“You sure? You trust me to do that?”
He chuckles. Maybe that means yes. Or maybe he didn’t hear the question.
I rise from the sofa, finish the drink in my glass, shake the ice. I approach the side table, look through the bills. Three months’ worth of paperwork: cable TV, electricity, phone service, water. The most recent bills are stamped with ominous “Final Notice” warnings.
Mr. Santullo says, “I can’t see the damn things! Too small!”
I say, “Where’s your grandson?” What I mean is: Why not ask him?
Mr. Santullo nods. “My grandson is Arabian,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Understood.”
I think that Mr. Santullo’s non sequitur will be the end of our conversation, and that I will now retire with his pile of paperwork to my apartment, where I will spend an hour sorting and paying his bills. “All right, Mr. Santullo,” I say. “I’ll take care of this for you. No problem. And thanks for that highball.”
Mr. Santullo nods and says, “He wants me to change the will.”
“What’s that?”
“My grandson. But I told him. I know what he’s up to.” He wags his index finger at me. “I know.”
“That right?”
“I know what he’s up to,” he says again.
I lay my empty highball glass gently on the buffet and gather the bills. I take his checkbook. “I’ll pay all these and stick them in the mail for you.”
“Thanks, Kip.”
I nod. On my way out of the apartment, Mr. Santullo says, “My grandson is Arabian.”
“Yup,” I say, and close the door gently behind me.
So that’s what it comes down to.
Everyone cheats. Some people are so lousy, they try to steal from their own family. Some people are so low, they rip off the frail and the elderly.
So, all things considered, how bad am I? Everyone’s conning everyone. I’m the only one scrupulous enough to make an honest living at it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
This morning I wake early and stumble from the couch. Toby is still sleeping in my bedroom. I grab the phone from the kitchen wall and dial Jess.
“Good morning,” I say. “Are you sleeping?”
“Hmm,” she says. I picture her in bed, arching her back, wearing a tight T-shirt, her nipples poking through the waffled cotton like pinkie fingers. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I try to keep my voice quiet. “I haven’t spoken to you since Vegas. You alone?”
“Of course.”
“Everything okay? With Napier?”
“Hmm.” She’s still groggy. Maybe she’s rubbing her eyes, looking at the clock. She takes a breath, yawns. Finally, she says: “He wants to see me tonight. He told his wife he’s having a business dinner.”
“I see.” I try to keep my voice neutral.
“That’s what you want, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m doing it for you. You want me to stay close to him. That’s what you said.”
“Yeah, fine. That’s what I said.” Although, now that I repeat it out loud, I’m not so sure.
“You know what’s funny?”
I grunt.
“He hasn’t hit me.”
“Who?”
“Ed,” she says.
Her first-name familiarity with our mark is momentarily disconcerting. “Meaning?”
“When we started, you told me he hits his wife. Knowing that made it easier. You know, to steal from him. So I was sort of expecting . . . something. If not a punch, maybe a threat. But so far, nothing. He’s been a gentleman.”
“Maybe you don’t know him well enough.”
“Umm . . .” She thinks about it. “I know him pretty well,” she says finally. Which kills me a little inside.
“I see.”
“And there’s something else.”
“Something else?”
“It’s like there’s something wrong with him. Something I can’t put my finger on. Something doesn’t ring true.”
I say: “You think he’s on to us?”
“Ed?” Again with the first name. Yeah, Ed, I want to say. Schnookums.
“I think . . .” She pauses, considers her words. “I think he’s . . . suspicious.”
“Which is what we want,” I say.
“Which is what we want,” she repeats. I hear the sound of rustling sheets. I picture her sitting up, pushing herself back against the headboard. “The thing is, he didn’t get to be a billionaire for nothing. He wasn’t born with the money. He earned it.”
“You sound smitten.”
For the first time she is annoyed. “I’m not smitten. I’m just pointing something out. That there’s something strange about him and you should be careful.”
“You should be careful,” I retort.
“We should all be careful,” she says.
After we hang up, I wonder: Will Jess ever forgive me, for what I am about to do?
My Honda is still in the shop, so Toby and I take a taxi to work. Napier shows up at 10:02 A.M. This time he brings a guest: a well-muscled goon in a suit I have never seen before. The goon follows a foot behind as Napier strides down our hall into the conference room. I think I see a lump under the goon’s jacket; he’s packing heat.
Napier doesn’t bother introducing him. His message is clear. I’m in charge of the company now, and please meet your new H.R. Director, Mr. Muscles, and his assistant, Mr. Glock. They will ensure your employment at Pythia is a productive one.
The conference room is set up as yesterday: screen down, lights dimmed, computer humming.
Napier says to me: “The money is in your account?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars,” I say.
“Let’s double it,” Napier says, as if he’s asking a gas station attendant to fill ’er up. Sure, I think, let’s just double that two hundred Gs. You want me to check your oil while I’m at it?
Peter says, “I spent all night working on the software.”
He waits for some kind of praise. When none comes, he says, “Anyway, here’s what it’ll do. Every thirty seconds, Pythia will scan the entire market for high-probability stock movements. She picks the ten most likely winners each time and invests ten percent of the account in each stock. At the end of each cycle, she’ll try again, using any additional funds she won. Assuming a conservative win rate of plus four percent every thirty seconds, we’ll double our money in—”
“Ten minutes,” Napier says.
