Cons, Scams, and Grifts

by Joe Gores

  A thick savory stew bubbled in her only saucepan on the single-burner hotplate. The table was set with two plates, both soup bowls, and both sets of her Kmart cutlery.

  “I’m home,” Geraldine called softly. “Alone.” Yasmine Vlanko came out from behind the curtain hung at an angle across one corner of the room to form a tiny closet. Geraldine added, “Just as you said, Larry Ballard took me to lunch!”

  The stew was subtly flavored with herbs unknown in Dubuque. As Geraldine talked with her soup spoon, Yasmine hung on every word, interjecting little exclamations and clicks of the tongue. Geraldine felt more important than she had ever felt in her life.

  “And he gave you no hint of what his information might be?”

  Yasmine asked it urgently. Geraldine felt a twinge of quickly suppressed jealousy. Yasmine was so darkly beautiful and Ballard was so blondly handsome: they would make a striking couple. It was comforting to remember that Yasmine, to preserve her powers, slept with no one on earth.

  “He just said it was really important.”

  “The forces of darkness are closing in,” Yasmine said almost to herself. She chanted in a low voice:

  “Miseç’, yakhá tut dikhen,

  Te yon káthe mudáren!

  Te átunci eftá coká

  Te çaven miseçe yakhá!”

  Geraldine trembled at Yasmine’s unknown words.

  “What does it mean?” she asked timidly.

  “Evil eyes look on thee,

  May they here extinguished be!

  And then seven ravens

  Pluck out the evil eyes!”

  Geraldine squealed her chair back, terrified. Yasmine put a quickly comforting hand on her arm.

  “Not you, Geraldine! And not Larry Ballard, either. He is not evil. He does what a man must do. The curse is for those who accuse me of evil.”

  “What must I do?” asked Geraldine.

  “You must carry a very special message to a certain person. She must know nothing of where I am or who you are.”

  “You want me to ask her what Ballard was talking about?”

  “You have much to learn, Geraldine. Ask, and you learn nothing. You must make them eager to tell you.”

  “I . . . I’m not very good at lying or fooling people,” said Geraldine miserably, her mission a failure before it had begun.

  Yasmine made a dismissive gesture. “I will prepare you.”

  It was just past midnight, black and still and, up here in the mountains, clear and brisk with a billion stars. No moon. The Xanadu gate was safely closed and locked and the uniformed guard was bored and half-asleep. He yawned. Charon and Hecate, lying beside him on their leashes, yawned also.

  Far away behind the building was the soft loamy sound of a trenching tool sinking into rich soil. The hole under the electrified perimeter fence got just big enough for a man to crawl through. Dragging a curiously lively stuff-bag behind him, the digger slithered on his back under the high-voltage wire.

  Bushes moved on the edge of the cleared perimeter area at the right rear corner of the building. Big gloved hands took a squirming grey squirrel out of the stuff-bag to toss it into the no-man’s-land covered by the movement and heat sensors.

  Lights flashed, sirens screamed, whistles shrilled.

  The black-clad intruder jogged back past his entry point toward the left rear corner of the building. Here he stooped to release a second squirrel, then melted again into the bushes.

  More lights flashed, sirens screamed, whistles shrilled.

  A quartet of armed guards led by R.K. Robinson rushed down the front steps and turned right toward the first set of alarms. A few moments later, five more guards burst forth to turn left toward the second set of alarms.

  The intruder, dressed all in black and wearing a black ski mask, raced up the deserted front steps and into the building. He took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, ignoring the glaring eyes of the security cameras.

  A dozen feet beyond the locked-down solid steel door of the Security Control Center, the door to the Observation Room was invitingly ajar. The intruder plunged through the interlocking invisible light beams, crossed the pressure-sensitive floor plates to the observation window. Sirens. Whistles.

  Inside the Security Control Center one of a pair of side-by-side monitor screens showed Freddie’s room. The other showed the adjacent Observation Room.

  Freddie was sitting on the floor of his partitioned-off living area, playing rather disconsolately with one of his toys. His computer was dark and silent. In the Observation Room, a black-clad figure rapped sharply on the window glass.

