A police cruiser entered the parking lot. A pair of cops were checking out the cars, and Bronco unwrapped one of the burgers sitting on the seat, and shoved it into his mouth. He drove past the cruiser and rolled his window down.
“Good afternoon, officers,” he said through a mouthful of food.
The two cops nodded, their faces all business.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
The cops stared right through him. Bronco had been disguising himself as an old man for years, and it never failed to work. It was like being invisible, only he got discounts on food and better service in restaurants.
“Have a nice day,” he called as he drove away.
Bronco thought about his situation while driving into the city. He could last a day or two changing his appearance, but not much more. The police would eventually track him down, and he’d end up back in jail. Just two days behind bars had convinced him that he wouldn’t last very long being locked up. He’d heard about ex-cons who’d killed themselves rather than go back to the joint, and always thought the stories were crazy. Now, he didn’t think they were crazy at all.
He needed money, and lots of it. Money would buy him time, and time was freedom. It was as simple as that. He knew just how to get it.
The outskirts of Reno had more stores than the city itself, and he pulled into a strip shopping center, and parked by a neighborhood pub called Woody’s. Inside, he found a bunch of armchair quarterbacks sucking beer and watching the local news on a giant screen TV. A breathless newscaster was describing his escape from the police station that morning, and the resulting manhunt which was taking place across the state. He threw a ten dollar bill on the bar, and asked for a glass of tomato juice and quarters to use the pay phone.
“Phone’s in back,” the bartender said, sliding his drink and change across the bar.
The phone booth was next to the kitchen. Bronco slid onto the seat while staring at his enlarged mug shot on the TV. The newscaster said, “If there is a happy footnote to this story, it’s that the guard who was attacked at the jail, Karl Klinghoffer, was resuscitated by another guard, and is expected to make a full recovery.”
Bronco found himself nodding. He’d liked Karl. Like a lot of cops, Karl had larceny in his heart, and had been easy to manipulate. Placing the receiver into the crook of his neck, he dialed from memory the number of the cheating gaming agent at the Nevada Gaming Control Board. Moments later, an automated voice told him to put in three dollars and sixty-five cents. Bronco fed the coins in, and his call went through.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said.
“It’s me,” Bronco said. “Go outside, and call me back at this number.”
“You! How dare you—
“Just do as I say,” Bronco told him. He recited the number printed on the pay phone, then hung up. Two minutes later, the phone rang.
“How’s it going,” Bronco said.
“You crummy bastard,” the cheating agent screamed. “I heard what you did. You offered to sell me down the river if the police let you out of jail. How dare you call me!”
“Calm down,” Bronco said.
“Fuck you!”
“I broke out of jail this morning,” Bronco said. “I’m on the lam.”
There was a long silence. Then, “You didn’t give me up?”
“Of course not,” Bronco said, sipping his tomato juice. “That was a bullgarbage story put out by the police. They were trying to smoke you out.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Believe what you want.”
Another silence. “Why did you call me?”
“I need money.”
“Like I’m going to wire it to you? Get real.”
Bronco’s hand tightened around the receiver. The cheating gaming agent was a real head case. He’d gotten pissed off at his employer a few years ago, and decided to pay him back by taking dead aim at the casinos. A revenge thing.
“Listen to me,” Bronco said. “As long as I’m free, you’re free. Understand?”
Another silence. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good. I want you to go back to your office, and find me a slot machine in Reno that’s ready to be ripped off.”
“I already gave you one of those,” the agent said.
“It’s been used.”
“By who?”
“I gave it to a guard in the jail.”
“A guard? How stupid is that?”
Had they been in the same room, Bronco would have strangled him. Fucking civil servant who discovered that the people he worked for were scum and had developed a self-righteous attitude because of it.
“He helped me get out of jail,” Bronco said.
The agent let out an exasperated breath. “Give me five minutes.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Bronco said.
Bronco drank his tomato juice and watched TV while he waited. The pub had several slot machines, and he had to force himself not to play them. Slots in bars were “tight” and rarely paid out, and he’d always enjoyed ripping them off.
But he didn’t do it. He needed to show restraint if he was going to stay out of jail. That was what tripped most criminals up. They followed certain behavior patterns that were recognizable and allowed the police to track them down. For him, it was playing the slots. If he could just stay away, he’d be okay.
He got another glass of tomato juice from the bartender. Over the years, he’d devised dozens of ways to cheat the slots, and liked to think of himself as an innovator. He’d been the first cheater to tie a piece of monofilament to a coin, drop it into a machine, and jerk it back out. It let him play for free, always a fun proposition. He had invented that scam and many more, but they didn’t compare to what the cheating agent at the GCB was doing. Every day, sitting in his office in Las Vegas, the agent was rigging slot machines in all corners of the state. The agent had figured out how to rig the machines using his own field agents, all of whom were oblivious to what was going on. It was better than any scam Bronco had ever heard of, and he knew its secret.
Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. Bronco snatched it up. “Where you been?”
“Looking at your mug shot on the department’s web site,” the cheating agent said. “Every cop in the state is hunting you. The casinos are on the alert, too.”
“Fuck ’em,” Bronco said.
“Suit yourself. One of the Drew Carey’s Big Balls of Cash machines at the Peppermill is ready to pay off. Jackpot will be ninety-six hundred and change. That enough money for you?”
Bronco liked most of the slot machines which featured celebrities, but he hated the Drew Carey machines. Every time a person played, a recording came on of the comic berating the player. It was sick, even by his standards.
“That’s enough,” Bronco said.
“Good. You’re going to need a claimer for the jackpot,” the agent said.
“You think so?”
“I sure do. The governor has ordered every casino to ID anyone who wins a jackpot, regardless of the amount.”
Bronco clenched his teeth. He would have to find a claimer, and he’d have to find them fast. Another headache.
“Which machine?” Bronco asked.
“I want you to promise me something, first.”
“I don’t make promises,” Bronco said.
“Well, you’re going to have to make an exception with me. I want you to promise me that this is it. No more phone calls. The partnership is dissolved.”
Bronco felt the veins in his head popping the skin, his brain twirling the way it did when he grew enraged. No one strong-armed him. No one.
“Sure,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I want to hear you say it,” the agent said.
“I promise,” he grunted.
The agent was stupid. He believed there was honor among thieves. He told Bronco which Drew Carey machine at the Peppermill was rigged, and Bronco slammed down the phone without saying goodbye.
Bronco walked through the pub. On the TV, the local news had started over, the lead story his daring escape from jail. He remembered the old Don Henley song about dirty laundry, and felt a tingle knowing that he was giving people their jollies.