A Shared Confidence

by William Topek

  Stanton raised his eyebrows with polite interest. “Yes?”

  “I don’t like to run a friend down. And what I tell you has to stay strictly between ourselves, you understand.”

  “You have my solemn word that it will, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Ryland got into some real trouble recently,” I said in a lowered voice. “Made one bad investment and it’s pretty much broken him.” I shook my head slowly. “Can you imagine being fool enough to sink the whole ball of wax on one turn of the wheel? And that’s what investing is, Mr. Stanton: gambling, plain and simple. You know it and I know it. Yes, it’s a very sophisticated kind of gambling, and the wise man stays informed and knows how to calculate the odds and figure when they’re in his favor, but it’s still gambling.

  “Hell,” I laughed, “do you think for a minute I’d hand my whole net worth over to you or anyone? The half million I want you to handle for me, well, let’s say every stock you pick for me tanks, no fault of your own. Bad luck hits sometimes. Labor strikes, acts of God, bad risks the companies themselves have taken that an investor may not know about it. My point is, even if I lose the whole half mil, it’s not going to break me.”

  “You have a firm grasp and a clear understanding of the risks inherent in this trade, Mr. Shaw. And if I may say, a fine mind for assessing those risks maturely and soberly. It’s a pity we can’t say the same for Mr. Ryland.”

  “Poor Ryland,” I laughed pitilessly. “That’s not the half of his troubles.” I leaned in closer. “One of his business partners is a Chicago mobster. Ryland still owes this guy money and now he can’t pay. I guess the guy’s coming up to Baltimore to have a talk with Ryland, and if he can’t get his money, he’s going to want to talk with the people Ryland invested with.” I leaned back in my chair and picked up my drink. “Man alive, I’d hate to be those guys.”

  “Indeed.” Stanton decided he didn’t want to stay for a second round. I said I was of the same mind on the subject, then leaned in close again.

  “There’s one more thing, Mr. Stanton. And please don’t take offense, because I’m telling you this as a friend.”

  “Yes?”

  “A Treasury agent came to my hotel looking for me today. Secret Service, in fact. Unknowingly, I passed a counterfeit bill at a bank the day before. That bill was part of the eleven hundred I picked up from my last transaction at First Quality Investors, I’m sure of it.”

  Stanton looked mortified, and immediately reached for his wallet.

  “No, no, put that way. Let’s not quibble over a measly hundred. Hell, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “This is an outrage, Mr. Shaw, and I feel responsible.”

  “You’re not. Hell, maybe First Quality isn’t either. How many guys walk into that place over the course of a day? Funny money gets passed around all the time, and it’s not always easy to catch it. But I know you’re in tight with these guys and I figure you might want to make mention of it to the manager. Have his people watch the cash coming in a little better. Or even watch his own people. You know, in case he’s got a new guy who’s doing a little skimming.”

  I was back in my first hotel room with Jennings, who was still in his conservative suit but sitting back easy in a chair with his feet up on the ottoman, lids relaxed over his gray-green eyes and his lazy smile back in place. Even in the same clothes with his hair neatly oiled and parted, you’d have had to look twice, maybe three times, to make him as the serious-minded Secret Service agent of a few hours ago. I’d called Jennings last Monday at the office and asked if he wanted to come work for me in Baltimore for a week. He was all for it, of course. The boy likes the smell of adventure same as a rummy likes the smell of booze. Gail was leaving on her vacation in a day or two, so I had Jennings take care of any open business and shut down the office for a week. If I couldn’t pull this off in another seven days, it wasn’t going to happen.

  I picked him up at the airport late Wednesday night. It was his first airplane ride and he’d naturally found it thrilling. We’d set him up in my room to avoid checking him in (he’d only visit Mr. Shaw at the Lord Baltimore at specific times and for specific purposes). Jennings is maybe a tad more reckless than your average youth, but he gets the details right and there’s nobody like him in a pinch. And I was going to need some help.

