Stealing From Bandits

By Al W Moe

This fast-action novel takes you inside a modern casino.

Money and Casinos, that's what it's all about in Nevada. The eye-in-the-sky sees all, but something at Reno's Royal casino was never supposed to be seen.

Now Kevin Webb is trapped by the very cameras he put in place. With plenty of friends to turn to, Webb just has to figure out which one can be trusted with his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Al W Moe
• Release date: Jan 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465949851

Al W Moe

Al W. Moe was born in Cincinnati, Ohio and introduced to the casinos of Nevada at the age of eleven. At the time he had never seen such an amazing array of sights, sounds, and exciting games. Little has change since that first introduction. Experience: Moe is the father of four wonderful girls and the lucky husband of an amazing woman. He is also the author of several books, including the #1 Selling "Vegas and the Mob."

Book preview

Chapter One

Déjà vu all over again as I sit in the Reno Police Department Detective’s waiting room thinking back on how I got in a similar situation several years ago. The coffee’s still rotten, but the plasma screen is sharp and clear, and my smart phone’s buzzing with a new tweet, so some things have changed for the better. I think.

I also think about how things might have gone differently if there were a few modern luxuries besides cell phones a few years back, like Facebook. I mean, I can live without Facebook, but what that would have done for me, well, you’ll have to know a little bit about where I was at a few years back. That is, besides sitting here, back when you couldn’t Google a person.

I know most of what happened, although there are some blips in my thinking that I can fill in and imagine from newspaper articles, ‘cause they wouldn’t lie, right? I do know that everything started elsewhere and worked its way to Reno, and to Virginia Street, where there are so many lights it’s like daytime 24/7, so here we go. You’ll have to trust my memory; it’s all I’ve got.

It started with three thousand pounds of steel, chrome and glass thundering through the crosswalk and cutting down Teddy Ryan, who at the moment had some serious rum-n-coke legs and a pair of blanked-out eyes set deep in his face. Teddy was launched into a circus-act of tumbling, twisting and turning that didn’t end until his body slammed against a high concrete curb where the street took a minor jog to the right. His fingers twitched, but he couldn’t see them, not with his head wrenched backwards at an impossible angle. At least that’s what the newspaper said. I knew Teddy and he was no Adonis, but at that point he had looked better.

A moment before, he and his date had skipped out of the Pioneer Club holding hands while Teddy tried to focus on the columns of neon light surrounding the casinos across the street. The winking and blinking of the strobes left rainbows in his liquored eyes and they beckoned with the promise of gold in a pot at the journey’s end, but he never got there.

Inside the car, insulated from the dying man’s final, moist breath, the driver looked back at his handiwork. He shook his head slowly and then drove away visibly upset. He had busted a headlight.

Teddy’s date stood in the middle of the street, shrinking down to insignificant proportions in the driver’s rearview mirror. He couldn’t hear the blood racing through her veins as it acquired adrenaline and surged back to her heart; couldn’t hear her thoughts racing around her head at the same speed.

Her breath came in gasps of the now frigid air, and tears welled-up in her young eyes. She looked around for a witness, but she was alone. Her heels clicked across the coins shimmering-up from the crosswalk as she ignored the sea of silver and instead stopped to pluck the cup from the asphalt. No sense leaving fingerprints. Then, she turned on her heel and sent those long, long legs into motion away from the downtown casino area. She didn’t look back. The night was over.

Chapter Two

I woke up in the middle of a meeting with my boss and some joker of a speaker telling us how great we were at our job, but we should still work harder. The room was pretty quiet; I might not have been the only one who nodded off.

Fran, here, has done a terrific job, and I’m as proud of her as I am of all of you. I know that if something happens down on the casino floor you will see it, and take appropriate action. Cross roaders beware! We have the finest surveillance team in town, and that is why we pay you more than any other club. That is also why we expect the most from you, and you, and you, Mitch said.

As he finished his diatribe, a fat finger somehow escaped the sleeve of his pea-green sports coat and pointed menacingly at our semi-comatose group.

My mind wandered away and back to the room, thankful that the speech was over, and I folded my one-page manuscript up and jammed it into the pocket of my battered leather jacket. Then, I let my hand haunt the pocket once more as my fingers thrust forward to capture a different page. It was a small, frayed paper with well-worn creases. I didn’t really want to look but the horror was too great to ignore.

There was a whimper, not a bang, and the meeting ended with the din of footsteps reverberating off the walls as my co-workers turned the room into an empty shell, leaving me almost alone, struggling to gain my feet. I held my paper, staring at the final lines and wondering how the hell I was going to pay Tolan the nearly twenty thousand bucks my account had swelled to. Then, I folded the paper yet again and placed it gently into my jacket.

I stood up and my right knee creaked as I joined the stragglers in the group making their way out the door. All I could hear was their scuffling, thumping shoes. Like an army. That’s what we were. An army of workers set forth to protect the company’s main asset: money.

