He’d found the perfect partners. Thieves by nature with nothing in their wallets. If the super con went according to plan, who knew what the future might hold?
“I think this calls for a toast,” he said.
“Have to be quick. We’re due at practice in two hours,” Night Train said.
“I’ll make them light,” he said.
The villa had an entertainment room with a full bar. Billy offered to fix the drinks and pulled an expensive bottle of champagne out of the fridge along with a carton of OJ.
“How do mimosas sound?” he asked.
The football players chorused their approval. They’d parked themselves in front of a flat-screen TV to watch a video of the Louisville Volunteers, their opponents next Sunday. The video ran in slow motion and was filled with white arrows and lines drawn by an invisible hand.
“Godfrey looks stiff in the pocket, doesn’t he?” Choo-Choo said.
“Sure does. He’s got no lateral movement,” Sammy said.
“What’s wrong with him?” Billy asked, serving their drinks.
“Herniated disc. Got injured in the divisional round against Indianapolis,” Night Train explained. “They’re going to dope him up for the big game and hope he doesn’t say anything stupid when a mic gets shoved in his face.”
The five men erupted into laughter. Neil Godfrey was the Volunteers’ star quarterback and quickly becoming a household name. A fresh-faced kid out of the University of Georgia, he’d set all sorts of passing records during his rookie season last year and become a media darling. It was hard to turn on the TV and not see Godfrey hawking some brand-name product.
“I didn’t see Godfrey listed on the Volunteers’ injury report,” Billy said.
“The league doesn’t want it out. They want to keep the point spread tight,” Night Train said.
“Who’s Louisville’s backup quarterback?” Sammy asked.
“Sycamore. The Jets cut him, and the Volunteers picked him up,” Night Train said.
“Is he any good?”
“Sycamore’s way good. But he gets tight under pressure and starts throwing picks. He’s been released by every team he’s played for.”
The video of Godfrey continued to run. Night Train held up his empty glass. “Hey, barkeep, how about another round? Make it super light so I don’t fall down during practice.”
“You got it.” He collected the empty glass and went behind the bar. Louisville wasn’t going to fare very well next Sunday with an ailing quarterback, all but ensuring a Rebels win. Night Train and his teammates had won the Super Bowl before, and they were about to win it again. They were going to end their careers on top, and then ride off into the sunset.
He fixed the drink. The OJ was done, and he tossed the empty carton away. Lying in the trash was a stack of official-looking documents with the NFL’s logo stamped on the top of each page. Their being in the garbage didn’t seem right, and he pulled them out to have a look.
They were contracts. The first was for Night Train to host the NFL pregame show on NBC, and it included working the playoffs and next year’s Super Bowl. It was a sweet deal, and would let Night Train’s star continue to shine after his playing days were over.
The next contract was for Choo-Choo to work as a color commentator for the NFL Network. It had lots of perks, including first-class travel to all the games and a generous food and wardrobe allotment. The other contracts were for Clete, Sammy, and Assassin to work as talking heads for ESPN and Fox Sports One. The terms were also lucrative.
He returned the contracts to the trash. Just a few days ago, the NFL’s commissioner had met with the football players on the villa’s balcony. He had to believe the commissioner had flown to Vegas to discuss the jobs described in these contracts. Why they’d ended up in the garbage was a mystery, and he supposed the football players were holding out for more money.
He served Night Train. The video of Neil Godfrey was still running. Night Train sipped his drink and said, “The things you just heard about Godfrey are top secret. Understood?”
“Loud and clear,” he said.
“When do we get to see this super con?”
“Don’t you have to go to practice?” he asked.
“We’ve got time.” Night Train made the screen go dark with the remote. “Me and my boys want to see what we’re getting ourselves into.”
“Understood. Step right this way,” he said.
Billy decided to use the antique card table in the corner of the entertainment room for the demonstration. The football players pulled up chairs while he remained standing. “MGM owns twelve casinos on the Strip. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to rig a blackjack game in five of those casinos. I will then contact you and tell you which casinos are your targets.”
“Why not tell us now?” Night Train asked.
“Because I don’t know which ones they are.”
“You’ve lost me, man.”
“MGM’s blackjack tables have been compromised by a faulty piece of equipment that makes it impossible for the pit boss to detect marked cards. I plan to secretly mark cards in five MGM casinos. I need to visit the different MGM properties to determine which are the best targets. Then I’ll contact you and give you the names of which casinos will be taken down.”
“Don’t the casinos change their cards every few hours?” Night Train asked.
“They used to, but it was costing too much money,” he said. “Now they change cards once a day, early in the morning. It’s an easy schedule to work around.”
“Mark them how?” Night Train asked.
“I’m going to use luminous paint to mark the tens, jacks, queens, kings, and aces.”
“Don’t you need special glasses to read that stuff?”
“Tinted sunglasses do the trick,” he said.
“But a pit boss can read luminous marks,” Night Train said. “That’s why a pit boss will come up beside the dealer and watch the game. They have a special way of reading the backs of the cards. I saw it on the Discovery Channel. Or was it bullshit?”
“It was real,” he said. “Like I said, the equipment at MGM properties is flawed and won’t allow the pit boss to read the marks. We’re home free.”
“If this scam takes place at five casinos, how are you going to be in five places at once?” Night Train asked.
“The scams will be staggered over the course of the day,” he explained. “I’ll hop between casinos and work with each of you.”
He paused to let everything sink in. Satisfied that his partners were on the same page, he continued. “Each of you will scam a different MGM casino. Before you show up, you’re going to call the VIP host and announce your arrival. By doing that, you’re guaranteed star treatment when you walk through the front doors. Got it?”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Night Train said.
“When you visit your assigned casino, be sure you wear your Super Bowl rings and lots of bling. Remember, you’re pretending to be BPs.”
“BP? Like the oil company?” Choo-Choo asked.
“BP stands for Big Player. Also known as a sucker.”
Choo-Choo scowled, as did the others. They’d been pissing away their money for years without understanding the arrangement, so he explained. “There are three kinds of players in a casino. Advantage players, who have an edge over the house. Think card counter. Then there are cheats that rob the joints, like me. Everyone else is a sucker. There are no winners.”
“No winners?” Choo-Choo said.
“No sir. If you won all the time, they’d ban you.”