The Scam, Page 3

  “To be charming, mysterious, and extravagantly wealthy,” Nick said. “Your job is to take care of all the little things that might distract me from being charming, mysterious, and extravagantly wealthy.”

  “So you get to have all the fun,” she said, “while I do all the busy work.”

  “I swindle while you investigate. We both do what we do best. I’ve booked the presidential suite for us at Côte d’Argent to announce our arrival. They’ll know a whale is coming and send a limo to pick us up.”

  “How much is this announcement costing us?”

  “Thirty-five thousand a night.”

  Kate choked on a cashew. “Are you insane?”

  “It’s only one night, two tops, and it accomplishes some very important things. It establishes that we’re among the highest of high rollers and it proves that we’re not in law enforcement. No cop could possibly justify this expense to his boss.”

  “I’ll have to.”

  He waved off her concern. “Only if the assignment fails. Until then, enjoy yourself.”

  Easy for him to say. He wasn’t wearing a thong and four-inch heels that were pinching his toes.

  “You look great in that dress,” he said. “It has me feeling romantic.”

  “Romantic?”

  “Okay, maybe that’s not exactly the right word.”

  “And the right word would be what?”

  “Hard to boil it down to one word.”

  “Give it to me in a couple words then.”

  “I’d like to rip it off you with my teeth.”

  “Holy cow.”

  Nick smiled. “Like I said, you look great in that dress.”

  Kate squeezed her knees together and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Twenty minutes later they landed at Henderson Executive Airport, a few miles southeast of central Las Vegas. A black Bentley Flying Spur from Côte d’Argent was waiting for them on the tarmac along with a chauffeur in a black suit and dark sunglasses.

  The chauffeur opened the back door of the Bentley for Nick and Kate, and put the four titanium suitcases full of cash and the two Louis Vuitton bags containing their clothes in the trunk. He headed north on Interstate 15 toward the Strip. They hit the Strip and traveled from Mandalay Bay to the Bellagio, exiting at Flamingo Road, turning west over the freeway. Rising above a sea of budget motels, convenience stores, and fast-food restaurants was a forty-five-story black granite tower shaped like a box cutter blade. “Côte d’Argent” was written in lights along the cutting edge.

  The driver pulled up to a private entrance behind the building. It was shielded from public view by an eight-foot-high wall of black marble, lined with a thin layer of water cascading down the surface. A doorman who looked more like a Secret Service agent, down to the sunglasses, earpiece, and probably the gun, opened the back of the Bentley for Nick and Kate, and supervised the unloading of the trunk.

  Nick and Kate walked into the VIP lobby. The air conditioner was cranked up high against the desert heat, keeping the elaborate ice sculptures of lions taking down gazelles from melting too quickly.

  A slim, beautiful hostess approached them. She was dressed in a black frock jacket, a lace peplum blouse, pencil slacks, and ultra-high heels.

  “Welcome to Côte d’Argent,” the hostess said, guiding them to the registration desk.

  The red-haired woman behind the desk wore the same outfit as the other hostesses. She smiled at them as if she’d been eagerly awaiting Nick and Kate’s arrival for months.

  “I’m so glad to see you, Mr. Sweet,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Nick said. “This is my associate, Ms. Porter. Please extend to her any courtesies that are offered to me by the hotel.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” the clerk said. “My name is Tara. I will be your personal assistant during your stay.”

  “I’ve brought a deposit with me.” Nick tipped his head to the door, where the bellman was bringing in the luggage. “It’s in those four silver cases. I’d appreciate it if you’d exchange the cash for chips and have them on hand for tonight’s game.”

  “Of course. Would you or Ms. Porter like to be present while the cash is counted?”

  “Not necessary. It’s five million,” he said. “I trust you.”

  “In that case, I’ll call for your personal butler, Mr. Covington, to see you to your suite.”

  “That won’t be necessary, either,” Nick said. “We like to find our own way around.”

