“Which one of you is Shaw?” Giarelli’s voice was as flat as sheet metal.
“I’m Kelly Shaw,” I said, getting to my feet slowly.
Giarelli turned his cool gaze to Clay Stanton.
“That make you Stanton?”
“Mr. Stanton is my guest this afternoon,” I said. “If that’s any of your concern.”
Giarelli turned his eyes back to me again.
“Get lost for half an hour.”
“This is my suite!” I protested. The goon behind him put his hand inside his coat and stared at me hard, waiting for the order.
“Better make it an hour,” Giarelli said, walking over to where we were and settling himself into a chair. The wood creaked under his weight. The goon with one hand in his coat came and took me by the elbow, marching me to the door.
“Don’t go to the cops, Shaw,” Giarelli told me. “Nothing bad’s gonna happen here. We’re just gonna have a talk.”
I looked at Stanton’s concerned face, shrugging my shoulders as best I could. There didn’t seem to be much else I could do but let myself be escorted out of my suite.
Giarelli turned over his shoulder to look at the goon who was holding my elbow, apparently having thought it over.
“You go with him,” he told the goon. “See he don’t go to the cops.”
And I was hustled firmly out the door.
Chapter Seventeen: So Far, So Good
Less than twenty minutes had gone by when Giarelli and his goon passed through the hotel lobby where the second goon had been keeping me company. Without breaking stride, Giarelli threw a nod to the large man next to me, who rose from his seat and fell in step behind his boss. I waited till they had exited the hotel, then walked quickly to the elevator.
The door to my suite was still unlocked. I went inside to find that Stanton was long gone (not that I blamed him). He must have taken the stairs and slipped out the back. I walked over to the bed, got down on my knees, reached under, and pulled out a small case with the lid off. Inside the case was the wire recorder I’d borrowed from Townsend. I’d set it up under the bed before Stanton arrived, planning to test it.
Turning a knob, I manipulated the spool of wire inside back to where it first started recording, then moved it forward at normal speed. From the tinny speaker I heard muffled footsteps on carpet, followed by a door opening and a strange voice bidding Clay Stanton to enter. It wasn’t until I heard Stanton address the first man as Shaw that I realized I was listening to my own voice. I resisted the urge to move the recording ahead faster, fearful I’d damage something before I’d had a chance to listen to what was on it.
I sat on the floor next to the machine, grabbed an ash tray off the night table, and lit a cigarette. After several minutes, I heard myself being escorted out of the room. I turned the volume up on the speaker and listened intently. Giarelli had a slow, deliberate manner of speaking, but you listened because what he said was important.
GIARELLI: Do you know who I am?
STANTON: I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.
GIARELLI: Casper Giarelli out of Chicago. I’m a business partner of your friend Ryland.
STANTON: A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Giarelli.
I could imagine Stanton extending his hand and Giarelli ignoring it. It may have happened that way, but I needed to listen without adding my own embellishments. This wasn’t a radio drama, after all.
GIARELLI: I loaned Ryland a sum of money a few months back. A business loan. We’ve done it before. He’s always been good for it.
STANTON: Yes, I’m sure he has been. Mr. Ryland has always struck me as a most conscientious–
GIARELLI: Let me do the talking. We’ll get there faster.
STANTON: As you say, sir.
GIARELLI: Like I said, Ryland’s always been good for it before. Somebody’s not good for it, I don’t loan him money. I loan a guy money and he decides after I loan it to him that he’s not good for it, well, he and I have a talk and he thinks on it again and he decides he is good for it after all. You understand what I’m saying?
STANTON: Yes, I believe I do. Through frankly, sir, why you and I are having this conversation–
GIARELLI: I just needed a yes, pal. Don’t push it.
There was a pause of a few seconds, Giarelli asserting his authority, giving Stanton time to soak up the point.
GIARELLI: So here’s the deal: Ryland tells me he got wiped out by a bad investment. One investment and he’s out almost three hundred grand, which means he can’t pay me the two hundred grand he owes me. Not even a big enough part of it to mean anything. He also tells me he made this investment with you.