A casino hires an army of spies to maintain their cameras. It’s a necessity. Every performance of the day or night is swallowed-up through the lenses of invisible demons and viewed by small people with small lives in small, dim rooms. The larger the casino, the larger the army, because casinos are voracious eaters, and only proper feeding can keep them alive. They live, eat and breathe money, and still their hunger burns.

Owners constantly worry that those they have standing the long vigil over their money might fail, so the list of safeguards and backups is long. Dealers do their best to watch the players while floor supervisors watch them. Pit bosses that in turn are questioned by shift supervisors watch the supervisors. The casino manager tries to oversee the whole affair, and if all else fails, there is always the eye-in-the-sky.

The Sky carries no weapon but the common phone, and divulges only the secrets that the ear on the other end needs to hear. The Sky answers only to the owner. Conversations run through simple electric wires, energy running from a humble catwalk to every corner of the casino. Not omnipotent, just omnipresent.

I didn’t feel anything special about my job as I jammed myself out the casino’s glass doors. I leaned a bit and used my shoulder to force the air-curtained room to release the door to the back of the building. I heard a screech as my size twelve shoes hit the last few stairs leading to the parking lot. The shoes were hard. Not the stupid sissy-shiny shoes the guys renting tuxes always insist look best, just plain work shoes that were kept shined-up to save me the cost of a new pair. Right now, that fifty-bucks was all that was keeping me in eating money.

The late afternoon sun played tag with the clouds, leaving me in shadow, and after letting my mind wander during the meeting, finding my car became a game of mouse and memory.

As usual for this time of day, the wind behind the Royal delighted in twisting along the inside of the hotel grounds. I gained speed and enthusiasm as it swept along the employee area of the parking lot and I watched a fast moving candy-wrapper pass me twice. In the distance beyond the Royal casino, Mount Rose showed movement too.

The clouds had swept-in during my meeting, tripping over the high mountains and spilling out above Reno like sooty cotton candy. Along the foothills, shadows danced between the tall green pines and short houses making them momentarily invisible before they burst back into view when the sun found an opening in the clouds.

I tried to focus on finding my little MG Midget buried somewhere between the real cars, but I had that thought, banging away, trying to get out, and the second I saw my little beater of a car, the thought made its way through: life takes a back seat to sanity.

Considering all the crap that floats around in my head, I didn’t know if that idea was divine or just stupid. My backseat was empty, and a trip from sanity would be a short one. Somewhere I made a wrong turn. I mean, my life merited more than a nine to five job, and a microwave dinner alone, right?

In my mind the line between my successes was a razor’s edge. The blade was sharp, and cut both ways. People who have success get bloody along the way too, but their wounds heal quickly. For those in my position, wounds heal slowly, if at all.

I twisted the key slowly in the door so it wouldn’t break off and took the short, uneventful ride home, giving Bob at the gate a wave.

I tried not to give the sad buildings and thought, but the battleship-gray color reminded me of the moth-ball fleet below the Benicia Bridge where my dad used to take me to fish. We bobbed around in the steel-blue waters of Northern California’s Suisun Bay for excitement, but I was a scared little kid most of the time.

There was something mysterious and scary about the tides that rippled around those dying ships. In the early morning fog the ships let out moaning sounds set against a drumming from the waves against the steel hulls. The US Navy moored dozens of the hulking dinosaurs along the inlet to Sacramento, and we would float about, waiting for a jerk on our fishing poles, hoping for a bite.

If you’ve never gone sturgeon fishing, well, the fish are ugly, and old. You can snag a hundred-pounder, but landing one of those suckers in a tiny, flat-bottom bass boat is a bitch. Used to scare the shit out of me. I was certain we were going to capsize in that dark, dark water.

My dad was tough, never worried about the line, the pole or the fish. If we caught a monster, great, if not, well, we were out there together. Sounds so simple now that I’m older.

I pulled up close to my building and saw Melanie’s Honda Civic in my assigned spot, meaning I was going to have to use an uncovered one, but then there she was, running towards her car.

Hi, Kelvin, she cooed.

Hi, Melanie, I said, giving her a wave and wondering why she couldn’t get my name straight after three months.

I took her spot, my spot, and then headed up the stairs and looked back at the sky, hard and menacing. It would be hours before the sun walked down the other side of the mountains, but darkness was coming quickly.

Still, I didn’t fall for the prank Mother Nature was trying to pull. Rain wasn’t going to fall on the parched town tonight. Oh, no. It was only May, and the rains that came this time of year were a joke. Reno lives on the run-off of winter snow, not the illusive mist of the summer season with its choking smell and the dusty film it leaves on the cars.

I pushed my door open into the living room where heavy drapes kept the lowering rays of the sun out, knowing the room well enough to walk in the dark. A red glow in the corner announced that I had a phone message. I pressed the play button and heard the canned voice announce, You have one message.

I flipped the light switch in the kitchen, announcing my arrival to the big empty and heard the recorder start up.

