She took a deep breath. Amber had her dead to rights.
“Maybe I did. Is that wrong?”
“I think it is. It changed you, and not in a good way.”
“What are you saying? That you liked me the way I was before?”
“Your being a grifter doesn’t bother me. If you’re clever enough to take their money, go ahead. I’m cool with it. What I’m not cool with is you thinking you shamed yourself, and that you need to turn yourself into an overnight success to impress me. I don’t like that at all.”
“You think it’s okay I rob casinos?”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
Mags was more than a little surprised. Most people accepted that casino games were rigged in the house’s favor, just like carnival games were rigged. The small percentage of people who felt otherwise had been victimized by a casino and held a grudge.
Amber had grown up in Providence, which was a short drive to the Native American casinos in Connecticut — Mohegan Sun and Foxwoods. Had Amber gambled at one of these joints and gotten cleaned out? Or had she worked for them as a dealer or cocktail waitress and been screwed over? Either scenario was plausible, and Mags decided to tread cautiously.
“Why do you hate the casinos?” she asked.
“During high school I used to hang out at my friend Brie Hartman’s house. On Sundays, Brie’s grandmother Rose would come over and cook these amazing meals. I got invited over a lot. It was always a great time.
“One day, Rose got sick with pneumonia and went into the hospital. She died a few days later. I went to the funeral with Brie and her family. It was really sad.
“After the funeral, Brie told me that Rose had willed her house in Connecticut to Brie’s mom, and that her mom planned to sell it and use the money to put Brie and her sisters through college. The Hartmans didn’t have much, so Brie was really excited.
“Brie’s mom got a good offer. They went to close and discovered the Mohegan Sun Casino had a lien on the property. Rose owed them all this money. Every Sunday during her drive home, Rose would stop at the casino and play the high-stakes slot machines. The poor woman was an addict. Do you think the casino had the decency to cut her off? Hell no. When she died, she owed them three hundred and ten thousand dollars.
“The house went for two hundred and ninety thousand. The Hartmans had to sell Rose’s car and her belongings at a yard sale to pay the debt. Brie’s mom didn’t end up getting a penny from her mother’s estate. The casino got it all.”
“They snapped her,” Mags said.
“Is that what they call it? Well, it broke the family in half. The Hartmans hired a lawyer to see if it was legal, and sure enough, it was. The casinos have an agreement with every state that lets them prosecute people with debt. Even dead people. When I found out that you cheated the casinos, it made me so happy. I know that sounds weird, but it did. You’re aces in my book, Mom. And so’s your friend Billy. He’s cool, too.”
“You told me Billy was a snake,” Mags said.
“That was before he saved you from the gaming board.”
How strange was that? Amber didn’t have a problem with Mags’s criminal past, but she did have a problem with her mother being an actress. Mags had misjudged the situation completely, but at least it had worked out in the end.
It was getting late, and she bought Amber a bag of chocolate chip cookies for the trip before they went in search of her daughter’s terminal.
Forty-Eight
Billy sat on the balcony of his condo, soaking up the morning sunshine. He normally slept in, but today was different. Today he was going to paint cards at blackjack tables at five MGM casinos and, if things went according to plan, live happily ever after.
Going inside, he removed the video camera from its tripod and connected it to the TV. Soon he was watching yesterday’s practice sessions. His painting skills were nothing to write home about, and his thumb still slightly fluttered whenever it touched the back of a playing card.
You go to battle with the army that you have. He couldn’t improve his chops, but he could disguise himself so no one would notice him. Casino employees were trained to watch high rollers because they had the money. As a result, these same employees often ignored players with limited bankrolls who rolled in off the street. These players were seen as a nuisance who contributed little to the casino’s bottom line.
It was an exploitable flaw. He went to his bedroom and entered the walk-in closet. On one wall were the expensive threads he wore at the clubs. Gucci, Versace, all brand names. On the other wall, the ragged clothes for the disguises he wore robbing the joints. Levi Strauss, Gap, and the crap they sold at Kohl’s. The question was, what role would he play this time?
He decided to be a ranch hand. Nevada was home to several large cattle ranches, and it wasn’t uncommon for a ranch hand to drive his dusty pickup into town for a wild weekend. He grabbed a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a denim shirt off the rack.
On the shelf above the rack was his collection of caps. These included baseball caps, caps from conventions that had come to town, and wacky caps sold at tourist shops. Caps were important when creating a disguise. The rim hid the cheat’s face from the eye-in-the-sky, and it also allowed the cheat to establish an identity.
He chose an NRA camouflage cap that he’d bought off a farm boy down on Fremont Street. The cap had “outdoors” written all over it. He got dressed and appraised himself in the mirror. He liked what he saw, except his face. His skin was too smooth to be a ranch hand, his teeth too straight. From a drawer he grabbed a bridge and stuck it into his mouth. The bridge gave him a wicked overbite and distorted his face to the point of being unrecognizable.
He again consulted the mirror. Better but not perfect. Ranch hands lived outdoors and had bronze-colored skin. His skin was a pleasant tan and might get spotted by a sharp pit boss if he wasn’t careful.
In the bathroom, he pulled a can of fake spray tan off the shelf and applied it to his neck, face, and the back of his hands. Before his eyes, his skin changed color and took on a darkish hue. He returned to the bedroom and had a look.
“Yee-haw,” he said to the mirror.
His final stop was the wall safe. He removed two five-thousand-dollar stacks, which he slipped into his pants pockets. Before he started painting cards, he needed to lose. By losing, he’d further establish himself as a sucker and draw no heat.
Time to leave. At the front door, he realized he’d forgotten the tin of luminous paint. He asked himself if he was really cut out for this job. Painting was an art, and he was a mere apprentice. He was putting himself at risk.
But the reward was worth it. Seventeen million bucks for a single day’s work. It didn’t matter that the money would be split with the football players and with Victor. It was still a huge score, and he didn’t walk away from huge scores.
The tin of luminous paint in his pocket, he took the elevator downstairs. Walking outside to the valet stand, he took out the bridge and removed his camo cap. The valet did a double take anyway, the clothes not in character for the tenant who occupied a penthouse suite.
“Sorry, Mr. Cunningham. The clothes sort of threw me,” the valet said.
“I’m slumming it today,” he explained.
“You buy a tanning bed?”
“Got a little too much sun on the golf course. You know how it is.”
“Tell me about it. I’m out in the sun all day. I’ll bring your car right up.”
The valet hustled away. Billy retreated to the shade and put his disguise back on. Then he worked on his new identity. He decided to call himself Ty Lubbick because it sounded like a cowboy name. Having just gotten paid, Ty had driven to Vegas looking for a good time.