“What do you want?” he answered.
“Are those Broken Tooth’s men?” Grimes asked.
“No, they’re the Boy Scouts.”
“Never hurts to double check. Say something into the button on your shirt. I need to check the transmission again.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Just do it.”
Billy dipped his chin and spoke into the button. “This is a test of the emergency idiot system. This is only a test.”
“You’re not funny,” Grimes snapped.
“Got to run. Remember, if you shoot me, your case goes south.”
“Don’t tempt me, Cunningham.”
He ended the call and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The henchmen emerged with two shopping bags of takeout. Billy got out of his car and walked toward them.
“Ready when you are,” he said.
“Not yet.” Man Bun pointed at the roof of the rental. “Hands there.”
Billy slapped his hands on the roof. Man Bun patted him down, then stuck his hand underneath Billy’s shirt and ran his hand over the young hustler’s chest, searching for a wire. Satisfied, Man Bun jerked open the rental’s passenger door.
“Get in.”
Billy got in, and the bodyguards sandwiched him into the front seat like a human sardine. The rental pulled out of the lot heading west on Spring Mountain Road and was soon doing eighty miles an hour. Billy wasn’t wearing a seat belt and hugged the dashboard, fearful of being hurled through the windshield if they made a sudden stop.
“Slow down!”
Man Bun let out a brutal laugh. A mile later they slowed to sixty miles per hour, and the rental took a left on Lindell Street on two wheels. A mile after that, the daredevil move was repeated, this time on West Flamingo, followed by a quick right on El Camino and into the driveway of a one-story house with shuttered windows and zero landscaping, the rental’s wheels screaming as the brakes were finally used. Billy spotted a mailbox hugging the sidewalk: number 4021.
The garage door went up, and the rental entered. Billy stole a look in the mirror. The van with the gaming agents was nowhere to be seen. You’re screwed, he thought. The garage door came down, bringing darkness. The car doors were opened, and the car’s interior light came on. The henchmen got out. Billy followed, and the bags of takeout were shoved into his arms.
“Here, mule,” Man Bun said.
“I hope you got enough for everyone,” he said.
Man Bun opened an interior door that led into the house. They entered single file and passed through a small kitchen into the living room. The Chinese food smelled absolutely delicious, and Billy promised himself he’d try Joyful House if he got out of this alive.
Mismatched furniture and no wall coverings gave the living room a nightmarish feel. Blinds covered the windows, the main light coming from the flat-screen TV, on which a game show was playing. Broken Tooth sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, watching his prize cricket do battle with a smaller, less skillful opponent. If Billy had gotten a thousand crooks together and asked how many owned a champion fighting cricket, only one hand would go up, and it would belong to this crazy loon. His gut told him to make a run for it while he still had a chance, only there was still the matter of poor Leon, who sat bound in a chair in the corner. His driver looked worse than advertised, his eyes slits, his nose caked with blackened blood.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Leon whispered.
“Hold tight, my man,” Billy said.
The contest over, Broken Tooth scooped the smaller cricket off the floor, bit its head off, and spit it away, all the while giving his guest a suspicious stare.
“Tell me how the meeting with the football players went,” the Chinese gangster said.
“Like a charm,” he replied, speaking clearly so the wire hidden in his shirt would pick up every word. “Like I told you over the phone, I cheated Night Train and his buddies at cards. When Night Train tried to pay me off, I gave him his money back. That got his attention.”
“Very smart. He in your debt now,” Broken Tooth said.
“That’s right. He owes me. That’s when I broached the subject of his fixing next Sunday’s Super Bowl. I offered to give him and his friends five hundred grand in good faith. My gut tells me he’s on board: all I have to do is deliver the money. You got the cash?”
Broken Tooth’s eyes went wide. Scooping his prize cricket off the floor, he leaped to his feet and wagged a crooked finger in his guest’s face. “Why you say ‘next Sunday’? Everyone know when Super Bowl is! Why you just say that?”
Billy froze. He’d said “next Sunday” to avoid Broken Tooth getting an acquittal based on a technicality. Broken Tooth, as clever as a shit-house rat, had picked up on it.
“It’s just an expression of speech, that’s all,” he said.
“Bullshit. You’re wearing a fucking wire!”
“No, I’m not. Your man patted me down at the restaurant parking lot.”
“That doesn’t mean shit. You could have a wire stuck up your asshole.”
“Stop being so paranoid. I’m clean.”
“You’re not clean! Take off your clothes right now!”
A man had to know his limitations. For Billy, it was letting a stranger investigate his anal cavity. The game was over; now it was time for the cavalry to make their entrance and save the day. Of course, the gaming board might not have pinpointed which house Billy was holed up in. That was easily fixed, and Billy snatched the prize cricket out of Broken Tooth’s hands and held the struggling insect between its front legs like a chicken wishbone. The cricket was stronger than he’d anticipated and nearly wiggled free.
“He’s a tough little sucker. Did you really pay twenty grand for him?” he asked.
“Give him to me, or my men will kill you,” Broken Tooth seethed.
“Only if you say please.”
“Don’t mess with me, Cunningham!”
He planned to hold the cricket hostage until the front door came down. “The address where you can find me is 4021 El Camino,” he said into the middle button of his shirt.
“What did you just say?” Broken Tooth said.
“Repeat. 4021 El Camino. Hurry up. It’s getting hairy in here.”
“He’s wearing a wire! Take him out!” Broken Tooth said.
The henchmen sat at the dining room table partaking of the takeout delicacies. Jumping up, they drew guns and moved toward their guest. They meant business, and Billy mimed pulling the cricket apart. Broken Tooth screamed like a mother seeing her infant tortured.
“Better not shoot,” Billy said.
“You are going to die,” Broken Tooth said.
“Everyone has to go sometime.”
The game was over. Broken Tooth chopped the air like he was breaking a board. Man Bun aimed at Billy’s temple. The cricket dropped from his hands to the floor.
“Do it,” Broken Tooth said.
Man Bun closed one eye and steadied his arm. Billy’s life flashed before his eyes. The past ten years had been one long joyride, and his only regret was never ripping off a joint with Mags by his side. A splintering sound shattered the air as a battering ram took down the front door. Moments later, the gaming agents rushed into the living room brandishing their shotguns.
Billy dove headfirst to the floor as the first shot was fired.
Thirty-Eight
Billy hated guns for the simple reason that they were rarely accurate, even at close range. Ninety percent of the time, the wrong thing got hit.
Lying on the floor, he watched the fusillade of bullets hit everything but their intended targets. In a movie, it would have been funny, but not so in real life, where a ricochet could have taken out him or Leon. Grimes finally settled things and got close enough not to miss. The house shook as the henchmen’s bodies hit the floor. It was all Billy could do not to yell, “Timber.”