Good morning, this message is for Kevin Webb. Please call Detective Paul Kozar at the Reno Police Department.

Chapter Three

I cradled the phone and dutifully called the number of the RPD detectives unit, but the woman who answered told me that Detective Kozar had left for the day, so I dialed Paul at home and waited while the phone rang and rang.

Hi, Becky, it’s Kevin. Is your no-good husband home, or is he off with his secretary?

Now I don’t know why I say things like that, but sometimes stuff just pops out. Sure, she said with a slight heave in her voice, Paul is home, hold on.

He sounded out of breath when he answered, probably not the best time to make a joke about his secretary, but, too late to fix that problem.

What’s up buddy?

Hey, I’m returning your call, remember?

Right, right. I thought we could get in at least nine-holes. I made a tee time for six o’clock. You want to meet me at Reno muni in about a half-hour?"

Sure, that sounds good, I’ll see you then, I replied, and hung up the phone.

Now Paul would be running out of his house, almost right after work. No wonder Becky was always mad at me. The phone was his friend, and her foe. He had to be available at all hours to his job, so he wasn’t available at all hours for her. Never marry a cop.

I stumbled over the edge of the couch, as if the lights were still off, and realized how hungry I was. Overtime from today’s meeting would pay for golf, which would help, but the face of Tolan played across my mind.

I made a quick snack of turkey and ham on dry toast, no Mayo. The pressed turkey roll was questionable, but so was everything else in the kitchen. I swept the crumbs into my hand and dropped them in the sink and ran a little water before I pulled a frigid Seven-Up out of the fridge and ran a hand over my gut.

Six-pack abs did not exist on my frame. I hadn’t been to the gym since my membership lapsed, and golf was no great workout, but still better than sitting around the house. I used to have a house, but now I have an ex-wife and an apartment. It’s a way-station, a stopping off point before I buy another house, or I tumble into the abyss of debt so many people are finding themselves in these days, so what else is new.

I headed back outside and thought about the meeting, at least what I hadn’t slept through. Gaming is a social interaction for most players, and they want instant gratification, even the people I got paid to watch-out for.

Cheats enjoy the old game of cat and mouse. They aren’t just there to make a few bucks. Sure, it’s fun to take-off the casino, and maybe the slot cheats are there just to make money but the days of a slot cheat drilling the side of a machine and manipulating the reels with a coat hanger have passed. Crooks and scam artists are a lot more sophisticated today.

I was at the course in ten minutes and only five minutes after arriving at the putting green Paul walked up with his clubs and dumped them unceremoniously on the fringe of the green. They were still housed inside a ten-year old golf bag.

He strutted over and his six-foot four-inch frame blocked-out my line of sight to the practice hole. He had that same smirk on his face I had seen a thousand times.

Hey, I thought you were getting rid of your old bag, I said.

What, and be single, like you?

Not your wife, Paul. Your golf bag.

Yeah-yeah, I know, oldest bag on the course. How are ya, Kevin?

He asked me that after stopping the smirk and trying to give me that steely-eyed look that cops think is mandatory.

Great, just great. Any better, and you’d have to arrest me for having a life.

Hey, I’m the cop here, dude. I’m the one with the deep-seated Freudian problems, okay?

I nodded in agreement and closed my left eye as the sun peeked-out from behind a cloud. Ah, sorry about calling at a bad time and joking about your secretary. Becky really doesn’t like me anymore, does she?

She may be coming around, Paul stated in a confident tone while brushing some blond hairs from his forehead. Even suggested setting you up with a friend of hers, Karen Cannon.

Forget it Paul, I seem to remember a Karen from a couple years ago and she looked like my Uncle Ray.

Not that Karen, this one owns Grayson’s Jewelers. Remember a few months back when they had a robbery?

No, I don’t keep up on the latest robberies and murders. I have a safe job. You know, in my little box.

Right. Anyway, Becky met her at a yoga class, and after the robbery she worked with her at the clinic. Nice lady, Paul said. Then he tilted his head forward and tried to give me that tough cop look again. She’s a good cook, and even has some money. Not like that ex-wife of yours.

Yeah, well, bull-shit, my wife has money. I know ‘cause it used to be mine! Anyway, enough small talk, how much are we betting?

I’ll give you two strokes on the front nine, and five on the round if we can get in the whole eighteen, said Paul.

I agreed, knowing I had a good shot at making a few bucks as usual, and dropped my putter in my bag before heading to the first tee.

Shall we say $5 per bet, or will that put you over-budget with the little lady when I beat you?

Gee, I sure don’t know why Becky would have any feelings of hostility towards you, Kevin.

Paul was a local product of Reno High School. Good student, star athlete, and could have gone to the University of Nevada Reno on a football scholarship, but college sports held no interest for him. He had a one-track mind ever since I first met him. He wanted to be a cop. He was riding around in cop cars at eighteen and became a detective when he got out of college. Before