  Getting Jennings to agree to help me con a con man took all of four seconds, but that’s only because the boy talks lazy on purpose a lot of the time. His test run with Straker today had gone off without a hitch, as I knew it would. Not that fooling Straker would put anybody into the upper echelons of confidence tricksters, but it never hurts to get in a little practice before the game.

  I refilled Jennings’ glass with a splash of fortifier while he continued to stare, fascinated, at the phony Secret Service identification I’d had Ferrier make.

  “I get that back when this is over, boy-oh,” I told him. “You want to impress the ladies, rely on your good looks. And go light on the booze while you’re in town, I need you in peak form.”

  “No sweat, Mr. Caine. So how’d it go with Stanton?”

  “Pretty well, I think.” I poured myself a tot and fetched out a cigarette. “He’ll go for my investment being broken up into installments, which buys us time. He thinks I’m so rich I won’t make a huge stink when I lose it, so he doesn’t have to cool me out too hard after. I loaded him down with details about Kelly Shaw’s long-term investment strategies. I also made him aware that Ryland’s mobster partner is coming to town, so hopefully he’ll be a bit rattled and not so perfectly on his game, though not rattled enough to fade on us, not with half a million coming his way on a platter.” I took a seat opposite Jennings and ashed my cigarette. “And, I let him know about my visit from Secret Service Agent John Galen. He’ll wonder whether someone at his ‘store’ goofed and slipped in an Old Maid by accident or whether he really has a problem with one of the shills. Should keep his mind good and occupied, anyway.”

  “You want I should drop into this brokerage outfit?” Jennings asked. “Flash my credentials, ask to see a few bills?”

  “I do not, Jennings, and that’s an order. And you’re going to have to follow my orders to the letter on this one. Cons are very delicate business. One wrong move is enough to blow it.”

  “I get you, boss,” he said seriously.

  For right now, I explained, it was enough that I had a Pinkerton’s operative who could verify that a Treasury man paid me a visit and the nature of that visit. I may or may not need that at some point, but preparing a con is like packing for a long voyage full of unknowns: you cram as much as you can into the steamer trunk, so if the weather changes or you spill something on your favorite shirt, you’re still in good shape.

  “How’d you learn so much about cons. Mr. Caine?”

  I blew out a jet of smoke and said simply: “Pinkerton’s.” I didn’t want to shake Jennings’ confidence in me by admitting how much of this I was guessing at. Or just making up.

  “That guy at the table, he was your old boss, Mr. Caine?”

  “That he was. For fourteen damn months out of my life.”

  “Be careful around him,” Jennings advised. “He looks like a real weasel to me.”

  “Nothing wrong with your eyes.”

  “So what’s our next move?” I told him and he listened carefully, repeating it accurately when I asked him to, but I could still see the suppressed glitter in his eyes as I laid it out.

  “Jennings, keep in mind…”

  “Yes, Mr. Caine?”

  “This is a pretty extraordinary set of circumstances. I know it’s exciting in its way. I just don’t want you to get the idea that this is normally the kind of thing I do. You’ll probably never see anything like this for the rest of the time you’re working for me.”

  Jennings grinned at me and took a drink of scotch.

  “You keep telling me that, Mr. Caine, but…” he gave a light chuckle and a lazy shake of his head.

  Nine a.m. Saturday mornin
g I was in Townsend’s office. It felt good somehow to be sitting in a detective’s office, and I realized I was missing my own. On Townsend’s desk sat a wire recorder about the size of an overnight case.

  “You used one of these gizmos before?” Townsend asked.

  “Once or twice, but I’m not familiar with this model.”

  “It’s not complicated.” And it wasn’t. Townsend took me through the operation of the machine in less than two minutes.

  “How’d things work out for your brother?” he asked.

  “Everything’s jake. Talked to the lawyer you hired the other day and he says it’s all squared away at the precinct. Like it never happened.”

  “Didn’t figure it would be much of a problem. How’s the rest of it going?”

  “It’s working up till now, but damned if the situation doesn’t keep getting more complicated all the time.”

  “Situations tend to do that,” Townsend observed. “From what you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound as if you have enough elbow room to flap your arms.”

