“You have first touch,” he said.
When neither man responded to this most incredible of offers, he explained.
“You’re going to rob the cage while I’m catching the Gypsies. The cashier will hand you the money orders, and you’ll walk outside and jump into a car with my crew. I’ll meet up with you later and split the money. Sound fair?”
It was more than fair, and erased any doubts that Billy wasn’t being on the level with them. Both men stuck out their hands.
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Ike said.
THIRTY-ONE
The sunlight was starting to fade when the gaming agents decided to take a break and walked out of the interrogation room. Billy had been talking nonstop, and his vocal cords were turning hoarse. He uncapped the last water bottle on the table and chugged it down.
“Let me have your pen,” he said.
His attorney handed over his gold pen. Billy scribbled on the pad. His attorney gave the question some thought.
“I’d put your odds at less than even money,” the attorney said truthfully.
It was better than having no odds at all. The gaming agents returned and took their places at the table. LaBadie replaced the cassette in the tape recorder on the table.
“Let’s continue,” LaBadie said.
“Ready when you are,” Billy said.
“We want to hear more about the rubber chip you found in Galaxy’s gift shop. You said the gold color matched the casino’s hundred-thousand-dollar chip, and this led you to believe that your crew could counterfeit these chips and use them to rob Galaxy’s casino.”
He’d told them a faithful rendition about the first two days, except for the details about his crew. Those things he’d glossed over, referring to his crew simply as a group of friends that he occasionally got together with.
“I already told you, I don’t have a crew,” he said.
“Stop playing games, Billy. You and your crew made a run at the cage and ripped the place off Saturday afternoon.”
“Never happened.”
“Did Maggie Flynn know your plans?”
He glanced sideways at his attorney. “Tell them.”
“For the record, my client does not have a crew,” Underman said. “If you continue to put words in my client’s mouth, I’ll have to ask you to stop this interrogation immediately.”
“We’re not putting words in his mouth,” LaBadie said defensively.
“I beg to differ.”
LaBadie had been around the carnival a few times and knew that Underman was establishing a line of defense to use at trial.
“Have it your way. Carl, go get the bag,” LaBadie said.
Zander left the room. When he returned, he was holding a paper bag. LaBadie took the bag and poured its contents onto the center of the table. Gold chips from Galaxy’s casino rained onto the table, their color so rich they sparkled in the light.
“Recognize these?” LaBadie asked.
Billy shook his head, playing dumb.
“They’re counterfeits. Your crew used them to steal eight million bucks.”
“I don’t have-”
“We have this on videotape, Billy. Now are you going to come clean with us or not?”
Billy picked up one of the chips and gave it a cursory glance. If they had it on tape, then he was fucked, no two ways about it. So why hadn’t they shown him the tape and gotten it over with? Why go to the trouble of making him tell his story? Either LaBadie was lying or something else was going on. All he could do was keep talking and hope for the best.
“You want to hear the rest of my story?” he asked.
“You’re not going to confess?” LaBadie asked.
“To what?”
“To all the crimes you committed.”
“I didn’t commit any crimes. I’m innocent.”
“You’re making this tough on yourself, Billy.”
“Why don’t you just listen to the rest of my story? I mean, isn’t that why we’re here?”
LaBadie parked himself in a chair. The three gaming agents put their elbows on the table, their eyes boring a hole into their suspect’s face.
“Spit it out,” LaBadie said.
THIRTY-TWO
Billy awoke to being kicked in the shins. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than being bonked in the head with a lead pipe, shot in the face at point-blank range, or strangled with a rope, which occasionally happened to people who cheated for a living. He’d fallen asleep on the couch in the living room of his suite, an empty snifter in his hand. Painful sunlight streamed through the picture window as bright as a police interrogation.
“Get up, you sneaky little bastard.”
A plumber’s dream of Cleopatra stood before him. Baby doll red dress, five-inch spiked heels, her lips a tight red scar, and enough cleavage to open a Hooters. He still hadn’t figured out what her deal was, and decided to make it a priority over the next two days.
“I resemble that remark,” he said.
She kicked him again. He saw it coming and shifted, letting the couch absorb most of the blow. She was on tilt, and in no mood for jokes.
“Hey-what did I do?”
Her hand made a sweeping gesture of the plates from last night’s feast. “Marcus doesn’t appreciate people running up bills in his name, and neither do I. Do it again, and I’ll cut your balls off. Now, get up. We have a lead on the Gypsies to check out.”
The words gave him pause. His plan to rip off Galaxy was contingent upon the Gypsies not getting caught before Saturday afternoon.
“Who got the lead on them?” he asked.
“I did.”
Crunchie stood at the bar wearing black cowboy attire. He’d scraped a razor over his face and cleaned himself up, yet still looked like death warmed over. The hustler’s life got bumpier the longer you stayed in the game; if you didn’t quit the business, the business quit you.
Their eyes met. Billy mouthed the words up yours.
“Same to you,” the old grifter said. “I set a trap for the Gypsies and just caught one of them. Appears I won our little contest.”
“You couldn’t catch the clap in a whorehouse.”
“Watch it, you little punk.”
“Just remember: you wouldn’t have had to blackmail me if you hadn’t screwed up.”
Angry spittle formed at the corners of Crunchie’s mouth, and the old grifter took off his cowboy hat and punched the crease. “I’ve had enough of your crap, Billy. I want to be treated with respect. Stop talking to me that way, or I’ll take you out myself.”
Billy laughed derisively. The old grifter charged across the suite. Shaz clapped her hands, stopping him in his tracks.
“Enough of your macho bullshit,” she said. “Go out in the hallway, and cool your jets. And don’t dare do that again.”
“He’s trying to divide us-can’t you see that?” Crunchie said.
“He’s just playing with you. Now get lost.”
Crunchie shot a parting dagger before retreating to the hallway. Divide and conquer was the only way to fight when you were outnumbered. Billy went to the bar, pulled a carton of OJ out of the fridge, filled two glasses, and brought one to her.
“You enjoy riding his ass, don’t you?” she said.
“Whatever gave you that idea? So tell me about this trap.”
“Ricky Boswell is registered in the hotel. Crunchie thought one of Ricky’s family might try to contact him before Saturday, so we kept his room open. Our operators have been monitoring phone calls to the room, hoping one of his family would call him.”
“Did they?”
“No. But this morning someone visited the room, and the door clicker went off. A security guard was sent. By the time the guard got there, the visitor was gone. Crunchie wants to search the room, see if this person left anything.”