STANTON: That was a very unexpected setback for all of us, Mr. Giarelli. We all lost a great deal of money. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped. I’m afraid there’s always that risk when playing the markets. I assure you, sir, even some of the most careful investors I know–
GIARELLI: So yes? He made that investment with you?
Another pause.
STANTON: Yes.
GIARELLI: Let me tell you how this ends, Stanton. I get my money. All of it. Now maybe I get it from Ryland. Maybe I get it from you. Maybe you make another big investment only you do it right this time. Or maybe you and Ryland together, you two shine shoes or open up a nightclub or rob a bank. I really don’t much care. So long as this has the right ending, you and I are fine. And what’s the right ending, Stanton? Show me you been listening.
STANTON: You get your two hundred thousand dollar loan repaid in full.
GIARELLI: You got it.
STANTON: But honestly, sir, I don’t see how you can expect me to be legally responsible for Mr. Ryland’s business debt with you.
GIARELLI: I didn’t ask you to be legally responsible. I’m telling you you are responsible. Legal don’t mean much to a guy like me. Now I’m a business man, which means I can be reasonable. I’m not asking you to pull the money out of your hat this minute. I’ll give you both the rest of the week. We’ll all meet right here at this hotel next Saturday. And if you have at least half and you can convince me the other half is coming soon, I’m okay with that. Like I said, I’m reasonable.
STANTON: A week is not so great a span of time, sir. In the event that Mr. Ryland or I are unable to secure one hundred thousand dollars cash–
GIARELLI: Well, there’s a bright side.
STANTON: Yes?
GIARELLI: I never ask a guy for something twice. I figure if he doesn’t hear me the first time, he must not be using his ears, so he won’t miss ’em.
There was a creaking of wood as Giarelli raised his bulk out of the chair, then footsteps as he and his goon headed to the door. The footsteps stopped for a moment.
GIARELLI: Stanton? You should know I’m the kind of guy checks things out first. I know where you live, I know where you make your investments, I know where you eat dinner. I know people in this town, people like me who care more about not getting welshed on than they care about the law. What I’m saying is, don’t make me come looking for you. And damn sure don’t try to blow town. I know people everywhere. You clear on that?
STANTON: Yes.
The remainder of the recording was the door opening and closing, once for Giarelli and his goon and once more as Stanton made his escape a moment later. When I was sure there was nothing more to hear, I moved the recording backward again at high speed and listened to Giarelli’s conversation with Stanton three more times.
I took a stroll around the block, had myself a think. This new development could throw a very heavy wrench into a lot of very delicate machinery. So far, Giarelli didn’t seem to have much interest in Kelly Shaw. But he sure had some in Stanton. How shaken would Stanton be from this interview? Would he already be trying to flee town, have his bag packed and be at the train station this very minute? Could he resist the easiest half mil he’d ever made in his life coming this week, most of it well before Giarelli’s Saturday deadline? Would he have taken G
iarelli’s warning seriously, that the man knew people and not to cross him over this?
Was it conceivable, I wondered, that Giarelli showing up might make Stanton even more anxious to do business with Kelly Shaw? If for nothing else than to get his hands on some ready cash and a mobster off his back?
I reached for a cigarette and kept ambling, looking at the passersby and into the occasional shop window. You’d think a man like Stanton had to be a millionaire by now, having conned so many people over so many years, and that two hundred grand would be easy if not painless for him to pay out. But you have to understand a little about confidence men, not only how they operate but how they live. In the first place, con games are expensive to set up. You have to lease the store, pay the shills and the ropers, wine and dine the marks and sometimes pick up their hotel bills. There are sizable payoffs that must be made regularly if you want to keep in business. The police (not only the chief but every cop who walks a beat on your turf) and at least a few local civic leaders. And not every con works. Plenty of marks get cold feet at the last minute (especially those few wise ones who finally start listening to the tiny voice inside their heads) or something else happens and the mark just can’t come up with the money like he thought he could. Like most criminal enterprises, over the long run you really don’t make any more money than if you were working as hard in legitimate trade. Unlike most criminals, however, con men do it mostly because they truly enjoy the work. The prolonged high tension of keeping a mark in play for several days or weeks, your full faculties engaged because one wrong move could blow the whole deal, maybe even get the wrong guy sore as hell at you. The thrill of the big payoff, money earned in an afternoon that could otherwise cost you twenty years’ sweat in some factory. I had to admit, over the past week or so I was beginning to understand the appeal.