  “There’s not as much I’m used to having,” I admitted. “Feds have promised to give me some, though.”

  “Feds promise a lot of things,” Townsend observed.

  “That they do.”

  We settled on a rate for the use of the wire recorder and some extra spools, then Townsend closed the lid on the case and stood the whole thing on its end.

  “I know you haven’t told me everything,” he said. “I don’t so much have a problem with that. You’re a square G, Caine, but you rope me into something illegal, I’ll throw your name to the cops like it was confetti.”

  “No beef with that,” I assured him. “If things go south, I’ll blow town so fast you’ll feel the breeze here in your office.”

  “I’ll still throw your name.”

  “You’re a square G yourself, Townsend. Let’s get a drink when this is over.”

  I picked up the case and left his office with it.

  At eleven o’clock I was walking into Beldham & Morrissey to see Mr. Nathan Caine about finalizing a business loan. Nathan greeted me with a smile and a businessman’s handshake, stating how pleased he was I had decided on his bank’s services before escorting me back to his office. No, Mr. Shaw, it wasn’t any trouble at all handling this on a Saturday. Nathan had had to fudge his way through a presentation at a staff meeting a few days ago, throw out a few bogus details about the flower shop Kelly Shaw was planning to help open up for his nephew, a recent college graduate. Nathan assured his superiors that Mr. Shaw’s credit was good for much more than the forty thousand dollars he was asking, and that he was hopeful of doing more substantial business with Mr. Shaw in the future if the man liked how the bank treated him on this matter. The loan was okayed quickly and the men moved onto other business.

  It hadn’t been easy getting Nathan to go along with this, especially as he still didn’t know the exact nature of my plan. If the worst happened, Kelly Shaw would walk out on a fairly minor loan. It’d be Nathan’s first bad call and he could still go to them about the larger sum missing. Not that I told Nathan any of that, of course. You don’t tell Nathan the worst. A hypothetical negative is always, to him, a concrete certainty.

  Kelly Shaw had wanted the money in cash, and Nathan had the valise on his desk as I signed the papers he’d drawn up as illegibly as I could.

  “I’m trusting you with this,” he said quietly, being so careful he didn’t even use my name.

  “I know. Don’t worry, this money’s only for show. It’ll never be out of my sight.” What was one more lie in the middle of all this?

  I left his office still wearing clothes I couldn’t really afford and carrying more money than I’d ever held in my life. Certainly more money than Nathan or I could replace on our own if something happened.

  It was just past noon when I met up with Penny at the hotel lounge we’d been to twice already. Seemed like it was becoming “our place”. The waitress must have thought so, too, because she walked right up and asked: “One Campari and soda and one rum over ice?”

  I took a cool sip and decided I was starting to take a shine to Shaw’s sissy-boy drink.

  “So fill me in,” I said to Penny.

  “Oh, I’m doing just fine, Dev. It’s just grand of you to ask like that.”

  I sighed and took another drink.

  “How are you, Penny?”

  “Oh, you know,” she shrugged. “Same old same old. Can’t complain.”

  “Glad to hear it. Now fill me in.”

  Penny was getting in pretty tight with Stanton and his bunch. She’d fed them a line about how O’Shea, her regular boss, was thinking of roping Shaw in on The Wire.

  “That’s basically the same thing as the stock swindle Stanton plays, only it’s with horse racing.”

  “I know what it is. Keep going.”

  Stanton had got a little hot at hearing this, explaining that he was already working Shaw, had put some real time in, and he wouldn’t stand for some other con butting in while the mark was still in play somewhere else. There was such a thing as common etiquette, after all. And if O’Shea needed a little reminder in this area…(I wondered how Stanton talked when he wasn’t playing the elegant and avuncular investment guru) but Penny calmed him down, saying that O’Shea hadn’t even met Shaw yet, had only heard about him, and that she could make sure he didn’t get a chance to do so any time soon. If nothing else, she could convince O’Shea that there was enough Kelly Shaw to go around. Hell, a high roller like Shaw would probably be eager to make up a recent loss in the stock market if he knew of a sure thing with the ponies. In actuality, O’Shea didn’t even know of Kelly Shaw’s existence; Penny was just pouring all this into Stanton’s ear to keep him distracted for me.