Peter says, “Right.”
I glance to Jess. She’s looking at me, as if to say: See? He’s smart.
“I’m ready,” Napier says.
Peter looks to me. It’s becoming increasingly preposterous to pretend that I am in charge. But I nod and wave my hand for him to go ahead.
Peter walks to the keyboard, types a command. The screen is filled with ten small stock charts. Pythia draws ten red target circles. In thirty seconds, nine of the targets are hit.
Immediately ten new stock charts appear. Another ten red target circles. Thirty seconds pass. Ten winners.
The cycle repeats itself nine more times. Ten winners . . . nine winners . . . ten winners . . . eight winners . . .
We stare at the screen, without speaking. It’s hypnotic. We feel little pinpricks of endorphin each time a chart appears. We make three thousand dollars here, four thousand dollars there. Soon I lose track of the money we’re winning, but I know it must be large.
“Jesus,” I hear Toby say.
Ten minutes later, like addicts, we’re sitting slack in our chairs, spent, looking at the screen, even though the trading is done.
Finally, Peter says, “That’s it.”
He types something into the keyboard. A chart appears, itemizing our profit for the day. At the bottom it says: “Account balance = $485,163.30.” In ten minutes, we have doubled Ed Napier’s money.
I walk to the front of the room, pull the speakerphone toward me. I dial a tel
ephone number. A pleasant woman comes on the line. “Thank you for calling Datek Online,” she says. “This is Bonnie speaking. Can I please have your account number.”
I call out my account number.
Bonnie says, “Hello, sir. How may I help you?”
“Bonnie, could you kindly tell me my exact account balance, in cash, at this moment?”
“Hold on, sir,” she says. We hear the muted sound of a keyboard clicking somewhere in the American Midwest. “Here we go,” Bonnie says. “Your account balance is $485,163. And thirty cents.”
“Thank you,” I say. I hang up the phone.
I nod at Toby, who is standing at the side of the room, leaning on his crutches. He flips on the lights.
The six of us blink at each other in the sudden glare.
Napier says, “I’d like that money wired back into my account, immediately.”
I nod. “I’ll do that right now.”
Napier adds, “Not that I don’t trust you, partner. Just want to make sure everything’s on the up-and-up.” He turns to our new heat-packing H.R. Director, and says, “You can’t be too careful. Now that we’re talking about real money.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Dinner tonight is steaks on the grill. I keep a rusty old Weber kettle in Mr. Santullo’s backyard, tucked under the stairs. Toby and I wheel it out. Then we sit on cheap lawn chairs, sipping Buds from the can, watching the charcoal burn.
It’s a warm August night, and I’m wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and my son is sitting beside me, and I feel the exact opposite of déjà vu. That is: I feel like I’ve never lived this perfect moment before, to my eternal regret and shame.
There’s something hypnotic about the coals, and the smell of lighter fluid, and the fireflies that flare near Mr. Santullo’s rosemary bush. There’s no need to talk. Just sitting here is fine—perfect.
In a few weeks, the con will be over, and I will leave this place—disappear for several months, maybe years. I will rent a house somewhere, maybe a house on stilts, with a thatched roof, near the sea. I’ll bring my son with me. Or perhaps I’ll bring Jessica Smith.
Can I bring them both? That’s a question I try not to think about. Because I know the answer. The answer is no.
After I throw the steaks on the hot metal, Toby says, “I want to talk about the con.”
“Shoot.”
“I’m going to guess what happens. You tell me if I’m right.”
I turn the steaks with a fork, purse my lips, neither agree nor disagree.
Toby says: “So Ed Napier thinks he has a foolproof way to make money in the stock market. And he needs the cash, because of that hotel he’s trying to buy.”
I feel Toby looking at me for encouragement. I pretend not to notice, and I poke a fork into a steak.
“Anyway,” he continues, “we let Napier make bigger and bigger bets, and we pay him with the Professor’s money to make it look real. Then we let Napier make one last big bet. But something goes wrong, and he loses, and we keep his money.”
I say, “How do you like your steak?”
“Rare.”
“Then I should have asked you five minutes ago. How does well-done sound?”
“Fine.”
I remove the steaks to a plate, cover the grill. Again, I feel Toby staring at me.
“Well?” he says.
“Well what?”
“Is that the way the con’s going to work?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s the way it’s going to work. More or less.”
“More or less?”
“Let’s eat,” I say. And that is that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next morning I am woken by the telephone ringing in the kitchen. “Hello?” I say. I think it will be Jess, telling me how her date went last night with Napier.
But it is Ed Napier himself. I’m still groggy, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder how he found my home telephone number. I have shared with him only my cell phone.
“Franklin?” he says. “It’s Ed Napier.” His voice is as loud on the phone as in person—booming, take-charge, ready to change the world.
“Hi,” I say.
“I checked with my bank. The money you wired is there. All four hundred thousand dollars. Looks like you’re for real.”
“Did you ever doubt me?” I say.