Apart from the business side of it, most con men have a tendency to live high when they can. They like, as they say, the best of it. They like to travel, take cruises, stay in the nicest places and eat the best food. What’s the point of making all that money if you’re not going to enjoy it? A lot of them gamble, and when they bet, they bet big. Really big, unwinding from weeks of tension in their own peculiar style: with hours of a different kind of tension. With their share of a score burning a hole in their pockets, they’ll even go to gaming houses they know to be rigged if there’s no other action in town. And often as not, even an experienced con will be cleaned out within hours of receiving his cut, angry and down on himself for a bit before shrugging it off and signing up for a piece of the next big play. Sure, they’ll talk over dreams of a summer home in Florida or going legitimate once they’ve made the big score, living on Easy Street from then on, but very few of them do it, and very few of them really want to. They’ve become addicted to the life itself, and they’ll stay with it as long as their eyes can spot a mark and their hands can hide a red queen.
Of course, Stanton was expecting half a million gift-wrapped dollars from Mr. Shaw this week. He could easily take care of Giarelli and have a small fortune to spare. I didn’t think he would, though. There’s something especially galling about handing over money you’ve worked hard for. Risking it on a turn of the roulette wheel is one thing, but just handing it over to someone who claims a debt against you? In some ways, I reflected, confidence men aren’t really all that different from most businessmen.
One other thing occurred to me during my stroll, and not for the first time: Mobsters like Giarelli don’t usually follow a trail like this. If someone can’t pay, they deal with that someone – permanently if necessary – and pretty much leave it at that. They’re often loathe to show themselves to the next link and risk bringing themselves closer into the light of the law. A man like Giarelli wouldn’t normally come to see Stanton in this situation, not unless Giarelli was sure Stanton was a crook like himself, a man who also couldn’t go to the law. I was sure that Giarelli knew Stanton was no investment guru. I wondered, was Stanton savvy enough to know this, too?
I was making my second pass in front of the hotel entrance and noticed that the two men loitering at the bus stop across the street were still there. Both men were dressed in suits and wearing straw boaters, and at least one bus had been by while I was circling the block. They looked like government to me. Unfortunately, that didn’t narrow the field down a whole hell of a lot these days. On an impulse, I crossed the street and walked right up to them.
“You fellows didn’t happen to see if Stanton came this way earlier?”
The two men looked at one another for a moment, unsure of whether they had the authority to interact with me directly. They were spared the agonizing effort of making a decision when a voice called out behind them.
“It’s okay, boys. He’s with me.”
They both turned and I looked past them as well. Straker was leaning out a doorway, motioning for me to come inside. I sauntered on past the two lookouts, hands in my pockets, and followed Straker into a small diner. Agent Mattling sat at a booth in the far corner, two cups of coffee on the table. He called the waitress to bring a third as Straker resumed his seat and I slid in next to him. I didn’t enjoy being this close to the man, but I wanted a straight-on look at Mattling’ face while we talked. I’d seen enough of Straker’s, lately.
“Casper Giarelli’s in town,” Mattling said flatly. “He arrived yesterday.”
I nodded, putting my coffee back down.
“He checked into my hotel yesterday evening.” Mattling and the rest of the feds had their eyes out, so it wouldn’t cut ice for me to play too dumb. I decided to throw out anything I figured they already had to know, keeping what cards I could face down and my ears open.
