Take Down (5 page)

EIGHT

The houses in Gabe’s subdivision looked the same, and Billy drove around until he passed the empty guardhouse and knew he was home free. He connected with Las Vegas Boulevard, the Strip’s casinos lighting up the northern horizon with the intensity of a nuclear detonation.

He did the limit, deep in thought. He’d never impersonated a hedge fund manager before, and he needed to find out what their deal was. He pulled into the Fatburger across the street from the Monte Carlo and was soon sitting in the parking lot, eating greasy onion rings while studying photos of hedge fund managers on his Droid that he’d pulled up using Google Images. To a man, it was a boy’s club of soft-looking white guys with spiffy haircuts and teeth as white as piano keys. Blazers and gray slacks were the norm, the shirts button-down.

Preppies.

By clicking on the images, he was taken to several online newspaper bios, which he read to get a feel for the lifestyle. Hedge fund managers were übersmart, with MBAs from Wharton, NYU, and Ivy League programs. On a whim, he typed “Thomas Pico” into Google, and discovered there were no photos on the Internet of the man he was impersonating.

Beautiful.

He got out, popped the trunk, and rummaged through his box of disguises containing wigs, glasses, ball caps, and several sports jackets. He tried on a pair of black eyeglasses and a blazer with gold buttons that screamed conservative, combed down his spiked hair with a stiff brush, and had a look in the driver window’s reflection.

That worked.

Back in the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and filled his pockets with stacks of hundred-dollar bills that he planned to play with tonight in Galaxy’s high-roller salon.

He left the Fatburger lot thinking that only suckers walked around with this much cash, and laughed out loud.

One a.m. and the Strip was jamming. He drove the Strip whenever possible, the glittering casinos and blinding neon never failing to flip on the pleasure switch in his head. Vegas made Providence feel so small and dirty that he’d never wanted to go back, and if his old man hadn’t croaked one dreary Christmas a few years ago, he never would have.

His old man had decided to die at home in his favorite chair, hooked up to an oxygen tank, an unlit cigarette dangling from his parched lips. With each passing hour, his old man’s breathing grew more tortured. Knowing the end was near, he’d told his son to get a cardboard box from the closet in the hall. Billy got the box and saw that it was filled with love letters from a woman that was not his mother. Among the letters was a newspaper clipping showing him being presented with an award that he’d gotten during his brief stint at MIT.

Back in the living room, he’d asked his old man what he wanted done with the stuff.

“Burn it,” his old man said. “All of it.”

The day after his old man croaked, he’d done just that.

Galaxy was in his sights. It was a boxy monstrosity consisting of two mammoth hotel towers and a casino squeezed onto a tiny plot of land. As he navigated the winding entrance, floodlights lit up the night sky as if at a movie premiere. To make it in Vegas, a casino had to be themed, the more outlandish the better. Galaxy’s theme was the golden age of Tinseltown, and a medley of popular movie scores played over hidden speakers.

He tossed his keys to the valet and headed inside.

The lobby was designed to resemble the Beverly Hills Hotel, with a circular marble floor, inset ceiling, and cut-glass chandelier. On every table, fresh cut flowers. A man wearing a tux played show tunes on a baby grand piano that made Billy want to dance.

A short hallway led to a casino several football fields in length. Entering, he passed beneath a smoky dome ensconced in the ceiling where an eye-in-the-sky camera recorded his picture and ran it against a facial-recognition program that identified twenty-six points on his face; the profile was then run against a database of known cheaters. To beat the system, all he needed to do was erase three of those points. By wearing glasses, ball caps, changing his hairstyle, or wearing false teeth, he could walk through any casino unchallenged.

There was more to beat than just the cameras. Floor people also studied the customers. Some were ex-cops with a gift for grift. Billy beat them by pretending to be an ignorant tourist and asking dumb questions. Hustlers called this playing the Iggy, and he did it as well as anyone. The high-roller salon was tucked away in the rear of the casino and had a pair of carved white doors at the entrance. As he turned the knob to enter, he reminded himself that his name was Thomas Pico and that he was a hedge fund manager from New York.

The salon was a cozy space with thick gold carpets and muted lighting. By the entrance, a blond she-devil manned an antique desk. This was the salon’s VIP hostess, whose trust he needed to gain before he ripped the place off. Her nameplate said “L. Shazam.” It fit her.

“Is Ed Butler here?” he asked politely.

