“Sorry about that. Are you up for some fun and games?” Billy said.
“I’m in my car, heading to LA,” Casey said.
“Trouble?”
“Afraid so. I’ve been running a chip cup scam at one of the Venetian’s craps tables. This afternoon, the dealer flipped the cup over and exposed it to the eye-in-the-sky. They arrested him.”
“Think he’ll turn on you?”
“My gut says he won’t. But just in case he does, I’m going to be far away from Vegas. I’ve booked a one-way ticket to Hawaii out of LAX tomorrow morning.”
No simpler cheating device had stolen more money from the casinos than the chip cup. It was a tin shell designed to look like a stack of low denomination chips, its purpose to secretly steal high-value chips inside its shell. The dealer did the stealing, then sold the chip cup stuffed with chips to his partner sitting at the table.
A great scam, except for one minor problem. The chip cup was on the table in plain view. If a suspicious pit boss picked it up, Katy bar the door. Or in Casey’s situation, the clumsy dealer fumbled and turned the cup over, exposing its false construction. Either scenario would lead to immediate arrest and a lengthy stay in the gray-bar motel.
“Sure I can’t talk you into coming back?” Billy said.
“Christ, Billy, I’d like nothing better than to run with you again. We had a blast back in the day. You were the champ when it came to thieving.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Don’t tempt me, man. I need to leave town and let the dust settle.”
“I’ll give you half a million bucks.”
“Oh man. I wish I could say yes, I really do.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“I did time a few years back. Worst experience of my life. I won’t go back.”
Nevada had an unwritten policy when it came to dealing with cheats. The courts sent them to the state’s most notorious penal institutions, where cheats lived in tiny cells without air conditioning, ate food unfit for a dog, and tried to survive among rival gangs trying to kill each other. Billy couldn’t blame Casey for not wanting to go back.
“I understand. I hope it works out for you,” he said.
“Good luck with your scam,” Casey said.
“I’m probably going to do the painting myself. Any tips you can share?”
“Sure. The person most likely to catch you painting is the dealer. Make sure you sit at a crowded table. The more distraction, the less chance you’ll get caught.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Keep your thumb still when you paint. If your thumb starts flapping, you’re cooked.”
“Got it. Thanks, man.”
Soon Billy was in his penthouse apartment fixing himself a cup of coffee. When it came to thieving, necessity was the mother of invention. If he couldn’t hire a painter, he’d do the job himself. From the hall closet he removed a video camera and tripod stand, which he set up at the dining room table. Then he got several decks of cards and a small round tin of luminous paint from his study.
He hit the record button on the video camera and took a chair at the table. Picking up one of the decks, he dealt himself a blackjack hand, then opened the can and covered his thumb and forefinger with the invisible substance.
He practiced painting the backs of the two cards. A light brush of the fingertips was all that was necessary. If done right, the move was barely perceptible. If done wrong, the move would wake the dead, and he’d get hauled off to jail.
He went through an entire deck, then stopped and programmed the video camera into the TV in the living room so he could critique himself. The video came on, his hands filling the screen. He watched himself and nearly choked. His technique was amateurish and would be easily spotted by a sharp dealer.
He returned to the dining room and started over. Casey had said not to flap his thumb. That was easier said than done. He went through two more decks of cards, watched the tape, and still caught himself in the act every single time.
He got more cards from his study and started over. He was determined to get the move down right, the conversation with Grimes fresh in his mind. Thieving was his life; the day he quit would be the day they put him in the ground.
Forty-Seven
Friday, nine days before the Super Bowl
Mags and Amber cabbed it to McCarran the next morning. Inside the terminal, blaring commercials for musical revues and magic shows playing at the Strip casinos ran endlessly on large screens. Listening to them for too long could lead to insanity, even death.
Mags stood in the check-in line with her daughter. They’d hardly spoken during the ride, and now Amber was not making eye contact. How long would it be before they saw each other again? A year? Two? Maybe never? She tried not to cry, but it was hard. Twenty-four hours ago, her life had been filled with the stuff that dreams were made of. With the suddenness of a lightning strike, it had turned into a disaster movie. Hardship and failure had defined most of her existence, and she could deal with it. What she couldn’t deal with was having Amber experience the failure with her. That part was tearing Mags’s heart out.
It was their turn. Amber handed her driver’s license to a ticket agent with a zombie personality. The agent typed her info into a computer and said, “Sorry, your flight’s been delayed. The scheduled departure is now eleven a.m. Next, please.”
Amber’s shoulders sagged. She was ready to go home and put her mother’s mess of a life behind her. “That sucks. Where’s a good place to get some breakfast?”
“There are a variety of restaurants at your gate,” the ticket agent said.
“My mom can’t get out to the gate without a ticket. What about the main terminal?”
“Try the Starbucks in the Esplanade. Next, please.”
The Starbucks was like a visit to happy town. Five employees manned the counter, flying high on caffeine and the corporate desire to please. Mags was starving and ordered two double-smoked bacon, cheddar, and egg sandwiches and a fruit bowl to go with their coffees.
“Looks like you got your appetite back,” her daughter said.
Mags took a monster bite out of her sandwich. “It never went away.”
“You deliberately starved yourself? No wonder you look so unhealthy.”
“It was Rand’s suggestion. He said the cameras make actors look fat. I was sick a lot, come to think of it.”
“You’re borderline anorexic and you’re also a nervous wreck.”
“And your point is?”
The sandwich was soon reduced to greasy remains. It had been months since Mags had eaten a meal without counting the calories, and she went to the counter and ordered a chocolate chip muffin that had caught her eye and returned to the table munching on it.
“Mom, I want to ask you a personal question. Please don’t get mad.”
Mags groaned inside. The visit was nearly over, and Amber was going to lower the boom and ask Mags why she hadn’t been around to see her daughter grow up. There was an answer, but it wasn’t pretty. Being a thief and having a kid didn’t go together, so Mags had dumped Amber on her folks, split town, and never looked back. Sure, she’d sent money and the occasional gift, but that was only to assuage her own guilt. It was only later that she’d regretted the decision not to raise her child, but by then Amber was grown up.
“Sure, honey.”
“Did you quit being a thief and decide to become an actress for me?”
The question caught her by surprise. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Because you sent me an airline ticket and asked me to come out here. You sounded so damn proud over the phone when you told me your pilot had been picked up by CBS. You didn’t call Grandma or Grandpa with the news; you called me. You wanted to impress me.”