  The duty officer spoke into his mike in an excited voice.

  “This is Rose Bush. Intruder in Observation Room, signaling to Freddie. Repeat, this is Rose Bush—”

  Through his earphones came R.K. Robinson’s bull-like voice.

  “This is Faded Rose Petal. On my way, over.”

  Freddie, leaping up and down with excitement, paused to assimilate the words being signed by the man in the Observation Room: COME BACK FOR FREDDIE SOON.

  The hallway door burst open and R.K. Robinson sprang into the room with a loud cry of triumph. He was jerking his gun from its holster as he came. The intruder hurled himself backward right through the pane of the outside window. R.K. Robinson fired at the same moment. The upper edge of the window frame splintered as his shot went high.

  R.K. rushed to the window and leaned out. Nothing.

  What in Christ’s name was Victor Marr going to say when he learned of this night’s fiasco?

  forty

  Very little, to R.K. Robinson’s relief the next morning. Marr spoke on the secure line with a shrug in his voice.

  “Freddie was unharmed?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, Mr. Marr. The guy only got into the Observation Room. He never laid a glove on the ape.”

  “Line the bottom of the perimeter fence with steel baffles so no one can dig under it again,” said Marr.

  “We caught the squirrels,” said R.K. proudly. “They made great target practice. Blew ’em all to hell with our AK-47s.”

  Marr sighed. No way now to learn where the squirrels had been purchased. Was the man a moron?

  “Carry on, Robinson. I will be back in touch soon.”

  Oh Jesus, Robinson! And it had been going so well. Why was the old man all of a sudden pissed, for Chrissake?

  How much to tell Knottnerus-Meyer of last night’s probe into Xanadu’s security? Nothing, Marr decided. Never let the right hand know what the left hand was doing. He called the Baron’s suite at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco.

  “Prepare your plan to test the Xanadu defenses, Baron.”

  Over the phone, heels clicked. “Ja, Herr Marr.”

  Stan Groner was learning. He didn’t say it in so many words, but his guarded phone call conveyed the essential message that he wanted a meet where nobody could listen in. It was a nice afternoon, cool breeze but no fog, so Kearny suggested the trail along the sea bluffs that flanked Lincoln Park Golf Course.

  As they strolled along far above the smashing breakers, Stan the Man blurted out, “Marr has changed his mind. Now he wants Xanadu’s defenses tested. So the Baron wants you to—”

  “Uh-uh. The Baron hasn’t paid my consultant’s fee yet.”

  “Cal-Cit guarantees payment.” Stan slid a sideways glance at Kearny’s impassive profile. “The Baron let slip that secret merger talks are going on between his firm and the bank. I want to be one of those still standing when the smoke clears.”

  “I just bet you do—but what’s in it for me?”

  “DKA gets all of Cal-Cit’s repo work in perpetuity.”

  Kearny stopped dead. Crisp spring breeze coming up the cliff face ruffled his greying hair. His eyes had sharpened.

  “Over the whole state? Forever?”

  Stan’s mild features took on a half-crafty look. He was getting good at this stuff. He nodded. “The bank really wants to get into bed with these guys in
Berlin.”

  Kearny knew “forever” was a very elastic term, but he said, “Set up a meeting so I can find out what it is the Baron wants.”

  Johanna Knudsen was a pretty blonde with a warm face and big blue eyes dancing with laughter. Last year, she and Edna Jacob had become partners as Travel Associates of Richmond. Their office on Park Place in Point Richmond was in a two-story red-brick converted firehouse and jail originally built in 1910.

  It was noon, Edna was out to lunch, and Johanna was making out a South Seas cruise itinerary that two elderly couples would be in for that afternoon, when the door’s spring bell jangled. A stunningly handsome, deeply tanned man in his mid-30s came gliding down the aisle of the long, narrow office. Beautifully groomed black hair, zestful eyes, strong features, a sensual mouth. His suit was exquisite. He stopped at Johanna’s brochure-strewn desk.

  “Ms. Knudsen, my name is Alberto Angelini.”