“Ed’s off this week,” she replied. “Perhaps I can help you.”

“Ed comped me at the Bellagio a few years ago. I’d heard he’d moved over here.”

“Let me see if you’re in our system. Please make yourself comfortable.”

He took a chair beside the desk and passed her his fake ID. A cocktail waitress glided toward him carrying a tray with a single flute of champagne. The drink was offered and accepted. “Here you are,” the hostess said, tapping her computer screen with her fingernail. “I see that the last time you played at the Bellagio, you were extended a hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit. Were you hoping for that same line of credit with us tonight?”

“I just wanted to say hello to Ed,” he said, sipping his drink. “He probably doesn’t remember me. It’s been a while.”

She politely returned his ID. She’d seen enough about him to know that he was worth stealing from whatever casino he was staying at. “Where are you staying in town, Mr. Pico?”

“It’s Tom. I’m at the Encore.”

“Are they treating you well?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Is there something not to your liking?”

“They usually put me in a suite. Not this time.”

“We have some of the most luxurious accommodations in Las Vegas. Some people say we’ve redefined luxury. I’d be happy to comp you a penthouse suite.”

“I’ll stay where I am. But thanks anyway.”

“Are you a music fan? I can get you front-row seats to the Eagles concert this weekend. It’s been sold out for months, but I have tickets left.”

She wasn’t going to let him go without a fight. Billy tipped his champagne flute, as if to say,
Well done
.

“Just say yes, and they’re yours,” she added.

Rich people never hurried, and Billy took another sip of champagne before responding.

“Can I bring my friends?” he asked.

She nodded, thinking she had him. “How many are in your party?”

“There are seven of us. I brought my team to Las Vegas to celebrate.”

“Your team? Are you in professional sports?”

“I’m a hedge fund manager. They work for me.”

“I don’t see why not.” From her desk drawer she removed a sleeve containing tickets to the upcoming Eagles concert and handed seven front-row seats to him. “Compliments of Galaxy. Would you be interested in staying awhile and playing? Our staff is very accommodating. I can also offer you a ten percent return on any losses you might incur.”

Billy tucked the tickets into his jacket. This was great; not only was he going to rob them blind, but they were going to pay for him to go see one of his favorite bands.

“You know, I might just take you up on that,” he said.

“Splendid. What’s your pleasure?”

“Blackjack.”

She rose and came around the desk, her gold evening dress touching the floor. She was tall and statuesque with a body that could have stopped traffic, the kind of ridiculously beautiful woman that Las Vegas had been built around. She touched the sleeve of his blazer and gave it a little tug. He could not remember a casino employee ever making physical contact with him before. It was out of character, and had he not been absorbed with staring at her jaw-dropping breasts, it might have dawned on him that something was not right.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“It’s Lady. Lady Shazam. Everyone calls me Shaz,” she replied.

“That’s a cool name. Where you from?”

“Southern Cal. Follow me.”

They entered the high-roller salon. The champagne flute was still in Billy’s hand, and he took another swallow, having no idea that his life was about to turn horribly upside down.

NINE

The salon’s five carved mahogany blackjack tables could have resided in the main palace at Versailles. Each had a well-groomed dealer standing at stiff attention. At the center table stood an attractive African American lady with long bony fingers. This had to be Jazzy, the flashing dealer that was about to make Billy and his crew very rich.

“This lady could use some company. I’ll sit here,” Billy said.

“Jazzy, make sure you take good care of Mr. Pico. He’s a very special customer.” To Billy, Shaz said, “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do, Mr. Pico.”

“I will. Thanks again for the tickets.”

“My pleasure.”

Shaz returned to her desk to wait for the next well-oiled sucker to step through the salon’s doors. Taking a chair, Billy removed two stacks from his blazer and dropped them on the felt. A stern-faced pit boss appeared. Under his watchful eye, Jazzy tore off the wrappers and counted the bills.

“Ten thousand,” Jazzy said.

“Go ahead,” the pit boss declared.

Jazzy shoved the money down the bill slot in her table. Taking ten thousand in chips from her tray, she slid the stacks toward her only customer.

“Good luck, sir,” she said.

Billy’s eyes had become fixated on a stack of gold chips in Jazzy’s tray. He’d never seen gold chips before, and suspected this was a special promotion for Galaxy’s wealthiest customers.

“Are those gold chips something new?” he inquired.

