Page 1 of Grift

Patrick

One second can be the difference between life and death. The decision that you make in a single second can determine how you’ll spend the rest of your life.

As I watch a video playing on my phone, in one second, I decide to hurt a man very badly.

Cold rage claws through me as I watch the surveillance footage unwinding on my phone. In the frame, an overdressed hipster leers at our card dealer, getting handsy and only freezing when two suited security guards discretely step up next to him and speak in low tones.

The dealer yanks away, pulling back to the furthest point she can in the cage she’s working. My hands curl into fists. He won’t just pay for stealing money. He’ll pay for scaring that woman. No one hurts a woman in my territory. There’s a long pause on the film and then the hipster glances at the nearby camera uneasily. Then, the little bastard sneers.

It’s on.

Stealing money from my family’s casino seems like an easy way to make a score?

Yeah, not on my watch.

Closing and locking my office door behind me, I slip into the hallway beside the casino’s night security manager, Ian Callaway. We’re headed to the ground level and through the casino floor to the service area.

“Boss, this way,” says Callaway, motioning to a side door that’ll take us outside. Outside to a parking lot that’s not covered by the casino’s extensive security network; in fact, I designed that blackout point myself just for moments like this. Smart security guys have been educating me on the finer points of being a thug for a long time.

We’re moving fast, two big guys in dark suits. I don’t want to attract attention. Usually, I don’t mind a little attention but right now, I’m a predator focused on my prey. This’ll go better if we don’t make a scene.

We can’t afford rumors or bad press right now.

Damn, it feels good to be on the fucking hunt. There’s been so much pressure to keep things clean, to keep the Carney name above reproach, and make sure every penny is squeezed out of the Trinity Casino project. I’m chafing at the edges, fighting every natural instinct I’ve got.

At this moment, the only thing between me and the resolution to one of the casino’s biggest ongoing problems is one long hallway.

We’d finally gotten footage of the card counter in action.

His description matches a man seen on at least two previous occasions doing the same thing inside the Trinity. Those reports are backed up by other casino owners in Connecticut, Jersey, and even Vegas.

He’s managed to elude a lot of people.

Not me. Not this time. Not tonight.

Rumor has it that he works with a partner. The second guy may have slipped out earlier tonight. But that’s fine: this guy is the main offender, and I’m happy to mete out justice for all through my encounter with him.

To be honest, the timing isn’t great. My father’s got half of Boston’s elite and every one of his investors coming to an onsite gala tonight. In less than an hour, I’m supposed to be in a tux playing good old boy – reminiscing about my college football days with the men and giving my best Carney grin to the ladies.

It’s bullshit, and it’s the job.

Finally, the crowded floor of the Trinity Casino is behind us, the lush carpet giving way to a utilitarian tile hallway that rings out underfoot. We pick up speed, but we don’t run.

I’m not going to rush this. I’m going to savor it.

The door swings open, and we’re in the private area behind the casino. An area where the passing by of highway traffic blocks out sounds. And no cameras that connect to any recording device that anyone other than a Carney has access to.

The glare of the parking lot lights is harsh on the man’s face. Wide blue eyes, patrician nose, and Hollywood smile. There’s something vaguely familiar in the face shape. It’s icy cold and the short, almost manic puffs of air from his nostrils tell me he’s more afraid than he’s letting on. Hell, I can smell his fear.

Not all stupid then.

“Hey, Carney,” he says, with a big flash of that blinding smile.

I’m going to enjoy knocking out at least one of those teeth.

The stench of the dumpsters washes over us, ice crunching underfoot. It’s a perfect place to take out the trash.

When the security chief grabbed me with a quiet word, “Boss, we got the card counter” I intended self-restraint.

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