“Big enough,” he said.
“All the better,” Victor said. “For the super con to work, the cards need to be painted. Are any of your new crew painters?”
Painting the backs of playing cards was an art honed from years of practice. Billy didn’t think Night Train had ever put anything on the back of a card except an accidentally spilled beer.
“No, afraid they’re not,” he replied.
“How about yourself?” Victor asked.
“I’ve done it a couple of times and didn’t get caught.”
“You feel comfortable painting all the high cards in a single-deck game? You’ll need to do this in multiple casinos for the super con to work.”
He swallowed hard. “That’s a lot of cards to paint, Victor.”
“Yes, it is. Kat and Nico do the painting for my crew, and they were going to split up the duties between them when we pulled this off. It’s a lot of work, but the payoff’s huge.”
Victor had thrown him a curveball. Victor had never mentioned that painting was involved in the scam because he planned to have Kat and Nico handle it. But with Victor’s family out of the picture, the job of painting the cards now rested on Billy’s shoulders.
A bad thought flashed through his mind. Maggie Flynn was a painter, and a damn good one at that. She had a unique technique that let her paint five cards at a time before having to return to her purse to apply the special substance to her fingertips. A single-deck game at multiple casinos would be a day in the park for Miss Maggie.
Mags was perfect for the job. But would she do it? His gut told him no. She was done with the life, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to ask her. There was too much money at stake for him not to ask her. The worst thing she could do was throw another glass at him.
“I know somebody,” he said. “Her name’s Maggie Flynn.”
“She any good?” Victor asked.
“They don’t come any better than Mags. Now, tell me about this flawed piece of equipment at the MGM properties. It’s killing me not knowing.”
Forty-Three
Thursday, ten days before the Super Bowl
Early morning was Billy’s least favorite time of day. Beneath the breaking sunlight’s harsh glare, there was no magic in Sin City, the casinos’ garish facades showing every crack and paint chip. Pulling into Caesars, he grabbed the two bags of money he’d stolen from Broken Tooth off the passenger seat and got out.
“Would you like a bellman to help you with your luggage?” the valet asked.
“I can manage,” he said.
He walked unescorted to the football players’ villa. Choo-Choo greeted him at the front door. “You again. What’s in the bags?”
“Money. Lots and lots of money,” he said.
“Well, come on in.”
Choo-Choo led him into the dining room. Room service had delivered a spread of food befitting an Arab prince sneaking away for an illicit weekend. Bagels, lox, caviar, cream cheese, champagne, bacon, eggs, and sweet-smelling sausage. Night Train sat at the head of a long table with Sammy, Clete, and Assassin beside him.
“Help yourself,” Night Train said.
“I already ate.” He cleared a spot and put the bags on the table before taking a chair. He’d constructed a story that he needed to sell to Night Train and his teammates. The story had just enough truth in it for them to believe him and become partners in the super con. “I hit a snag with the Super Bowl scam. My partner got busted and is cooling his heels down at the Clark County jail. He’s going to be out of commission for a while.”
Night Train chewed on a piece of bagel. “What did he get busted for?”
“Seems he murdered a guy.”
“That’s heavy. Can he be tied to us?”
“No, you’re in the clear.”
“Then why kill the scam? We’re still willing to fix the plays. You can place the bets yourself, and we’ll split the winnings. That’s a hell of a lot better deal for you. You’ll make more money with your partner gone.”
“My partner is known for fixing sporting events. The only sporting event on the horizon is the Super Bowl. The gaming board isn’t stupid, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re saying there’s going to be extra scrutiny on the game,” Night Train said.
“That’s right. If something suspicious happens, it will draw heat.”
“Not necessarily,” Night Train said. “Every player steps on that field with butterflies in his stomach. I know, because I’ve been there. Balls get fumbled; players screw up. No one’s going to cry foul if we fix a few plays. You rig the coin toss, and we’ll do the rest.”
“You sure about this?”
“Positive. We’ll make a killing.”
It couldn’t have gone better if Billy had scripted it. Cory, Morris, and Gabe would need to go to Phoenix to rig the coin toss, but that was easily done. Not wanting to appear too anxious, he let a moment pass, then took his next shot. “I have another business proposition for you. Tomorrow, I want you to help me burn several MGM casinos with a super con. It won’t require any rehearsal or lines to memorize. It’s a piece of cake.”
“Sounds interesting,” Night Train said. “What’s our take?”
“Half, just like the Super Bowl fix.”
“Which is what? Say fifty grand, and I’ll toss you on your ass.”
The message was clear. Night Train and his buddies would not rob for chump change. If you’re going to sin, sin boldly, or so the sentiment among the thieving class went.
“It all depends upon the size of your credit line with MGM. I’m assuming you guys have large ones,” he said.
“My credit line with MGM is two million bucks,” Night Train said.
“Same here,” Choo-Choo said.
“One point five million,” Sammy said.
“Me, too,” Assassin said.
Clete’s credit line was the same. Billy couldn’t have asked for a better crew to pull off Victor’s super con. Night Train and company were built in with MGM. None of the MGM casinos would get suspicious if they gambled for high stakes, since they’d done so before.
“You want us to put up our own money? Is that the deal?” Night Train asked.
Billy’s cheeks burned. “You think I’m trying to hustle you?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“No, you don’t have to put up your own money. You’ll use the good-faith money I was going to give you to fix the game.” He turned the bags upside down, and the money he’d stolen from Broken Tooth poured onto the table.
Night Train looked confused. “I’m good with that. But why did you ask about our credit lines?”
“Your credit line is your identity inside a casino,” he explained. “The pit boss pulls it up on his computer, sees that you’re a high roller, and won’t get nervous when you place big bets.”
A smart cheat never admitted he didn’t understand something. The remark put Night Train in a new light and made Billy wonder if the famous football player was just a dumb jock with a portfolio of bankrupt business ventures. It was how most pro athletes ended up.
“With our credit lines, how much can we steal?” Night Train asked.
“Multiply your credit line by two,” Billy said. “That much. Maybe a little more. Then the casino cuts you off. There’s only so much bleeding they’ll take.”
“Our combined credit line is eight and a half million bucks. You’re saying we can steal twice that much with this super con, and we get to keep half?”
“That’s right.”
Night Train glanced at his teammates. A silent agreement was reached, just like that.
“Count us in,” Night Train said.
No one ever said yes that quickly to a heist. There were always fine points to be ironed out and agreed upon. His suspicion that Night Train might be broke now included his pals. That was why they’d jumped at the chance to make a quick hit on fixing the Super Bowl, and it was why they were talking to him now. They needed the dough.