Kid leaned back, his five grand choppers decapitated the tip off a Corona Corona. He lit it with a platinum table lighter and blew an aromatic poltergeist of smoke that snake-hipped around the filigreed light fixture in the ceiling.
“Laddies and Lady,” he said. “My mild . . . uh, trepidation of last evening about our customer has abated. I feel, excuse the expression, tear-ass ready and fully confident that our ninety grand transaction with Mister Stilwell will conclude without untoward event.”
The Marvel, costumed in the tattered regalia of Aztec Billy, the hapless gold slave, pulled at his classic big nose. “Kid, I, ah, well, I’ve got creepy vibes about the mark. He, ah, well, I’d bet with his funny farm background and all, he brainstorms. And that right eye of his, it’s crossed!”
Kid’s thin lips shaped an indulgent smile. He tented his delicately boned hands beneath his soft, dimpled chin for a long moment studying Marvel.
Folks knew what the Kid was thinking. The role of Aztec Billy was vital, indispensable to the Stilwell play. There wasn’t time to make a viable replacement. Unless Kid could turn Marvel around, he would have to replace Marvel with an untried shill and risk a spotty play for Stilwell.
Kid patted the Marvel’s arm and pitched his satin baritone voice sympathetically. “Sure, laddie. You have a solid reason to feel the way you do about Mister Stilwell’s affliction. A partner of yours met an unfortunate end in Baltimore, wasn’t it? Back in the late thirties, as I am beginning to recall. Sure-Shot Kid, yes now I do feebly recall the grisly affair.”
Marvel cut in, “Sure-Shot and I were lounging around the shed, waiting for the eight-fifteen Super Chief, I think . . . figured we’d cull out, from the lopears arriving, a mark to trim on the smack. We hooked one, loaded and crosseyed! We flipped coins and busted him out. At the tail end of the blow-off, the sucker drew a hand axe from his waistband, poor Shot lying there, his head hanging from a shred of bloody neck! Dying, kicking, jerking and flopping like a butchered dog. Horrible, just horrible! I vowed I’d never play for another crosseyed mark the longest day I lived. Kid, I’m sorry to put you in a cross like this, but I’m leery of that mark!”
Kid shook his silvered head sadly as he leaned into Marvel’s face and whispered, “Listen to a friend whose old enough to be your father. That mark hurt your partner, hurt him fatally. Now you’re letting him hurt you, hurt your friends. Don’t you see, dear laddie, you have no choice except to play for Mister Stilwell. You owe it to your departed partner. To me, to your profession.”
Marvel said, “What?”
Kid crooned, “Laddie, you’ve got a splendid reputation to protect. Why, when I set up in this town a year ago, I knew I wanted the finest, the most intelligent, the most dependable players available for my store. That’s why I selected you, laddie. This is your chance to star against the grain. Don’t flee from shadows. Don’t let the sucker threat of the lopeared mark that destroyed your partner now destroy your reputation. Laddie, you can’t do it! Sure-Shot, in his grave, would frown if you did. If you default here, I will not admire your talents less, love you less. But try as I would, if you panic and default, cop a heel, I couldn’t keep it a secret.
“And laddie, I would try mightily, because I’ve always been inordinately fond of you, son. I could not save you from scorn and rejection by the elite of our profession. Don’t you see, laddie, you’re much too valuable to squander your energies playing the lousy short con, suffering the cop roustings and head bustings, the chump change scores. No laddie, I won’t use the energy and insult your intelligence with a request for your decision. Laddie Boy, if that mark brainstorms, I pledge my life to protect you from harm!”
Marvel just sat there gazing with stricken awe and appreciation for the Kid’s velvet turn around pitch before he said, “What the hell can I say, Kid? You’re airtight! With a steamroller gee like you playing the inside for Stilwell, I’m in!”
Kid shaped his most charming smile. He patted Marvel’s shoulder and purred, “Laddie, I’m so glad you realize that one has to be prepared to be lucky.”
Folks sighed relief. Kid caught his eye and winked almost imperceptibly.
High Pockets Kate, the pickpocket whiz and star player, who looked as much like Eleanor Roosevelt as Eleanor, adjusted her pince-nez glasses as she got to her feet and faced Kid in mock indignation. She drew herself up and said haughtily, “Saul, sweetheart, I am somewhat unthrilled at the prospect of playing the . . . ah, hazardous Mister Stilwell without the mansion-museum set-up convincer.”
