The exchange couldn’t have gone better. Only it wasn’t time to walk. He needed to create a moment that would distract Elle from what had just happened.
“May I call you sometime?” he asked.
“Depends what you have in mind.”
If the number of women he’d dated was any indication, he was a good judge of the female disposition. Elle impressed him as being a wild child and willing to take a dare.
“Rooftop rides on the Stratosphere.”
“Been there, done that.”
“Zip line down the Fremont Street Experience.”
“You talking about SlotZilla? I was there the day it opened.”
She was a toughie. He put his hands on the counter and leaned in. “How about if I take you swimming with the sharks at the Shark Reef Aquarium at Mandalay Bay? Just you, me, and thirty whitetip reef sharks. It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on.”
“But that’s just for special guests of the hotel.”
“I’ve got juice. What do you say?”
“You’re on, hotshot.”
Elle recited her number, and Billy entered it into his cell phone’s directory, then read it back to her. She nodded enthusiastically. He’d taken her thoughts to another place, the exchange of the cards fading into the recesses of her memory.
“I’ll call you in a few days,” he said.
She was all smiles as he left the store.
Twelve
Billy went to the front desk and identified himself to a receptionist as a friend of Night Train. Soon he was walking down a marble hallway with a female manager who’d been taught to smile whenever in the company of wealthy guests and their friends.
“Are you with the NFL?” his escort asked.
“Do I look like a football player?” he replied.
“I meant with the commissioner’s office.”
“No, I’m just a friend.”
They entered the lobby of the Octavius Tower and stepped onto a waiting elevator. His escort had just shared an interesting piece of information. The NFL commissioner’s office knew that Night Train was hanging out at Caesars right before the Super Bowl. Athletes prepared for major sporting events by practicing, getting plenty of sleep, and eating well-balanced meals. None of those things were going to happen while staying in a Vegas casino.
They got off on the second floor, their final destination a polished wood door. His escort knocked, and the door opened to reveal a giant Samoan wearing workout shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. For reasons unexplained, the Polynesian island of Samoa had produced more professional football players than any other foreign country. Billy had to think the place was dull as sin, and the young men were desperate to get off.
“Hello, Sammy,” the escort said pleasantly. “This is Mr. William Cunningham. I believe you’re expecting him.”
Sammy gazed at Billy. “You the real-estate guy?”
“That’s me,” he said.
“You bring lots of cash? We don’t take credit cards.”
Either Sammy was dumber than Miss South Carolina, or it was just an act. Billy produced the stacks of money from his sports jacket.
“Well, come on in,” Sammy said.
The escort departed, and Billy entered the villa. Vegas casinos boasted some of the most extravagant accommodations on the planet, and the villa had the feel of a collector’s well-kept home, with museum-quality Greek urns and life-size statues filling the foyer.
“Is this stuff real?” Billy asked.
“Beats me,” Sammy said. “Watch your step. We were throwing a football around earlier, and one of the urns bit the dust.”
Sammy escorted Billy through the villa to a spacious covered patio overlooking the hotel pool. Sammy walked with a pronounced limp and looked to be in pain.
“You okay?” Billy asked.
“I always limp after a game,” Sammy explained. “It will ease up in a few days.”
The patio was the villa’s showpiece and was drenched in expensive furnishings. In its center sat an antique poker table with four giant football players sitting around it. Sammy made the introductions. “This is Cunningham, the real-estate guy.”
Night Train was the first to say hello. He was Hollywood handsome and wore a white silk shirt unbuttoned to his navel and tasteful jewelry. He flashed his well-known smile and pointed at the empty chair at the table. “Have a seat. Guys, introduce yourselves to our guest.”
The others took turns identifying themselves. The lone white guy was named Assassin and had a shaved skull and tree-trunk arms. The Hispanic with the cauliflower ear was named Clete, and the black guy with the stoner smile was Choo-Choo. It was like entering the land of the giants, and Billy shook their hands before taking the empty seat. Placing his money on the table, he said, “Who’s the banker?”
“I am. How much you got there?” Night Train asked.
“Twenty thousand big ones.”
“That works.” Night Train turned the money into chips and slid the stacks to his guest. Two brand-new decks of Bicycle playing cards still in their boxes sat on the table. One deck was red, the other deck blue. Night Train also slid the decks to Billy.
“You can do the honors,” Night Train said.
Billy removed the decks from the boxes. The jokers and advertising cards were discarded and the cards shuffled. Billy made sure the shuffles were sloppy and uncoordinated. He had hustled other cheats before and knew the importance of presenting himself as a rube to his victims.
“First ace deals.” Billy dealt cards faceup around the table using the red deck. The ace of hearts fell to Night Train. “Your deal.”
He slid the blue deck to Night Train. Night Train presented the deck to Sammy to be cut. Sammy cut the cards and passed them back to Night Train. So far, the game appeared clean, although Billy knew it wouldn’t stay that way for very long.
“I don’t want to play any of that bullshit Texas Hold’em,” Night Train said. “Game’s seven-card stud with a five-hundred-dollar ante. You cool with that, Mr. Real-Estate Man?”
“I’m game,” Billy said.
Everyone threw $500 into the pot. Night Train dealt each player two facedown cards and one faceup card. By the time the game was over, each player would have seven cards from which they’d make their best hand using five cards. Billy glimpsed his facedown cards. He’d drawn two clubs. His faceup card was also a club. The odds of his pulling a flush were strong. Flushes usually won in seven-card stud.
“Raise,” he said when the bet came his way.
Sammy and Assassin dropped out. On the next round, Billy drew another club. He again raised when the bet came his way. Choo-Choo and Clete bowed out.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Night Train said.
Billy was dealt another club and made his flush. When it came time for the reveal, there was more than ten thousand in the pot. Night Train’s face crumbled upon seeing Billy’s hand.
“I didn’t think you had it,” his host said.
“Beginner’s luck,” he said.
“Way to go,” Sammy said.
“I think he’s a ringer,” Clete half joked.
He raked in the chips. This was starting out well, but it wouldn’t end that way. There was a science to cheating at cards that relied upon letting a victim win early to bring down their guard. When the victim was properly fattened, the cheats would go for the kill.
“How about a cold drink?” Night Train asked.
“I could use a brew,” Billy said. “I think congratulations are in order. You guys played a hell of a game yesterday.”
“Thanks. We played so good that our coaches gave us the afternoon off. Choo-Choo, how about a cold beer for our guest.”
Choo-Choo took a glistening Corona from a cooler and popped the cap with his teeth.