“They are,” the pit boss said proudly. “We’re the only casino in town that lets its customers play with gold chips. They’re worth a hundred thousand dollars apiece.”

“Wow. Can I see one?”

“Jazzy, show Mr. Pico a gold chip.”

Jazzy took a gold chip from her tray and placed it on the felt for Billy to look at. He’d tried to counterfeit casino chips many times and come up short. Even with the latest and most comprehensive Pantone color chart, it was impossible to find a chip’s exact color. Then there was the problem of the microchip under the label that allowed the casino to track the chip’s whereabouts. Those two things made counterfeiting chips something you only saw in movies.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” the pit boss said.

“It sure is. Unfortunately, it’s a little out of my league,” Billy said.

“It’s out of most people’s leagues. Let me know if you need anything.”

The pit boss left. Billy placed an orange thousand-dollar chip into the betting circle.

“Deal me a winner,” he said.

Jazzy dealt a handheld game. As she sailed the cards to him, her hands rocked slightly. Tilting his head, he peeked her second card’s identity before it was tucked away beneath her first card. In blackjack, the dealer’s hole card was hidden until the end, which gave the house its edge. By knowing this card’s value, the odds shifted dramatically in his favor.

He won the hand, putting him up a grand. Four rounds later, she did it again. Only Billy couldn’t keep tilting his head without the pit boss spotting him and throwing him out.

“Where can I find an ashtray?” he asked.

An ashtray was brought to the table. He removed a hard pack of Marlboros from the pocket of his blazer and fired up a cigarette, then placed the pack on the table with the flap pointing at Jazzy. The pack was another of Gabe’s creations. Hidden inside was a rectangular mirror resting at a forty-five-degree angle. By gazing down into a slit in the top of the pack, he would be able to see Jazzy’s hole card while she flashed.

Soon he was up twenty grand. Had his bets been larger, the amount could have been two hundred grand. Crunchie had been right in his assessment of Jazzy. She was the best score in town. But he wasn’t here to steal Galaxy’s money. That would come later, after he’d established himself as a sucker with management.

He lost his winnings back through sloppy play while small-talking with Jazzy and learning her upcoming schedule. A new shift worked the weekend, and she’d be back Monday night. That would give him three days to build himself in before pulling his scam.

A cocktail waitress brought him a fresh glass of champagne. He tipped her and gave her a wink. She walked away too quickly, and an alarm went off in his head.

He turned around in his chair. To his surprise, the salon had cleared out. The other dealers and pit boss were gone, and Shaz’s desk was empty as well.

The blood drained from his head. Something had been bothering him, and now he realized what it was. No steam. Some steam always accompanied a high roller betting $1,000 a hand, especially when the high roller was a complete stranger who’d just strolled in. But here in Galaxy’s salon, there was no steam at all.

He turned back to Jazzy. “Where did everybody go?”

Jazzy glanced around the salon. Its emptiness seemed to surprise her as well.

“Beats me. I guess they went on break,” she said.

“At the same time?”

“You’re right. It is pretty strange.”

It was time to get out of Dodge. He scooped up his chips and the gaffed cigarette pack from the table and rose from his chair. “It’s been nice talking to you.”

“Have a pleasant evening,” she said.

He walked briskly toward the salon’s entrance. The fear of getting caught was never far from his thoughts; it was the risk that came with the reward. As he opened the carved doors, he stole a glance over his shoulder. The pit boss had reappeared, and stood in front of Jazzy’s table. Their eyes locked. The look on the pit boss’s face said it all.

Busted!

He hurried into the main casino. If he could get out the front doors unscathed, he’d run down to the street and melt into the mass of humanity that filled the Strip’s sidewalks. Thomas Pico would disappear, never to be heard from again. His car could be dealt with later. He hadn’t given the valet his name, and he’d have Leon come by in a few days and claim it.

He sailed through the casino without a problem. His heartbeat was back to normal as he entered the hotel lobby, thinking he’d dodged a bullet. The feeling didn’t last long.

Shaz was in the lobby waiting for him. She’d ditched the evening dress for a pair of skintight leather pants and a black zippered jacket straight out of a dominatrix’s catalogue. A look of stone-cold hatred filled her eyes.

Flanking her were two of the scariest black dudes Billy had ever seen. They were as big as mountains and were studying him the way a cat sizes up a helpless canary in a cage.

Billy moved backward, having nowhere else to run.

“Get him,” Shaz said.