“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Sam said. “Broadbend is still an unknown quantity—another loose end.”
“Pitch him on the two-fifty and forget about him,” O’Rourke said. “We’re either doing this deal or we’re not.”
“That’s right,” Sam said. “We’re either doing it or where not and right now I’m not sure which way the pendulum is swinging.”
Rachel got on her toes and rested her chin on his shoulder. “I hate to add to your worries but we’re supposed to meet Ming and the meatball for a pre-closing celebration tonight.” She read his expression. “I know, I don’t feel like it either but we sign contracts tomorrow and then after that…” She whispered in his ear. “After that, we’re out of here—out of New York—out of the country—somewhere where we can live like kings for the rest of our lives. We’re so close.”
“Don’t try to sway me. Is that your head or your heart talking?” Sam asked.
The air caught in her lungs. Sam sounded like Stanley Ng when he spoke about the reason for Murray’s gambling woes. “My heart, I guess…and I know that’s just dead wrong.”
Eighteen
Sam was already awake when Rachel awoke in the morning. They’d all had too much champagne with their dinner, way too much. However, neither Atwater nor Murray had planned to attend the meeting, so if they were hung over it didn’t matter a hill of beans. They had their two expensive lawyers to do their bidding for them, each imbued with power of attorney authority to sign all necessary paperwork. Rachel’s head was pounding, her eyes bloodshot. She walked into the living area and saw Sam working diligently on the computer. “How long have you been up?” she asked.
“Since the morning Broadbend made me for a fraud.”
“What? You didn’t sleep last night either?”
“Never laid my head upon the pillow.” He unplugged a thumb drive and shut the laptop. “I had coffee brought up to the room. Take your time waking up. I have to grab a shower and hustle over to the club to chew Broadbend down to two-fifty. I’ll meet you and Joe for the meeting at noon.”
“You look worried,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him. “If you want to walk away…just say the word and we’re out of here. I know we’re running on vapor, capital wise, but we’ll manage—somehow. We always do. The simple truth is that we may not be ready to take on such a big mark.”
He pulled away. “Not ready?” The implications of her statement tore at him. “So, we’re small time, is that it? A couple of backwoods rubes without the knowhow to take on people of sophistication? Maybe we should set up a folding table and run a dollar-a-game three-card-Monte scam.”
“You’re overreacting, Sam. It’s just that…”
“What?” he demanded.
“We’ve had a string of bad luck. Plus with who’s chasing after us…maybe—”
“Yes?”
“Maybe we’re overreaching. Maybe the reason we’re so hell bent on one big score isn’t because we’re tired of the game, but because we’re not as good at it as we thought—we’re desperate.”
“So, the one-big-score plan is nothing more than a cop out. Is that what you’re saying?”
She shrugged, her lips bunching. “I don’t know, babe. I just don’t know. I live for the game, for the thrill—but maybe that’s not who we really are.”
“A little late for self-doubt, isn’t it? We’re mere hours from closing on a five-million-dollar swindle that we’ve been planning for months, the one that was supposed to set us free.”
“Maybe it’s the hangover talking and maybe there’s part of me that just wants a normal life. Vincent’s hit man almost killed us both in St. Louis. The sniper in Raleigh came even closer. I’m getting tired of looking over my shoulder, and adding more enemies to our list of scam after scam.”
“I won’t let you down. I love you too much to let you down.”
She kissed him on the mouth, just for the moment and then she rested her head against his.
“So this is it, that thing they talk about…the tipping point,” he said.
“I think it kind of is. What do we do?”
He looked deeply into her eyes and kissed her once again, then peeled off his shirt and headed for the shower.
Nineteen
They were already two hours into the meeting and the lawyers were still going strong, questioning, negotiating, and rewriting. Still, Sam and Rebecca sensed it was going to work out. The deal was going to close.
O’Rourke was smooth and confident. He put up a fight where he needed to and acquiesced when it didn’t interfere with their objective. Atwater’s and Murray’s attorneys were negotiating for the long term, for the return on investment that would come years down the road. O’Rourke’s objective was simply to close the deal, to get the attorneys to sign on the dotted line, and wire the earnest money, the five million, which constituted the sum total they wanted to collect.
Sam had to admit that O’Rourke looked the part in his expensive suit. He’s good—real good, he thought. He was even better than Finch, their numbers partner who Little Vincent’s man had murdered in St. Louis. Sam glanced skyward and said a small prayer in memory of his deceased friend.
Finally came the moment of truth. Every fine point had been negotiated. The documents had been redrawn and proofed. They were ready for signature.
Atwater’s attorney slid the document across the table to Sam, then called in his notary public to certify the signatures. All three signatories dug into their wallets for their driver’s licenses and handed then to Liam Coleman, the notary, a kid who looked like the poster boy for Sears off-the-rack suits, with his no-iron shirt and his polyester necktie.
Sam glanced at O’Rourke. “You’ve checked these thoroughly? I don’t have to proofread them for errors, do I?”