“We know,” Mattling replied. “Do you know if he’s looking for Stanton?”
“Not anymore,” I said. “He found him. An hour or so ago, at my hotel suite.”
Mattling raised his eyebrows, so I went on to explain that Stanton had dropped by my room for a chat and after a few minutes, Giarelli had shown up at the door.
“He was looking for you?” asked Mattling.
“No, he was looking for Stanton.”
“How’d he know Stanton was in your suite?”
“No idea, but I’m guessing a man like Giarelli knows how to find things out when he needs to.”
“What did Giarelli and Stanton talk about?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t invited to stay for the conversation.” I explained how I was escorted out of my own suite, only allowed to re-enter about twenty minutes later, after everyone had gone.
“My money,” Straker broke in, “says Giarelli is trying to get back the dough he loaned Ryland, the dough Stanton cleaned Ryland out of.” Mattling and I looked at each other, the same thought clearly in both our minds: God, you’re a sharp one, Straker.
“You think Giarelli put a scare into Stanton?” Mattling asked.
“It’d put a scare into me,” I admitted. “A Chicago mobster showing up in a hotel room that wasn’t mine and wanting to have a chat with me. But do you mean did he scare Stanton so bad he’ll try to blow town?” I mulled it over for a few seconds. “I seriously doubt it. Stanton has too much in play right now. He stands to lose too much by panicking.”
We batted it back and forth for a few more minutes, what it all might mean, Straker butting in every so often when there was an obvious and therefore safe point to make. I wanted to ask Mattling if he was worried that dealing with Stanton might take up too much of Giarelli’s time, take him away from his other business in Baltimore that the F.B.I. wanted to catch him at, whatever that was. If something got fouled up and Mattling missed his chance at bringing in Giarelli, he might have a serious change of heart about the assistance and protection he’d offered me (assuming it had been a sincere offer to begin with). But I couldn’t risk asking in front of Straker, and besides, Mattling didn’t appear to be overly concerned.
“Keep working Stanton best you can,” Mattling advised. “Convince him to stick around if he�
��s thinking otherwise. Be a shame if we didn’t get him after all this effort.” I didn’t imagine Senator Cumberland would be too impressed, either. I told Mattling I’d do my best. He nodded, got up from the booth, and left the diner.
“Dev,” Straker said quietly as I was getting up myself, “I didn’t mention anything to Agent Mattling about the Secret Service man who came to see you yesterday. Didn’t see any need, not at this point anyway.” I had a mental image of taking hold of the back of Straker’s neck and slamming his face into the table, mostly for the enjoyment of hearing something of his break again after so many years.
“You’re a peach, Straker.” I walked back out onto the street.
I was able to take in a movie with Nathan and his family Sunday afternoon. While we were standing in line for tickets, Billy noticed a poster for Bride of Frankenstein. He pointed it out to his dad and got the expected “We’ll see.”
“Did you ever see the first one, Uncle Dev?” he asked me.
“Yep. Read the book, too.” I really had. Part of a college literature class I signed up for after watching a very cute brunette sign up for it ahead of me.
“No foolin’?” Billy asked. “Did the monster talk in the book or did he just, you know, ggrrrrrrrrrr!” Billy held up two groping hands in front of him to complete the impression.
“He talked. Matter of fact, he spoke French.” Billy thought I was trying to put one over on him, so I just winked and smiled.
When I returned to The Lord Baltimore that evening, there was an envelope waiting for me at the front desk. I took it up to my room and opened it, drawing out the folded letter inside and reading the neat handwriting:
Dear Mr. Shaw,
My most profuse apologies for what transpired in your suite yesterday. It is an unfortunate but rather common occurrence in my trade that over-eager investors do on occasion seek out my services much against my will. I hope you don’t think for a moment that the uninvited guest who so rudely intruded on our pleasant chat is the kind of individual with whom I do business. At any rate, I was able to convince the gentleman that he and I have no business with one another, nor will we at any time in the future.
A Shared Confidence Page 23