Kate paused to lather Folks with an affectionate look of admiration. “The Utah Wonder’s performances were wondrously inspired in Canada. He played out so pat his image as the utterly consumed collector of ancient artifacts and memorabilia, his obsession with the Unhappy Virgin Statue and legend.”
She sniffed and sighed ecstatically, “Ah, how the mark’s eyes would glaze over before they went into trace. Wonder transported them! Saul, I consider it a miserable shame to deprive Mister Stilwell of that marvelously convincing museum.”
The grifters laughed at Kate’s animated garrulity.
Kid said, “Kate, you’ve got your gab machine revved up and you’re great! Who could tip, sweet Kate, that you’re a grade school dropout? I couldn’t have done without you for almost forty years. Now friends, I am not happy that for this play, the museum is not set up. But as you all know, we can’t set up our splendid props in just a common house. You know it’s quite a difficult problem locating a sufficiently remote mansion. Well, I’m glad to report that I am now seriously negotiating for a jewel of a secluded mansion to showcase our Lady, the Unhappy Virgin. All of us feel confident, I’m sure, that the absence of the museum convincer will only be a minimal handicap to the play today.”
Kid paused and beamed a proud smile Folks’ way before he continued. “The Utah Wonder could tie up Stilwell and play the convincer of the Virgin’s legend in an alley or even in a john.”
They all laughed.
Kate said, “Saul Honey, of course that’s true! I withdraw my complaint. One other thing—will we use the newspaper document to blow off the mark?”
Kid glanced at his watch and stood up to signal the end of the conference. He said, “Katie, I wouldn’t play a ding-a-ling like Stilwell without it. Now, let’s join the others at the ghost town for the final tightening up before the play.”
The doorbell chimed as they all were moving out. It was Speedy. After a flawless run-through of the play, Speedy drove Folks back from the ghost town set up to the city.
Two blocks from the Buckmeister bank, Speedy got out from under the wheel of the limo. He went into a fast food joint. What a flap if one of the bank guards saw Speedy, their chief, in purple livery, Folks thought.
He got under the wheel and drove to park in front of the bank. The brass Buckmeister coat of arms gleamed on the black marble facade. A steady flow of the bank’s clients entered and exited. He saw a battery of tellers servicing lines of clients in the bustling interior vastness.
He hit a blow of crystal dust behind his handkerchief. He lit a cigarette and waited for Trevor to show. After several minutes, he got restless. He stepped out to the sidewalk to window shop a swank boutique for fluffs adjacent to the bank. The corner of his eye snared Christina Buckmeister alighting from her pink Excalibur a bit down the stem.
He glued his eyes to the jewelry display mirror inside the boutique window and studied Christina. She was gazing his way, still-lifed on the sidewalk like a statue of Aphrodite in heat. Her long tapered fingers were frozen on the swung out door of the Excalibur. He could almost hear her ticker booming as it sprinted against his own. She has the incandescent hots for me all right, he decided. She slammed the Excalibur door and pranced his way.
As she passed, her contralto voice and Paris Lilac rode back on April zephyrs, “Good afternoon, Mister O’Brien.”
He turned his head her way and sent on return winds an indifferent, “Good afternoon to you, Miss Buckmeister.”
He turned his eyes back to an exquisite jade necklace that he visualized caressing Pearl’s plum-hued throat. Satan’s voice rattled him as it encored, purring mockingly at his side.
“Mister O’Brien, forgive me if I’ve startled you, but I couldn’t help noticing on passing that you appear as famished as I am. I’ve ordered a bountiful late lunch from Antoine’s and I should be delighted to share bread with you . . . and show you our fabulous bank.”
Their eyes dueled in the display mirror for what seemed like eons. His cocaine arid throat was paralyzed. Steamy time suspended. His tongue flicked irrigation across his parched lips.
He croaked to her reflection, “Thanks, but I’ve had a late lunch.”
She tossed her head to flop an errant forelock from her eyes. The sun exploded golden Roman candles from her mane of spun silk hair.
Irritation laced her voice. “Then I insist that you have an after lunch cocktail.”