“I’d never tell you not to, Mr. Keys, but I’ve read through it twice. It’s clean. You can sign with confidence. Not only do we have agreement on the terms of payment, but on your partners sweat equity, their roles in setting up the key components of your direct-to-retail strategy.”
“Sure,” Sam said and proceeded to give the document a quick once over before taking a lacquered Waterman pen from his breast pocket. He turned to Rachel with his right hand hovering above the signature line and his left holding hers under the table. “Yes or no?” he said in a manner that indicated there might actually be apprehension on their part.
Rachel was pensive for a moment before giving his hand a squeeze, then, still acting her part, nodded nervously.
Sam focused on the agreement and signed in all the indicated areas, this time approximating the signature of the real Peter Keys. He pushed it back to Atwater’s attorney, who added his signature as Atwater’s power of attorney. Murray’s attorney did the same.
Atwater’s attorney opened his laptop and initiated the wire transfer of five million dollars to the specified payment account as outlined in the contract.
Coleman studied the signatures carefully before applying his official seal and signature. He immediately stood and opened the door. Three FBI agents hustled into the room with their guns drawn.
“The hell,” O’Rourke hollered, furious. “What the hell is going on here?”
At their heels was the special agent in charge. “Spare me the dramatics,” he said. “You know damn well what’s going on.” He placed his hand on Rachel’s shoulder, then handcuffed her. “Not exactly the kind of bracelets you’re used to, is it, blondie?”
Her expression was calm and even as she looked up and answered. “No they’re not, Mr. Broadbend. No they’re not.”
He had a smug expression on his face as he said, “The name isn’t Broadbend. It’s Hender. Agent Thomas Hender.”
Chapter Twenty
O’Rourke was borderline violent as he was led to the FBI van, screaming indignities at the arresting agents, and spitting venomous remarks at Sam and Rachel. “Keys, you lying sack of shit—what hav
e you gotten me involved in? What did the two of you do?” He was still screaming as they were cuffed to detention bars inside the van. Sam put a finger to his lips and pointed to a small object that looked like a surveillance microphone inconspicuously hidden near the overhead dome light. O’Rourke nodded almost imperceptibly. After throwing a few more choice remarks at “Peter Keys,” he dropped into silence. They traveled the remainder of the trip to the FBI field office at 26 Federal Plaza that way, and were taken to an interrogation room where they waited.
And waited,
And waited some more.
Hender had a cocky smile on his face when he finally entered the interrogation room. “Didn’t see it coming, did you?”
“Not at all,” Sam admitted. “You were completely believable as a twerp five-and-dime con man.”
“And you’re completely believable as a stupid, arrogant grifter who never suspected the FBI was on your tail. We’ve been on to you and the fair-haired lady since Virginia Beach, when you ripped off Lou Kucera for twenty large. Lucky for you, Kucera was a slime ball we’ve wanted for some time and your move forced him to make mistakes, mistakes that led us to his boss. So, as a thank you, we let you slide and kept you on a string, waiting to see if you’d graduate to something big time, but you kept us waiting more than a year, and your last few forays into the world of the con didn’t turn out so well, did they? Rocco Tolenti, Vincent’s torpedo almost ended both of you in St. Louis, but he was overconfident and when he dropped his guard…Cost you your numbers guy, Finch, though, didn’t it?” He turned to O’Rourke. “Did they tell you that they cost their last numbers guy his life?”
O’Rourke averted his eyes.
“No, I didn’t think so.” Hender began to strut and preen like a peacock. “So, what do you say, are we doing this the easy way or are you going to give me the pleasure of sweating you?”
The door to the interrogation office opened and an agent entered. He was still whispering in Hender’s ear when Millard Wilcox forced his way into the room. Wilcox was broad across the chest. His arms were weighted down with an enormous gold Rolex on one wrist and a thick gold ID bracelet on the other as he dropped his Bottega Veneta briefcase on the table with a thud. He flung a business card at Hender like a dealer firing a card across a blackjack table. “I’m Millard Wilcox,” he said in an authoritative voice. “I’m here to secure my client’s release.”
O’Rourke grinned at Sam and silently mouthed, “Cool!”
Twenty-One
Wilcox was a tour-de-force, a massively articulate former federal prosecutor who’d swung around to the other side of the table and was now a high-powered defense attorney with a reputation that preceded him like the scorching beam of a light saber, threatening to tear flesh and bone apart. He hurled a folder across on the desk. Hender opened the folder and examined the contents without a word. He scanned it and shut the folder and his eyes, while simultaneously gritting his teeth. He stood after a moment and was about to leave with the folder when Wilcox spoke. “Kindly switch off all recording equipment before you leave, Agent Hender. I wish to chat with my clients in complete privacy.”
Hender sneered before complying with the request pulling the door closed behind him.
“What was that?” O’Rourke asked. “Agent Shit For Brains took one look at that document and crapped himself.”
