“How did you manage to go to MIT? I hear the tuition’s crazy,” she said.
“I got a full ride,” he said.
“You must be some kind of brainiac.”
“School always came easy to me. During my first semester, they gave me the Bucsela Prize for outstanding achievement in mathematics. The funny part was, I hardly ever studied.”
“Your old man must have been proud.”
“Not for very long.”
“What do you mean?”
“I only lasted two semesters.”
“Why’d you quit?”
The words hit him hard. Mags hadn’t asked him if he’d flunked out or been thrown out. She’d asked him why he’d quit, as if it was a statement of fact. Every time he’d been busted by the gaming board, a nosy gaming agent had dug into his past, seen he’d gone to MIT, and wanted to know why he’d only lasted a year. Rather than tell the truth, he’d made up a lie, and now Mags had repeated that lie. It could only mean one thing: she was an informant working for the enforcement division of the gaming board.
He jumped off the couch, startling her.
“I’m going to be late. I’ll call you Sunday,” he blurted out.
She rose as well. “What’s wrong? Your face is all red.”
“Talking about college isn’t my favorite subject.”
“Did something bad happen? Come on, you can tell me.”
What had happened was that a woman he’d been carrying a torch for had stuck a dagger straight into his heart, and it hurt so bad that he needed to get away from her as fast as he could.
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another time,” he said.
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
She pressed her body against him. Their lips touched. It was all he could do not to put his hands around her throat and choke the life out of her.
FORTY
The Bali Hai golf course was part of the shimmering-gold Mandalay Bay Resort. Billy parked his Maserati in the gravel lot and sat very still. It didn’t seem real. Mags had gone over to the dark side. And to think that he’d asked her to work with him ripping off casinos.
A tap on his window got him out of the car. Cory had a bag of golf clubs slung over his shoulder, Morris a racing form. Cory passed Billy the golf bag.
“Tony G’s waiting for you by the first tee in his cart,” Cory said. “He’s got his enforcers with him, Guido and Snap. Guido won the Las Vegas bodybuilder championship last year; Snap fights mixed martial arts. Guys who don’t pay get their arms snapped.”
Morris handed him the racing form. It was for today’s races at Santa Anita. It was in the twelfth race that Sal the fixer would switch in the Brazilian ringer. Sal was purposely not letting his web of bettors know which horse was the ringer until right before post time. That way, his web couldn’t share the information and bring down the ringer’s odds.
“How are we going to work this?” Billy asked.
“Sal will text me a few minutes before the race starts with the ringer’s name,” Cory said. “I’ll text the information to you, and you’ll scam Tony G.”
“If Tony G sees me reading a text and then betting on a long shot, he’ll feel a breeze. Try again,” Billy said.
“We can send the information to you by code on your Droid,” Morris suggested. “You’ll put your cell phone on vibrate and stick it in your pocket.”
“Vibrating cell phones make noise. If Tony G hears the vibration, he’ll get suspicious. Try again.”
“Here’s an idea,” Cory said. “The club has a drink service. Cute girl drives out in a cart, brings you an ice-cold beer. I’ll bribe her into passing you the information on a cocktail napkin.”
“What if she gives the napkin to Tony G by mistake? Is that when Snap breaks my arm?”
Beaten, Cory and Morris gazed shamefully at the ground. They were the little brothers that he’d never had, yet there were times when he wanted to throw them both down a flight of stairs. Still holding the racing form, he slapped it against Cory’s chest.
“Find a pencil, and draw circles around the horses that should win the other races, but don’t draw anything on the twelfth,” he said.
Cory went inside the clubhouse to get a pencil. An idea was brewing in Billy’s head, and he popped the Maserati’s trunk. He carried a variety of stuff in the trunk, including a box of magic props. He frequented the local magic shops, always on the lookout for a new gimmick that could be used to beat the casinos. His favorite shop was Houdini’s inside the MGM Grand, where every purchase came with a free lesson from one of the demonstrators.
He removed a swami gimmick from his collection and shut the trunk. It was made of brass and prefitted with a tiny piece of lead that fit comfortably under his right thumbnail. With it, he could secretly write on a piece of paper-or a racing form-without being detected.
Cory came back outside. He’d done as told and circled the favorites on the racing form while leaving the twelfth race blank. Billy stuck the form in his back pocket.
“Do either of you know semaphore?” he asked.
“I learned in the Boy Scouts,” Morris said.
“Good. Here’s what I want you to do. When Sal texts you the ringer, drop your beer on the ground and curse. Then grab two clubs from your bag and start loosening up. Use the clubs to signal the first three letters of the ringer’s name. That’s all I need to find it on the form.”
“Got it,” Morris said.
It was 3:20 p.m. Billy still needed to buy golf shoes from the pro shop before heading out to the first tee. He put his arms on their shoulders and drew them close.
“Tell me you’re ready,” he said.
They swore to Billy that they were ready.
“I want to ask you a question. If you found out that someone you knew was a snitch and was working with the gaming board, what would you do to them? Be honest with me.”
“I’d kill them,” Cory said without hesitation.
“So would I,” Morris said.
Billy felt the same way. It didn’t matter that he’d carried a torch for Mags all these years. The betrayal was too great.
The first pair of shoes he tried on fit perfectly. He paid up and left the shop with his bag of clubs slung over his shoulder. Painted signs directed him down a crunchy gravel path to the first tee. Tony G used the Bali Hai course as his office and was probably a strong player and would hustle Billy once he’d sized up Billy’s game. That was how it usually went.
Golf was not a friendly game in Vegas. Every club had hustlers who paid golf pros to arrange matches for them. Some hustlers were scratch players who practiced in shaded areas and had pale white skin that matched the tourists they fleeced. Others resorted to cheating, and spread Vaseline jelly on their clubs’ faces to better control their shots, or wore golf shoes with the soles removed, allowing them to move their balls out of unfavorable lies with their toes.
Billy guessed that Tony G also had tricks that he used. That was fine. While Tony G was hustling him on the greens, he’d be hustling the bookie at the racetrack.
He came to the first tee. Tony G sat in a cart with an iPhone, making book. Late fifties, fat as a tick, with a thick matte of white chest hair creeping out of his V neck.
Behind the bookie was a second cart with the enforcers. Guido was at the wheel and wore a sleeveless black muscle shirt that showed off his massive arms. He was jotting down the bets his boss was making on a legal pad and paid Billy no attention. Snap sat next to him and had a wiry body without an ounce of fat. Snap’s nose had been honked a few times and was as thick as a blood sausage. His weak spot, Billy guessed.
“You must be Billy,” Tony G said, covering the mouth of the cell phone. “Toss your bag in the cart and grab a drink. There’s beer and spritzers in the cooler. We’re up next.”