Billy did a double take. It was the same woman that Ike and T-Bird had roughed up coming out of the restrooms. Cecilia Torch, the one who’d played it cool as the casino had tried to bribe her with gifts so she wouldn’t sue. He’d pegged her for a distraught mother, desperate to save her daughter’s wedding from disaster. Had she pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes and actually been hiding the fact that she was part of a family of cheaters?
The two women discussed tomorrow’s wedding. Listening to them talk, he couldn’t tell if Cecilia was faking it. He had an idea. You could learn a lot by listening to a person talk with your eyes closed. The mouth spoke the lie, but the face sold it. But without the face, the lie was just a lie and could be picked up.
He pretended to take a call. What he actually did was shut his eyes and listen to Cecilia talk. He quickly picked up the hint of three-card monte below the surface, the bullshit smooth and expertly delivered. Whatever rancor Cecilia had shown to Lucille when confronted with the accusation of her daughter’s fake gown was history; now Cecilia was respectful and polite, and he knew it was all an act.
He said good-bye into his cell phone and put it away. Then he took a closer look at the daughter’s wedding gown. It made the girl look pregnant. Somehow, the gown played into this.
The conversation between Cecilia and Lucille ended. Lucille said the usual pleasantries and shut the fitting room door. She walked Billy out to the reception area, where his journey had started, her face a question mark.
“Are they the ones?” she asked.
“Afraid not,” he said.
“Damn, I would have sworn it was them.”
Clasping her hands, he gave her a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek.
“You’ve been a huge help,” he said.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.” As he headed for the door, she called out to him. “Don’t forget to check out Tryst. The place gets really hot after midnight.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
Ike and T-Bird stood outside the bridal shop with their cell phones, surfing websites with splashy layouts of Italian sports cars soon to be in their futures. Bye-bye, Camaro, hello, Lamborghini Roadster and Ferrari Spider. His cautionary talk about lying low after the heist had gone in one ear and out the other. Living large was all they cared about.
Their gazes lifted in unison.
“Any luck?” Ike asked.
“Home run,” he said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Billy talked to Cory from the balcony of his high-roller suite. Standing by the rail, he sipped on a bottled mineral water while letting the desert sun bake his face.
“Did Gabe have any problems getting the paint?” he asked.
“Nope,” Cory said. “Gabe’s in the garage now, starting to make the fake chips. He gave me and Morris a lecture on negativity. You should have heard it.”
“You be nice to Gabe. Agree with whatever he says, and don’t you dare piss him off. That goes for Morris, too. Gabe’s our ticket to paradise.”
“I know, I know. He’s a downer sometimes.”
“Deal with it. How’s the horse-race scam looking?”
“We’re all set. You’re playing with Tony G at the Bali Hai at three thirty. Morris and I will be playing in front of you. The scam is for the twelfth race at Santa Anita. Once we know which horse is the ringer, we’ll pass the information to you, and you’ll place a bet with Tony G and fleece him. The ringers are always long shots. Once we had one at fifty-to-one odds, if you can believe it.”
Vegas bookies were tough to fleece. Billy couldn’t see Tony G accepting a large bet on a long shot from a stranger, couldn’t see it at all. Cory was leaving something out.
“You’re telling me you’ve been fleecing bookies with this scam, and none of them wised up? What are you doing, hitting them over the head with a lead pipe?”
“We’re not fleecing bookies, we’re hitting sports books,” Cory explained. “Sal, the guy who’s fixing the races, has a web. Morris and I are part of the web. I probably should have told you sooner how this worked. Sorry.”
Billy’s blood began to boil, and he sipped his water to calm down. Webs were used by fixers to place bets on rigged sporting events. Most webs were spread across the country and employed a dozen or more bettors in different cities whose job was to place medium-sized wagers on rigged events with different bookies. The beauty of a web was that it spread the pain around, and no one bookie got beaten for too much money. The drawback was that it required a large group of people to pull off, as well as a large pool of victims. For Cory to think that the horse race scam at Santa Anita could be used against a single bookie-i.e., Tony G-was insane.
“If I didn’t care about you, I’d throw your ass on the street,” Billy said. “Morris, too.”
“I’m sorry, Billy. I didn’t think it through,” Cory said.
“We’ll talk about this later. In the meantime, I want you and Morris to stop smoking weed. It’s killing your brain cells.”
“Will do. You want me to ice the round of golf?”
“Fuck no. I need to get Tony G off Gabe’s back. Meet me in the Bali Hai parking lot at three fifteen sharp. I’ll think of something between now and then.”
“I’m really sorry, Billy. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“Yes, you will.”
The sound of scratching glass snapped Billy’s head. Inside the suite, Ike stood with his back to the slider, using the diamonds on his Super Bowl ring to let Billy know that they had company. Marcus Doucette, his crazy bride, and Crunchie had appeared in the living room wearing angry faces. Making his cell phone disappear, he went inside to face the music.
“Hit the little bastard,” Doucette said.
“What did I do-at least tell me that,” Billy said.
“Fuck you, you little rat shit. Ike, do as I say.”
Ike was unusually fast for a big man. He grabbed Billy by the front of the shirt, lifted the young hustler clean off the carpeted floor, and smacked him in the mouth with a loose fist. It was a pussy punch, real loud, but without mean intentions. Their eyes met. Ike winked.
Billy knew that he had to sell the idea that Ike was beating him up. Otherwise, he and Ike were both in a world of trouble. He flopped his head to one side as if his neck were broken. Ike threw another pussy punch and he flopped his head to the other side. To sell the notion that he was being hurt, he bit down hard on his lower lip, causing it to bleed. Opening his mouth, he pushed the blood out with his tongue.
“Want me to smack him again?” Ike asked.
“No, that’s enough. Sit him down,” Doucette said.
Ike grabbed a chair and threw Billy into it.
“You know why I had Ike do that?” Doucette asked.
Billy continued to play hurt and shook his head.
“Because you’re waltzing around my casino grilling my employees, and not bothering to tell me what you’ve found. From now on, you’re going to communicate with me. No more bullshit games. Are we clear on this?”
“Yes, sir,” Billy said softly.
Doucette turned to his bride. “Tell him we’re ready.”
Shaz’s eyes were glistening, the sight of blood turning her on. Going to the hallway door, she unchained it and stuck her head out.
“We’re ready for you,” she called into the hallway.
Rock and his two leathered-up bodyguards entered the suite and stood directly in front of Billy’s chair. Rock wore pretty, fat-man clothes-black pants with billowing legs, a tent-sized purple shirt hanging out of his pants, and a snappy fur hat-and clutched his walking stick as if he planned to use it very soon. His bodyguards flanked him like a pair of backup singers.
“I want you to tell me what’s going on in the casino Saturday afternoon,” Rock said. “If you leave anything out-anything at all-I’ll crack your skull open. Now, start talking.”