  “Very well. Mr. Covington will be on call twenty-four hours a day for you, as well as a maid, a bartender, a personal chef, a doctor, a masseuse, a concert pianist, and anyone else that you might need.”

  “All the comforts of home,” Nick said.

  “I hope you enjoy your stay. Let me show you to your private express elevator.” Tara stepped out from behind the podium and led them to the elevator. She slid a transparent key card into a slot on the wall and then handed it to Nick.

  “Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay more pleasurable. I am entirely at your service.” She handed another transparent key to Kate and smiled. “Individually or together.”

  “Good to know,” Nick said.

  Nick and Kate stepped into the elevator. The door closed and the elevator rose smoothly, but swiftly, up the forty-five floors to the penthouse.

  “When she said ‘individually or together’…did she mean, you know what?” Kate asked.

  Nick grinned. “She implied we could have the ultimate group activity.”

  “Would it show up on our bill?” Kate asked him.

  “Would it matter?”

  “Jessup would throw a blood clot.”

  “I’m sure I could have it removed from the bill,” Nick said. “Is this a possibility?”

  “No!” Kate said. “Good grief.” She grimaced at him. “You would do it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Ick.”

  The elevator opened into a circular marble foyer with a massive crystal chandelier. They crossed the foyer into an expansive living room that opened onto a wraparound terrace with an unobstructed view of the Las Vegas Strip. There was an infinity pool along the edge of the terrace, creating the illusion that the water flowed onto the street forty-five floors below.

  The living room walls were paneled in walnut and decorated with abstract art, swirls of paint drippings on canvas in the style of Jackson Pollock. Kate squinted at one of the paintings and saw Pollock’s signature.

  “Is this the real thing or a forgery?” she asked.

  “You’ll know if it’s in my luggage when we leave.”

  There were plenty of inviting leather-wrapped couches and easy chairs, a wet bar, a sixty-five-inch flat-screen TV, a stacked-stone fireplace, and a Steinway grand piano.

  “Well, this explains the on-call concert pianist,” Kate said.

  “I was wondering about that myself,” Nick said. “There are his and hers bedrooms and boardrooms on either end of the penthouse.”

  “Boardrooms?”

  “You never know when you might want to hold a meeting with your personal staff.”

  Kate checked out a bedroom. It was the size of her entire apartment. There was a couch, two easy chairs, a fireplace, a flat-screen TV, and a massive king-size bed covered with fluffy pillows and a thick comforter. The marble-tiled bathroom had a steam shower built for two, a whirlpool tub, and a massage table.

  “Decadent,” Kate said.

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “I especially like the furry pillows. I’m guessing Mongolian lamb. Or maybe a rabbit on steroids.”

  Kate peeked into the private boardroom. There was a long conference table for eight, another flat-screen TV, and another bar.

  “I feel a sudden desire to have a meeting,” Kate said.

  “Yeah, I’ve got some sudden desires, too,” Nick said. “They have to do with the dress you’re wearing and how fast I could get you out of it.”

&nbs
p; Kate looked down at herself. “It’s not that easy. I’m stuffed into this like a bratwurst.”

  “I like a challenge,” Nick said.

  “Not this one. It would come with pain. Possibly a broken bone.”

  “I’m not really into pain,” Nick said. “Especially if it’s mine.”

  “You need to focus,” Kate said. “This is all about the mission.”

  “There’s all kinds of missions,” Nick said.

  —

  But first it was all about the buffet. Kate loved buffets. And the one at Côte d’Argent was spectacular. She brought two plates with mountains of food on them back to her booth, where Nick sat with an iced tea and a small Caesar salad.

  “I don’t know what we’re doing here,” Nick said. “We have a private chef.”

  “It’s not the same as a buffet,” she said, digging meat from a crab leg with a tiny fork. “This is all-you-can-eat. And you can make last-minute choices. And there’s all this stuff.”

  “Quantity and quality are not the same things.”