  Johanna gave him her best smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “If I may . . .” Angelini leaned forward with European élan to lay a business card on her desk, then sat down across from her. He crossed his legs. His pants had absolutely knife-edge creases. “I wish to charter a plane to take fifty people to Europe.” Johanna reached casually for her notepad and drew it toward her. The commission on this might pay off the last of their start-up costs.

  “The smallest plane you could get would be a 767,” she said, “and that carries two hundred people. We could probably find another charter group to split the cost.” She glanced at him with interest. “It sounds as though you have a wedding or a baptism coming up.”

  “Both perhaps. It will definitely be a pleasure trip.” He gave a rich, mellow laugh that Johanna felt right down to her toes. “I am taking my employees and their families to Roma in the middle of the Jubilee year when the festivities will be at their zenith.” He pronounced it the British way.

  “Lucky employees!” she exclaimed with a smile.

  He tapped the card he had put on her desk. “I’m the lucky one. My people have made it all possible. The Millennium of the Church is an historical occasion; it will not recur for a thousand years. Heaven’s Helpers supplies vestments, chalices, and candlesticks to churches across the country, books of devotion to Catholic bookstores, and religious items to the gift shops of the California missions. This has been an unusually profitable year for us, and I resolved that the hard work of my staff should be rewarded. Recently holy relics have surfaced from ancient monasteries throughout the Holy Roman Empire, such as have never been seen on this continent. Sacred mementos, carrying the blessings of beatified popes, powerful indulgences. . . .”

  Johanna smiled wistfully. Although it sounded a bit exotic, pagan even, it was also, well, in a word, romantic.

  Her fingers danced lightly on the computer keys. “I should think . . . yes . . . I can probably find you something for late August or early—”

  “But no!” he cried passionately. “It must be next week. There are time-sensitive considerations that cannot be deferred.”

  Her face fell. “Next week just isn’t possible, Mr. Angelini. We’re entering the peak summer travel season—”

  “Please—Alberto.” He checked his watch, was on his feet. “Devo scappare. Lunch, Thursday noon, the Hotel Mac. I leave it all in your hands.” His glance at her was a caress. “By then you will tell me how we can manage this.”

  Ballard was blazing. “Why did you tell the Gypsies we’re off Yana’s case?” he demanded of Kearny.

  Giselle answered for Dan. “The cops told us to butt out.”

  “Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern got a warrant,” said Kearny. “They think they’ve got proof she did the two old men here in the Bay Area. Where you gonna run to, cowboy, if they catch you still looking for her?”

  “They won’t catch him,” said Bart.

  “When you find her, what then?” asked Giselle.

  “I tell her about the Murder One warrant.” Larry suddenly grinned. “Then I ask her if she did it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, as she keyed the door of her little red Alfa in DKA’s repo storage lot, there was a jangling noise behind Giselle. A soft voice asked, “Giselle Marc?”

  She whirled, heart thumping. But it was only a buxom tight-waisted woman she had never seen before, peering almost diffidently at her from the shadows beside a repo’d SUV.

  Obviously, the woman had dressed for maximum impact. She wore a white off-the-shoulder blouse displaying deep cleavage, and a blue and white full skirt of crinkly material. Gold glittered at her ears, her throat, her wrists, her fingers. She carried a small pink purse at odds with her dress. Her hair was a black cloud around her full, round face. Too much vivid red lipstick; too much mascara, too much musky perfume.

  “I have a message for you from Yasmine Vlanko.”

  Yasmine Vlanko, aka Yana Poteet! Obviously, not all of the Gypsies were honoring Yana’s marime interdiction.

  “What’s the message?”

  “The forces of darkness pursue her. It is very dangerous for her. All is not what it seems. You must wait for my call with a date, a time, and a place for a meeting. No names will be given. This cannot be shared with anyone.”

  “If no names are given, how will I know—”

  The woman shimmied her hips to jangle her golden coins. Clever. She didn’t have to give a name, not even a phony one.

  Excitement constricted Giselle’s throat. “I’ll be ready.”