Wilcox clasped his hands and directed his response to O’Rourke. “One—that was an Arrest Disposition Submission. Two—shut the hell up. I’m short on time.” He turned to Sam. “Let me tell you what’s happening as we speak. Agent Hender is on his way upstairs to lose his temper on his boss, the senior special agent in charge of all Manhattan criminal activity, for signing that submission document, which effectively disposes of Agent Hender’s investigation. He won’t get anything from his boss other than a stern reprimand and a kick in the ass, after which he’ll return and begrudgingly let the three of you go.” He zipped his calfskin briefcase closed and stood. “I have an important meeting to get to.” He reached out and shook Sam’s shackled hand. “A pleasure doing business with you, sir. Stay out of trouble.”
O’Rourke’s eyes were as large as ostrich eggs. “But how the hell…?”
Wilcox headed for the door and exited.
Twenty-Two
They dropped O’Rourke at the AeroMexico terminal, straight from FBI headquarters. He was still wearing his days-old bespoke suit but the ear-to-ear grin was completely new. He stuffed a thick envelope into his duffle bag and threw his arms around Sam. “Nice doing business with you. I’ve got to tell you, there were a few times you had me worried but you really pulled this one out your ass.”
Sam grinned. “I prefer to say that I snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.”
O’Rourke patted him playfully on the cheek. “Sure, have it your way. Money talks.” He turned and walked through the revolving doors.
The cab next stopped at the Swiss Air terminal. “No questions?” Sam asked.
“Don’t kid yourself,” Rachel replied. “I’m just waiting until we’re safely through security, thirty thousand feet in the air.”
“You’ve got outstanding willpower.”
“Believe me, I’m aching to ask you what just went down but I’m still in shock after my arrest and release from the FBI. I need to get seriously numb and alcohol is two to three times more potent at high altitude.”
“I think that’s an old wives’ tale.”
“Well then, lucky for me I’m not an old wife.”
“He grinned as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her on the lips. “No, lucky for me.”
Twenty-Three
They were well out over the Atlantic when Rachel was finally ready to ask about the day’s events. “Well, how’d you do it and where’d you get the scratch to pay for the first class seats? I’m kind of blitzed—I’ll believe practically anything you tell me.”
“My real name is Bruce Wayne and I’m worth billions.”
“Except that.”
“It really troubled me that Murray, a man who was in such trouble, was in such a hurry a to sign on the dotted line.”
“He was looking for windfall profits, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that what he needed?”
“Sure, but the payoff was years down the road, far too late to help him out with Vegas and the mob. At first I thought he was planning to offload his shares to someone else early on, payoff Atwater’s advance, and score an early profit without waiting for the actual diamond strike.”
“Could he have done that?”
“Yes, his shares were transferable, but finding another investor to take them off his hands might not be so easy to find.”
“What then?”
“Well, I figured if Murray was in deep with Vegas and the mob…”
Rachel grinned. “You figured he owed other people as well. Who?”
“Sam.”
“You?”
He laughed. “You really are drunk. No, not me, Uncle Sam. I did a little digging and I was right. He’s being investigated for tax evasion. And what’s worse than owing the mob?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. What? A heart attack? A gun to the head?”
“You’re close. Owing the mob and being locked up in the federal penitentiary where you’ve got a zero chance of making the money you need to pay them back and nowhere to run when they send in one of their torpedoes to shank you in the shower. That’s a pretty bitter end for a man of privilege like Murray to grapple with.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “What? I need another friggin’ drink. How the hell did that help us?”
“Using Wilcox’s influence we were able to structure a deal that helped both us and Murray.”
She called for the flight attendant. “Hit me again will you? Thanks.” She waited in silence for her fresh drink before speaking. “Okay, go on.”
“Over the last decade Murray has paid back millions in vigorish to the mob—one mobst
er in particular, Tony Bolla. He gave the feds everything they needed to put Bolla away for a very long time. The FBI and the IRS both made out—loan sharking, tax evasion, seizure of assets. That’s why Hender’s boss was so quick to sign the submission agreement. We made a deal that made everyone look good.”
“Everyone except Hender.” She smiled. “I’m not unhappy about that. But Murray signed his own death warrant. You know the crooked noses are going to come after him for testifying against Bolla.”
“Executive witness protection, hon. He’ll live high on the hog and on the government’s dime. Probably somewhere in or around where I grew up in Iowa where they have more hogs than people.”
Her eyes grew large. “Executive witness protection? That’s a thing?”
“Apparently it is when Millard Wilcox is involved.”
“And how exactly did you come by Millard Wilcox, the legal trade’s answer to Superman?”
“It was all there in front of us—the files we downloaded from Alton Wrent’s computer. It was like a Who’s Who of the rich, powerful, and influential. Milliard Wilcox is every gazillionaire’s criminal defense attorney. I paid him handsomely and he dropped everything to help us.”
“Except that we’re broke. By the way, how did you manage to send off snarly Joseph O’Rourke with such a big smile on his face? Our diamond deal went belly up.”
“No it didn’t.”
She gasped. “We got the whole five—”
He muzzled her with an open hand. “Shhh.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “No. The wire transfer was bogus. No funds were ever sent from Atwater’s account.”
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