  Penny explained to Stanton that she’d cut into Shaw for a solo score, but after finding out how loaded he really was, she wondered if O’Shea might be interested in a bigger play. When she found out Stanton was already working Shaw, however, she figured maybe Stanton could use an extra pair of eyes in return for a cut of the action.

  “Do cons do this a lot?” I asked. “Flit back and forth between mobs depending on the deal at hand?”

  “Well,” she frowned for a moment, “you really have to be kind of careful not to–” and then she broke off laughing at herself. “Oh hell, yeah, honey. They do it all the time!”

  “What will O’Shea do if he finds out you’re shilling for Stanton on the side?”

  “Probably call me a dirty name. And then kick himself for not giving me better play if he’s got any brains.”

  I was relaxing in my suite at the Lord Baltimore that afternoon, reading the newspaper and waiting for Stanton to arrive. Penny had told him I was hoping to see him again soon. Since I wasn’t supposed to know the two of them were talking, Stanton left a message for me at the front desk, stating that he would be in the neighborhood that afternoon and might drop by to pay a friendly call.

  The telephone rang. Being the gentleman he was, Stanton had had the desk call up to announce him rather than just barging in.

  “Just the man I’ve been wanting to talk to,” I said delightedly. “Please send him right up.”

  I pictured the clerk giving Stanton a polite “Room 402, sir,” telling him the way to the elevator, then Stanton heading that way in his measured, stately gait. A polite request to the elevator operator, the boy closing the gate and throwing the lever, the car’s steady ascent up four floors, then the boy opening the gate and Stanton stepping out into the hall. When I had him outside my suite I turned and pointed at the closed door.

  The knock came six seconds later. Well, not too bad, really.

  I opened the door and greeted Stanton warmly, shaking his hand and offering him a little hospitality. He accepted, but reminded me that it was still daylight and he was getting on in years. I brushed that away but was polite enough to make him a fairly weak drink.

  We seated ourselves, chatted about the weather for a b
it and the history Stanton knew of The Lord Baltimore. It’s only the amateurs who rush right to the matter at hand every time they see you, in genuine business as well as confidence games. Seasoned professionals rarely appear to be in a hurry; they know how much time they have. Stanton asked after my lady friend and I told him she was out looking at new hats. You know how women are.

  “Sorry to bring up business on a Saturday, Mr. Stanton, but I would like to run my plan by you.”

  “By all means, my boy. Let’s hear the details.”

  “I’d like to make the first investment with you Monday morning. I’ll buy the shares in my own name, at least for this transaction. I’m thinking forty thousand for this first one. We’ll keep increasing them over the course of next week. But I wanted to give you time to pick the right stock for me, give you a chance to figure how many shares I’ll need to buy.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Mr. Shaw.” He stroked his chin and thought for a moment. “Possibly ChemChron Amalgamated, or even Paraguay Wire and Electric. I’ll have to check the figures that morning to be sure, of course.”

  “Oh, I understand. I just wanted to give you as much advance notice as I could. I’m thinking forty on Monday, eighty on Tuesday, another eighty on Wednesday, then straight hundreds for the following three days.”

  “That should work out well. And you’re wanting to keep these funds invested for approximately how long?”

  “At least a month. Could be up to three.”

  Stanton rubbed his chin again.

  “I don’t see any problem.” Stanton must have thought he’d hit the jackpot. A willing mark who was asking him to take a pile of money off his hands and who may not even come looking for it for months. In that time, Stanton could disassemble his store brick by brick and rebuild it in another state if he wanted.

  We’d gone back to the weather when the door opened. Not even a knock. I looked up frowning and saw Casper Giarelli filling the door frame, his two torpedoes in the hallway behind him. They walked into the room uninvited and I immediately thought of Ethan Ryland, the connection between Giarelli and Stanton. That would be the only way to explain–