  The cab, an extravagance Yasmine had paid for, dropped Geraldine Tantillo on the steeply slanting street in front of her apartment house. She almost ran up the five flights of stairs with equal feelings of excitement and near-pain. She was dying to get at the corset that had tightened her waist from its usual comfortable 35 to a compressed 28, but she felt wonderful. She was a star! Not one of the chorus, not one of the crowd.

  Yasmine shut and bolted the door behind her as Geraldine whipped off the great wig of shining black hair.

  “I . . . did . . . it . . . just as . . . you told me to . . .”

  “We shall drink some wine,” Yasmine beamed, “and you will tell it all to me from hello-hello to goodbye-goodbye.”

  At ten-thirty the next morning, Dan Kearny said in disbelief, “You want DKA to prepare a plan to do what?”

  They were in a dark-paneled corner office at the Cal-Cit Bank headquarters in One Embarcadero Center’s glittering marble-and-glass tower. On the walls were sporting prints; through the windows were fine sun-drenched views of Market Street far below. Ornate gold leaf on the outside of the old- fashioned pebbled glass door, backward from inside the room, spelled out:

  STANLEY GRONER

  PRESIDENT

  CONSUMER LOAN DIVISION

  They were all wearing their power suits. Kearny wore his from Chicago, along with the tie Giselle admired. Stan Groner wore Brooks Brothers blue, Baron Herbert Von Knottnerus-Meyer a lightweight pearl-grey wool number.

  “It is very simple,” Stan said. “Now Marr wants Xanadu’s defenses tested in real time. You have to come up with a plan.”

  “I don’t know about real time, but I know those defenses.”

  “I assure you, de fee vill be more den adequate,” said Knottnerus-Meyer. “Vere iss der problem?”

  “Stan, tell him where the problem is.”

  “Uh . . . I’m with the Baron on this one. Hell, Dan, you should welcome the challenge.”

  Kearny shot Groner an angry glare. It slid right off him. Ah, where was the staid banker of yesteryear? Mired in greed. As was Kearny, of course. Besotted but cautious.

  “Hell, Stan, you should be part of the challenge.”“No way!” Stan was aghast. “I’m a banker, for God sake!” Kearny felt he had scored his point. He said, “Okay, I’ve got a couple of ideas.”

  Which, he knew, meant a heads-together with devious O’B.

  He and O’B met at the Corner Bar, up the street from DKA, happily still a bucket of blood full of rummies despite the ongoing dot-com gentr
ification South of Market. After they’d been served by a squat, swarthy, foul-mouthed bartender in a dirty apron, Dan laid out the specs of the Baron’s Xanadu needs.

  He finished with, “Our strategy is very simple—”

  “Simple?” O’B drained his second O’Doul’s. “We gotta get through the electrified outer fence without getting fried; take out the perimeter sensors; get into the building and bypass the scanning video cameras; deactive the invisible light beams; avoid the pressure plates in the floors; neutralize the security control systems operator; release this ape from his cage and remove him from the building, put him back, and get away ourselves without being spotted or getting our butts chewed off by the dogs or shot off by a head of security who hates your guts. Simple?”

  Kearny nodded. “Strategy is what has to be done. It’s always simple. Strategy is my concern. How to carry out strategy is tactics. Tactics, O’B—they’re your concern.”

  forty-one

  Milagrita hadn’t seen her brother Esteban and his amigos since they chased Trin out of the Mission Street pizza joint. The less she saw of them, the more she worried. What if they, like she, had ferreted out his spare apartment key? What if his paycheck stubs were in the apartment? It preyed on her mind.

  So after work that night, she worked her way through back alleys to come out behind Trin’s place in the 900 block of Florida Street. She climbed a tree to get over the fence and wormed her way through the concrete runoff to find the rock with the key under it. And came nose-to-nose with the big tortoise who had lived there for fifty years and more.

  “Wish me luck, turtle,” Milagrita whispered to him.

  The tortoise half-pulled in his head and feet to opt out.

  She climbed the creaky wooden stairs to Trin’s back door, unlocked it, slipped in, stood in the darkened kitchen with her heart pounding wildly. She had never done anything like this before. As she passed through the connecting door to the living room fronting Florida Street, she was seized from behind, run right across the room, and rammed face-down onto the couch.