“I want you and Toby to join me for breakfast. Come over to my place, in Woodside. We need to talk.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say.
He gives me his address. I hang up.
I go to the bedroom, where Toby is asleep, as usual. I wake him. I want him to join me.
The taxi drops me and Toby at the front gate of Napier’s estate. We are met by a middle-aged security man who looks curiously after our taxi as it pulls away. I doubt if many of Napier’s venture capital associates arrive at his mansion in a Yellow cab.
I tell the security man that I am Franklin Edison, to see Mr. Napier.
“Yes,” he says. He checks his clipboard. “Mr. Napier called down and said you would be coming. This way.”
He closes the gate behind us and leads us up a flagstone path. We approach the mansion, which is set above us on a hill. It is Spanish-Moorish in style, made of white limestone, with a roof of curved red clay tiles.
“Wow,” Toby says. “Cool house.”
The walkway spills into an arcaded loggia. We pass through the loggia, which is filled with rattan furniture and potted red bougainvillea plants. The house looks curiously like a Ralph Lauren showroom. I am half-expecting to be met by a perky blond salesgirl in a floral sundress. Imagine my disappointment when we are met by two toughs in suits.
The older security guard says, “These gentlemen will take you back.” He nods at the bruisers.
“Will you come this way?” a bruiser says to me, grabbing my elbow.
The other bruiser takes Toby’s arm. “Hey,” Toby says. He tries to pull away from the bruiser, but the man’s grip is firm, implacable. Toby was expecting a delightful breakfast on the veranda, perhaps poached eggs and mimosas, but it seems Napier has other plans.
The bruisers guide us through the arcade and into the house. We pass through a sitting room, beautifully decorated in 1930s Hacienda style, with a brown leather couch and a billiards table. I hope briefly that the bruisers will deposit us in this charming room, where I will be able to brush up on my pool while I wait for Ed Napier to appear. Alas, this possibility looks increasingly remote. The goons lead us out of the room and down a long hallway. In contrast to the loggia and the sitting room, there has been little effort to decorate this corridor. It is plain brown wood. I am beginning to get a bad feeling.
At the end of the corridor we come to a steel door. One goon releases my elbow and reaches into his pocket. He retrieves a ring of keys. He unlocks the door, swings it open.
All pretense of politeness now vanishes. Toby and I are shoved through the steel door, into a cold concrete room, lit with industrial fluorescents. There is a table pushed up against the far wall, and two metal folding chairs. Peter and Jess stand beside the table. They look pale. Peter’s hands are shaking.
“Hi, guys,” I say. To Jess: “How was your date last night?”
One goon shuts the door behind us, and uses the key to lock the six of us inside. The other goon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gun.
I say, “Won’t Mr. Napier be joining us for breakfast?”
“Not quite yet,” the one with the gun says.
“Something we need to do first?” I ask.
The other goon smiles. He walks up to me. “Yeah,” he says. “Something I need to do.” Without warning, he swings his fist into my abdomen.
“Oof,” I say, and drop to my knees. The other man—the one with the gun—stands guard at the door, looking at me without expression.
“Hey—” Toby says. He takes a step toward me.
The man with the gun turns and aims at Toby’s head. My son now has second thoughts.
He freezes, raises his palms in peace. “No problem,” Toby says. “No problem.”
The goon with the good right jab winds back his foot, as if to kick a soccer ball. Unfortunately, in this case, the soccer ball is me. His Cole Haan nails my chest, knocking the wind from me and sending me, arms flailing, backward. I hear Jess scream. I land on the concrete, trying to keep my chin tucked so I won’t slam my skull on the floor. I’m off balance. I raise my arm feebly over my head to protect myself.
The goon apparently possesses the can-do attitude that Ed Napier so admires. I know this because he is not content merely to use his fist and shoe to strike me. He walks across the room and grabs the metal chair. He folds it like a dainty umbrella, returns to where I am curled on the floor, and raises it high over his head. He smashes it down across my back.
Jess yells, “Please, stop!”
I try to say, “Wait,” but I’m not sure if any words come out. My head is throbbing. I cough and feel liquid in my throat. I’m not sure if it is phlegm or blood.
I’m curled in a fetal position, rocking pathetically on the concrete. I keep my hands over my head and face, to protect against another blow, which I am sure is about to come. But it never does. I hear one of the goons clearing his throat. Then another sound: of a door unlocking, creaking open.
I look up. Ed Napier has joined us in the room. He shuts the door.
“Hello, Franklin Edison,” he says. He smiles, repeats the name. “Franklin Edison, is it? Or do you mind if I call you Kip Largo?”
I scrabble on the concrete, to a kneeling position. “Either is fine,” I say, agreeably.
“I know who you are, Mr. Largo,” Ed Napier says. “You’re a con man. You just got out of prison. You served five years in a federal penitentiary for ripping off fat people.”
“That’s not true,” I say. I mean the part about ripping off fat people. Since Toby and Jess are here, I want to explain that the Diet Deck was a real product, and that it may have even helped a few of the fatties; but that it was securities fraud that did me in. But I taste blood in my mouth, and I’m having a hard time breathing. I skip the details.
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