  “I grew up on Army bases, eating in canteens where food was basic. And now that I’m on my own I mostly eat out of a fast-food container. Getting access to a buffet, even a bad one, is like someone handing me a free pass to heaven.”

  Nick smiled wide. “You’re equating a buffet to heaven?”

  “Okay, so maybe not heaven. Maybe to Disneyland.”

  Nick watched her clean off both plates. “Where do you put it all?”

  “I have a very fast metabolism,” she said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “Did I spill anything on myself?”

  He looked her over. “Not a drop or a crumb.”

  “Then we’d better get to the casino before my good luck fades.”

  They left the buffet and crossed the casino toward the high-limit room. It was separated from the rest of the casino by partially drawn red curtains.

  “Tonight we’re playing blackjack,” Nick said. “We’ll take a table for ourselves. There are five seats. I’ll play three hands at once and you’ll play two.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I could lose twice as much twice as fast.”

  “Win or lose, it doesn’t matter. What we’re trying to do is attract attention as whales with money to burn.”

  The walls of the salon were covered with hand-stitched leather and framed with dark wood. There were eight gaming tables and only seven men gambling. Four of them were at the same table, playing pai gow poker, the other three were playing baccarat. A few women sat drinking at the bar, where backlit multicolored bottles of liquor were arranged by hue on glass shelves.

  Nick and Kate were greeted by a round-bodied, round-faced man wearing a three-piece suit. The way he waddled up to them reminded Kate of the Penguin, from Batman.

  “Good evening to you both. I am Niles Goodwell, manager of player relations.” Goodwell took a slight bow and whispered to Nick. “Your credit is good here, sir, up to five million.”

  “What’s your table limit for blackjack?” Nick asked.

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “What are your chip denominations over ten thousand?”

  “We have twenty-five-thousand, fifty-thousand, and one-hundred-thousand-dollar chips.”

  “We’d like a table to ourselves. We’ll each start with one million to get warmed up,” Nick said. “Half in twenty-five-thousand chips and half in fifty-thousand chips.”

  “Make yourselves comfortable.” Goodwell gestured to a blackjack table where a young woman stood, smiling warmly at them. “I’ll be right back with your chips.”

  They went to the table. Kate sat to the dealer’s left, what blackjack players called “first base,” and Nick took the seat to the right, known as “third base.” A waitress came by to offer them drinks. Nick ordered a martini. Kate settled for a Coke. Goodwell brought them their chips on a gold platter.

  “Good luck,” he said, stepping away, but lingering close enough to keep his eye on the action.

  Nick smiled at the dealer. “Let’s have some fun.”

  If Nick had chosen craps, Kate would have been lost, but she figured she could handle blackjack. The goal, for both the player and the dealer, was to get as close as possible to twenty-one without going over. Simple, right?

  Nick placed fifty thousand dollars on each of the three betting circles on his side of the table. Kate did the same on her two spots and broke into an immediate sweat. There was a lot of money on the table. Money for which she was more or less accountable.

  The dealer smiled and patted the table. “Good luck.”

  She dealt the cards from a six-deck shoe. There were two cards dealt face up for each of their five playing positions. The dealer showed a four.

  Kate had a sixteen on one of her hands and a seventeen on the other. She decided to stand.

  Nick had a nineteen, an eighteen, and a twenty.

  The dealer flipped her hole card. It was a six. The dealer dealt herself another card. It was a ten, giving her a total of twenty. The dealer winced politely, and swept up their chips.

  Poof. Their two hundred fifty grand was gone.

  It wasn’t Kate’s own money, but she couldn’t help thinking of all the things that she could have bought with it. A house in Las Vegas. Or a Lamborghini Gallardo. Or fifty-four thousand In-N-Out double-double cheeseburgers. Instead they had bought two mighty expensive drinks.

  “With the way things are going we could be done early and need a couples massage,” Nick said to Kate. “Do you remember the conversation we had in the elevator?”

  “Vividly.”

  “And?”

  “And I think I’ll stick with the game for a while longer.”

