But not tonight. Business came first, and he wanted to hear more about these dirty football players. If they’d fixed games before, then there was a possibility they could be talked into fixing the Super Bowl. He withdrew the gun and opened the passenger door.
“I’m sorry, Billy. I’ll make it up to you,” Travis said.
“You can start by buying me a drink,” he said.
Eight
The party inside Remedy’s was going strong. The place had no real personality, just a collection of pool tables and a lounge with a phony gas-lit fireplace, but that didn’t stop people from having a good time. Billy grabbed a corner table and flagged a waitress. Soon they were drinking Captain Morgan and Coke and acting like nothing had happened between them.
“How much did Broken Tooth tell you about these players?” Travis asked.
“Not much,” he replied. “He gave me an envelope with photographs of guys who play for the Rebels along with newspaper articles about them. Judging by the photos, they look like a bunch of rich jocks. I can’t see them fixing the big game.”
“But you don’t know their history.”
“They’re already rich. What’s their motivation?”
“These guys are hustlers. It’s what they do. Do you follow the NFL?”
“Not since I left New England.”
“Patriots fan?”
“My old man was a diehard. I lost interest when I moved out here.”
“Did you ever consider fixing a football game?” Travis asked.
“Plenty of times. Football has more money bet on it than any other sport in the country. If a hustler can fix a game, he can pocket millions without drawing heat because there are legitimate gamblers doing it every week.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I don’t like cops breathing down my neck. The NFL has a special division called league security that’s always watching the players. We’re talking ex-FBI and ex — Secret Service agents here. These guys are paid to stop guys like us from shitting in the punch bowl.”
Their waitress hovered nearby. Billy raised two fingers, indicating it was time for another round. Travis stared into the fake fireplace, working on his next lines. Billy sensed that he was trying to make things right and wasn’t taking their friendship for granted.
Their drinks came. Travis knocked his back to get up his courage. Then he spoke.
“The Rebels played an exhibition game against the Dolphins in Shanghai last August. It was a meaningless game, but there was still a betting line. With two minutes left on the clock, the Dolphins scored two touchdowns. The Dolphins still lost, but they beat the point spread. The bookies got clobbered.”
“The game was fixed?”
“Yup. Broken Tooth told me that a group of gamblers persuaded members of the Rebels’ defense to massage the score, which they did by easing up on the Dolphins’ receivers and not pressuring the quarterback.”
It was an interesting angle. NFL quarterbacks could throw a ball into a receiver’s hands with near 100 percent accuracy. He’d seen Tom Brady do this enough times to know it was true. The only thing that could stop a quarterback was the defense knocking his receivers off their routes and pressuring him into hurrying his passes.
“And Broken Tooth wants me to approach these same players on the Rebels’ defense to fix the Super Bowl,” he said.
“That’s right. They’ve done it before, and they’ll do it again.”
Billy leaned forward in his chair. “Fixing a game in the preseason isn’t the same as fixing the Super Bowl. The Rebels fought to get here. These guys on defense won’t do it again.”
“Broken Tooth said that the leader of the Rebels’ defense is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Broken Tooth said this guy has been pulling shit since college and getting away with it.”
“What kind of shit?”
“Shaving points on games.”
Conspiring with an athlete with a history of fixing games was the bread and butter of many professional gamblers. But he still wasn’t sold on the idea. The Super Bowl was played on the world’s biggest stage, and anything suspicious would be analyzed to death and eventually figured out. Everything would hinge on how well the dirty players pulled off the fix. If they made it look obvious, everyone involved would go to jail.
“Does this player have a name?” he asked.
“Clovis McClain. Everyone calls him Night Train.”
“That’s the underwear guy.”
“That’s right. Night Train has more endorsements than any player in the NFL. Cars, watches, his own clothing line, he even has a Saturday morning cartoon show. He’s a regular money machine.”
“This isn’t adding up. If word got out that Night Train was dishonest, it would ruin his career.”
“It hasn’t ruined him so far. This guy’s a hustler. I went online and read up on him. An article said his coaches in college warned the new players not to gamble with Night Train during team trips. A coach called him a card shark.”
Cheaters were not born, they were made. If Night Train had been cheating in college, it meant that he’d learned the ropes growing up, possibly from his father or an older brother, and been turned out when he was old enough to fend for himself. Stealing was in his blood, and Night Train was going to keep on doing it until he got caught. The fix was sounding a lot better than a few minutes ago, and Billy’s interest was piqued.
“What’s our take?” he asked.
“You’re going to do it?” Travis grew excited.
“I just might. But first I want to know what our take is.”
“We get territorial exclusivity.”
“Meaning what?”
“The Las Vegas sports books are ours to fleece. Broken Tooth gets everything else.”
“A hundred million bucks was bet on the Super Bowl in Las Vegas last year. That’s ours to work?”
“That’s right, Billy. I was thinking we’d steal ten million, just to be on the safe side. It will be like taking candy from a baby.”
“Who pays Night Train and the other players?”
“That comes out of Broken Tooth’s pocket.”
The appeal of fixing a sporting event was its simplicity. The athlete did all the work, while the gambler made most of the money. But there was a downside. If the police found out, the cheat’s life would become a living hell, and the cheat would be forced to hire a battery of lawyers to defend himself. This was especially true for baseball and football, which were considered national pastimes and often led to Congressional hearings when games were fixed.
Up at the bar, a pretty lady angrily slapped a video poker machine and said, “How come I never win this stupid damn game?” Her complaint triggered an old memory. Billy had been in a bar when a gang of gaming agents had burst in and placed yellow police crime-scene tape across the screens of the video poker machines. Later, he’d learned that the manufacturer had rigged the game so jackpots never paid out. The deception had been going on for years, yet the gaming board hadn’t caught on because it was happening right under their noses.
Broken Tooth was counting on the same thing. It was crazy enough to work.
“I like it. Count me in,” he said.
Travis nearly hugged him. “You won’t regret this, Billy.”
“I sure hope not. How do I connect with this guy?”
“Night Train has a suite at the Octavius Tower at Caesars where he stays after practice. That’s where he and his defensive teammates are right now. Secretly, of course.”
“Those villas run forty grand a night. Sounds like my kind of guy.”