Five bottled waters sat on the table. He picked up one and unscrewed the top. He’d known the seven people who’d died yesterday, and he realized that they were the only ones who really knew what had gone down. Last man standing had its advantages, and by the time the water bottle was empty, he’d come up with a story for the gaming agents that just might keep him from going to prison.
“Let’s get started,” LaBadie said. “We want you to explain to us what you were doing inside Galaxy’s casino yesterday afternoon. Take your time, and don’t leave anything out.”
“It all started on Wednesday night,” Billy said. “That’s when I got the phone call.”
“You got a phone call on Wednesday night.”
“That’s right.”
“From who?”
“A guy named Captain Crunch. His friends call him Crunchie. If it wasn’t for that phone call, I never would have ended up at the Galaxy.”
“All right. Start there, and don’t leave anything out.”
TWO
Vegas was hustler heaven, with over a hundred casinos that never closed. A smart hustler could have five operations going and spend his night making withdrawals like they were ATMs. Two hundred here, another two hundred there-it all added up to a decent night’s pay.
Those scores paid the bills, but it was the big takedowns that bought the houses and the fancy toys. Every casino had chinks in the armor that could be exploited. Every casino could be taken down. That was where the crews came in, and the planning.
Billy’s crew was in a grind joint on Fremont Street called the Four Queens. Foul cigarette smoke, stinking ashtrays, perfume turned sour on little old ladies sweating out their Social Security checks, combined with flashing slot machines gave the joint its special charm. It was supper time, and they were about to rip the place off for thirty grand.
His crew consisted of seven members, each of whom had a specific job. The big dude shooting the dice was a sleight-of-hand expert named Travis. The luscious brunette and redhead distractions at the far end of the craps table were Misty and Pepper. And the two college-aged boys who’d actually place the bets and take off the game were Morris and Cory.
Billy was the captain and gave the orders. Nothing happened without his say-so.
The casinos knew Billy, so he took precautions. Tonight he wore a sleeveless T-shirt and fake buckteeth that made him look like a country bumpkin. No security guards were sniffing around, and he signaled Travis to start the play. The big man scooped the dice off the table.
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” Travis said.
Three casino employees worked the game: a boxman to watch the money, a dealer to supervise bets and make payoffs, and a stickman who moved the dice around the felt with a hook-shaped stick. To keep them distracted, Misty and Pepper wiggled their asses and flashed plenty of cleavage. Before joining Billy’s crew, they’d done porno, and were not the bashful type.
Stealing a die off a craps table was a gutsy play, but it could be done. Travis threw one die down the table, while secretly thumb-palming the second in his enormous hand. The human eye could only watch one moving object at a time. As the lone die ricocheted off the wall, Misty and Pepper jumped back, pretending the second die had jumped off the table and grazed them.
“You hit me!” Misty said.
“Me, too,” Pepper chorused.
“Die on the floor,” the stickman announced.
Resting his arm on the table, Travis dropped the stolen die into Billy’s glass of Coke, where it floated to the bottom and disappeared. The boxman shot Travis a suspicious look. Travis turned his hand over, exposing a clean palm.
“Be more careful next time,” the boxman scolded.
“I will,” Travis said.
Play was halted as the stickman hunted for the lost die. Eventually, the search was called off and the stickman returned to the table. Reaching into the white plastic bowl on the table, the stickman sent a new pair of dice down the felt with his stick.
“Not so hard this time,” the stickman said.
“You got it,” Travis replied.
Travis scooped up the new pair, and play resumed. Billy watched the three employees to make sure they were cool with the play. No one had felt a breeze, and he headed for the front door with the stolen die.
He hustled down the sidewalk on the south side of Fremont Street. Old downtown was the pits, the sidewalk filled with nasty-looking hookers and panhandlers. On the corner stood Cory and Morris, having a smoke. Both had curly mops of hair and could have been stand-ins for the actor Daniel Radcliffe. They had aspirations to one day run their own crew and would have scrubbed toilets if Billy told them to.
“Hey, Billy. Everything cool?” Cory asked.
“Everything’s cool,” Billy said. “You gents ready?”
They both dipped their chins. Billy had to believe they were two of the most innocent-looking thieves in town. It was one of the reasons he’d recruited them.
“Be back in a few,” he said.
“We’ll be waiting,” Morris said.
Billy entered the city parking garage on Fremont and climbed the stairwell to the second level, where the rented stretch limo he used for his jobs was parked. Earlier that evening, he’d picked up his crew from their homes, the limo stocked with cold drinks and deli sandwiches. None of the cheats who’d ever run with him could say he hadn’t treated them well.
Leon sat on the limo’s hood, plugged into his MP3 player. He was a square john but did not care that Billy was a cheat. Driving Billy’s crew around was better than selling dope or pimping, which was how a lot of limo drivers made a buck. Leon unplugged himself.
“Your teeth are funky. Where’d you get ’em?” he asked.
Billy pulled the fake teeth out of his mouth and slipped them into his pocket. “Party City. They’ve got lots of cool stuff. I need you to call the Golden Steer and make a reservation for eight. Ask for one of the private rooms. We’re eating steak tonight.”
“What time?”
“Make it an hour from now.”
“You got it, boss.”
Billy climbed into the backseat of the limo. Gabe, the seventh member of his crew, lay sprawled across the rear seat, watching college basketball on the miniature TV while chowing on a sandwich. Seeing Billy, he sprang to attention.
“How did it go?” Gabe asked.
“Travis was a star tonight. So were the girls.”
Billy had discovered Gabe in a mall working at a jewelry kiosk, and had seen a real talent in his chubby hands. Gabe’s job was to manufacture the gaffed casino equipment Billy’s crew used in their heists, an investment that had paid off handsomely. Fishing the stolen die out of his drink, he dropped it in Gabe’s hand. Gabe stole a glance at the game’s score before killing the picture.
“How much you have on the game?” Billy asked.
“Who said I had a bet on the game?”
“I did.”
Gabe held up two fingers, signifying twenty grand was riding on the game’s outcome.
“I thought you were broke.”
“I got a line of credit from my bookie.”
“Who in this town would lend you that kind of money?”
“Tony G.”
“You promised me you’d stay away from that shark. Next time you want to borrow money, come to me instead. Understand?”
“Sure, Billy. Whatever you say.”
Gabe had once owned a swanky jewelry store, which he’d lost betting on college sports. His gambling addiction was severe, and Billy was afraid it was going to get Gabe killed.
Removing a jeweler’s loupe from his breast pocket, Gabe spent a moment examining the serial numbers and logo imperfections stamped on the stolen die. Every casino in town employed these tricks to thwart cheaters.