  After a half hour of play, Nick and Kate were up $1.5 million, and Kate was into the game, riding on a steady drip of adrenaline and her competitive nature. She put $250,000 down on each of her spots, and at the bar behind them, Goodwell picked up the receiver on a red telephone and made a call.

  —

  One floor below the casino, at the end of a long hallway, behind a door marked “Customer Relations,” a wall-mounted telephone rang. Evan Trace stepped out of the shadows and answered it. His face was meticulously unshaven and the sleeves on his handmade monogrammed white shirt were neatly folded up to the elbows.

  “This is Trace.”

  “We’ve got a couple whales up here,” Goodwell said. “Nick Sweet and Kate Porter. They’ve taken a blackjack table and are betting two hundred and fifty thousand a hand. They’re up one and a half million at the moment and they don’t show any signs of slowing down.”

  “What do we know about them?”

  “They came into town from L.A. on a private jet, walked in the door with five million dollars in cash, and booked the presidential suite for the night,” Goodwell said. “That’s it.”

  “I want to meet them.”

  “I thought you would,” Goodwell said.

  “Invite them to my private dining room for a drink when either they’ve tapped out or we have.”

  Trace hung up the phone. He wasn’t concerned about the couple winning, even if it added up to tens of millions of dollars. He was a firm believer that his profits came from the winners, not the losers. The winners always came back for more, giving up what they’d won and then some. He knew that from personal experience, which brought him back to the task at hand.

  He turned to the center of the windowless room. The only furniture was a stainless steel workbench and the chair behind it. They were placed under the room’s single light fixture, a naked bulb that hung on a wire from the ceiling. A sandy-haired man in his late twenties sat in the chair. He was good-looking enough to be a model, or at least he had been before the beating. His eyes were swollen nearly shut, his lips were split, and his nose was bleeding.

  Trace stepped up to the table and looked down at the terrified man. “You made a mistake, Stan.”

  “I know that,” Stan said, his voice wavering, and glanced
fearfully to his right, where another man stood in the shadows. “Mr. Garver can stop hitting me now.”

  Garver was also in his shirtsleeves and was wiping Stan’s blood off his huge, meaty hands with a towel. His face looked like a head of cauliflower, the result of the beatings he’d taken prizefighting in his youth. He also had thick calluses on his walnut-sized knuckles, the result of the beatings he’d inflicted in the forty-odd years he’d spent in customer relations.

  “I run an honest casino,” Trace said. “Sure, we give the players free booze to make them careless, but we never cheat them. We expect the players to treat us with that same respect. You didn’t do that, Stan. You cheated.”

  “I’ve had a run of bad luck and I’m deep in debt,” Stan said. “I couldn’t wait for my luck to turn. So I nudged it along. It won’t happen again.”

  Garver spoke up. His voice sounded like each word was serrated and scratched his throat on the way out. “Show Mr. Trace your hands.”

  Stan placed his shaky hands on the table. He had long, slender fingers and manicured nails. Trace examined them and nodded with appreciation. Garver slipped back into the shadows.

  “They’re very nice. You take very good care of them, Stan, and that’s smart. Your fingers are the tools of your trade.”

  Garver returned to the table. He’d picked up a wooden mallet somewhere. It was chipped from age and heavy use.

  “No, no, no.” Stan started to lift his hands from the table but Garver shook his head, warning him against it, so he stopped. He left his hands where they were but looked imploringly at Trace. “Please don’t.”

  “I’m doing you a favor. Twenty years ago, I was the guy in that chair. Garver broke my hands with that mallet. It changed my whole outlook on life,” Trace said. “Now I own a casino and he works for me. I owe it all to that night.”

  Trace held his hand out to Garver, who gave him the mallet, and then pinned Stan’s wrists to the table with his massive hands.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Stan said, pleading. “I promise you that I will never cheat again.”

  “I know you won’t,” Trace said, raising the mallet over his head. “Think positive. Maybe I’ll end up working for you someday.”

  —