This was bad. If the pit boss alerted the police to Funky Freddie’s use of the ATM to make a withdrawal, the police would get Funky Freddie’s credit card info and hunt him down. That was a problem, because Funky Freddie lived in Ly’s trailer park. The police would make the connection and charge Ly and her neighbor for conspiracy to cheat a casino. There were over a hundred slick defense lawyers in town, and not a single one could beat a conspiracy rap.

Their meals came. Ly still didn’t understand the gravity of what she’d done. She speared the matzo ball and tore a piece out of its side with her teeth.

“We need to move you,” he said.

“What you mean?” she said.

“You’re not safe at the trailer park anymore. Let’s go.”

Ly lived in the Rolling Ranchette Trailer Park off Boulder Highway. The roads were quiet, and he did ninety most of the way, hoping to beat the gaming board.

During the drive, she talked about growing up in Vietnam. Billy didn’t know much about the country except that the United States had fought a protracted war there whose validity was still being argued by old guys with ponytails in bars.

At sixteen, she’d paid a human trafficker for passage to LA, where she’d worked folding clothes at a laundry. One day, a well-dressed Vietnamese customer named Vicky had made Ly an offer. Vicky was also a refugee, and owned a nail salon in Garden Grove in the heart of Southern California’s Vietnamese community. All of the salon’s manicurists were Vietnamese girls trying to make a life for themselves. Vicky had offered Ly a job painting nails, where Ly would make good money and even better tips.

There had been one hitch. The cost of entry was twenty grand.

Billy parked in front of Ly’s trailer. It was dark, and he saw no sign of the gaming board.

“Explain the deal to me,” he said.

“Deal simple,” she said. “Vicky send me to work at Slots A Fun, where I pretend to be a Vietnamese girl named Ly. I live in Ly trailer, drive her shitty car, pretend to be her. I send Vicky money every month so I one day work in salon.”

“You’re not the first one Vicky’s done this with, are you?”

“All girls in Vicky’s salon have been Ly. No one complain.”

“Does the owner of Slots A Fun know what’s going on?”

“Owner knows,” she explained.

“You bribed him?”

“I fuck him, same as other girls. We fuck him, and he take care of us. Back home in Vietnam, boyfriend fuck me, and when he done, tell me go make dinner. I say go make own dinner, lazy dog. Boyfriend knock me down, kick me. I tell my father, thinking he protect me. My father say, ‘Chồng chúa, vợ tôi.’ That mean ‘Man master, woman servant.’ So I run away. That’s what my country like. Women get nothing in return. At least when I fuck a man here, I get something back. You have problem with that?”

She had it all figured out. Why she was here, the things she’d done to get here, the risk, the reward—nothing had escaped her.

“No, I don’t have a problem with that,” he said.

A few trailers down a porch light came on, and a geezer in handcuffs came out the front door. He was followed by a pair of gaming agents with badges pinned to their lapels. The geezer’s wife stood in the doorway, bawling her eyes out. On the geezer’s feet was a pair of hideous multistriped socks. Funky Freddie was going down.

Billy started to back away while trying not to smash into anything. One of the gaming agents spotted them.

“Stop right there, and get out of the vehicle,” the gaming agent called out.

“Get your head down,” Billy said.

Ly dropped in her seat. Goosing the accelerator, he flew in reverse down the street.

“Get back here!” the gaming agent shouted.

He flashed his brights, just to get the gaming agent’s goat. The gaming board employed nine hundred field agents, the majority in Sin City. Rookies were relegated to the night shift; if they lasted a year, they got to work days. It was a lot harder than it sounded.

He reached the intersection, performed a backward turn, hit his brakes, and threw the car into drive. As they raced past Ly’s street, the gaming agent appeared with his gun drawn. It was strictly for show. If the gaming agent fired and missed, the bullet might hit a trailer and wound someone. No agent wanted that on their resume, unless they were Dirty Harry.

Billy exited the trailer park without any more problems. A minute later, he and Ly were flying down Boulder Highway with the windows down and their hair blowing in their faces.

“You my hero,” Ly cooed.

The Super 8 Motel on Koval was the best deal in town. On-site dining, a heated swimming pool, four HBO channels, all for forty bucks a night. He paid in advance and walked Ly to a room on the first floor that faced the street. Shoving money into her hands, he told her to lose the dealer’s uniform first thing tomorrow.

She leaned against the doorsill. Her posture said she wanted him to come inside and screw. She was nothing but trouble, and he backed away from the door.

“I thought you like me,” she said.

“I’m doing a job for some guys. I have to go or they’ll get pissed.”