He felt like a lopeared mark sensing from the sultry amusement in her hooded orbs that she knew she was shaking him up. He’d have to turn and face her, he thought, seize control of the situation with his usual refrigerated composure. But he was afraid she’d tip to his hatred, to his pulse flogging desire.
Trevor’s voice cut him loose from her rack. “Chris! Johnny!”
They turned to face him. Trevor glanced at his wristwatch. His blue eyes twinkled knowingly. “Johnny, I’m sorry to be late. Shouldn’t we be getting along?”
She said, “I’ve been holding Mister O’Brien hostage for cocktails. Now, as usual, you’ve spoiled the fun.”
She just stared up into his eyes as he held her extended hand. Trevor cleared his throat. They disengaged.
She said, “Bye until the next time, Mister O’Brien.”
He replied, “Until next time Miss Buckmeister.”
She turned and whipped her Grable props down the sidewalk into the bank. Trevor and he went to the limo and pulled it away to pick up Speedy. On their way to the suite Folks shared with the mark, Speedy pulled into the far corner of a sprawling supermarket parking lot.
Folks disguised himself as millionaire artifacts freak Alex Remington, as Stilwell knew him. He covered his blond hair with a curly black wig. He camouflaged his blue eyes with dark brown contact lenses.
Trevor disguised his youthfully handsome face with heavy horn-rimmed glasses, a gray wig and appropriate wrinkles with materials from his banker’s briefcase. He would play the rather minor but exacting role of Folks’ business manager and curator of artifacts and other prizes of antiquity.
Since they had privacy on the back seat with a glass partition between Speedy and themselves, Folks decided to ask Trevor a personal question. He had been aching to ask the question ever since Kid and himself had yielded to Trevor’s persistent requests to learn and play the big con.
Finished with his transformation, Trevor asked, “Well Johnny, critique me.”
Folks said, “Trevor, you’re a makeup magician. Even your sister, at face to face range, couldn’t know you.”
As Speedy tooled the limo from the lot, Folks said softly, “Sport, forgive me for asking, but I’m curious to know why a splendid legit gentleman like yourself, with the world smooching your keister, yens to hang it out playing the con and risking the penitentiary?”
His haunted, aristocratic face became radiant with visceral passion. His voice tripped and staggered the precipice of nude emotion, “I have, since I was an innocent child, abhorred the slavish regimentation forced upon me by the Buckmeister name and status garbage conventions. I despise the hypocrisy of my immoral peers, with feet of shit, who parade like Gods of Olympus, with total immunity to justice, on this earth.
“I hunger for the rapture of extreme risk, for the so-called criminal big con that promises no immunity . . . nothing! . . . except the most transcendent transport of ecstasy. As a child, my empathy always throbbed for the spider, not the fly. At the circus, I rooted and thrilled for the tiger, not the trainer. Please Johnny, don’t stop teaching me into your secret world. Indenture me in your world, nourish my starved soul in your world, don’t let me perish in Mother’s and Christina’s world.”
Folks embraced him and said, “Trevor, you’ll always have sanctuary with us. You are forever welcome, my dear comrade, as friend and colleague.”
They made a fast stop at the mob’s warehouse and coupled a trailer to the limo that was loaded with a canvas-covered portable fluoroscope.
Speedy reached the downtown hotel around four P.M. Folks and the bellman, with his bags, went through the lobby to the elevators. Trevor stayed with Speedy in the limo until his cue was due to join Folks and the mark in the suite. As Folks rang the suite doorbell, he glanced into the half opened door of the room across the hall. Two grifter tails, keeping round-the-clock tabs on the mark during Folks’ one day hiatus, looked up from a hand of gin. They gave him the A-OK office that the mark was still on stable playing ice.
He heard Stilwell’s elephantine thirteens stomping the carpet to the door. He slipped on a mask of disappointed gloom. The mark swung the door open. His moon face lit up like Macy’s Christmas tree. He slugged a ham-hock hand against Folks’ shoulder and snatched his bags from the aggravated bellman. Folks restored his neon smile with a ten spot.
Folks shut the door and followed his bags into his bedroom. It was indecent the way Stilwell looked at him, he thought. He was so happy to see Folks, like he was a beloved son he hadn’t seen for years. Well, Folks thought, the first lesson I learned from Blue Howard was the art of the rapid artificial aging process of friendship in the mark’s heart and head.
Folks sighed and collapsed on the side of the bed. The mark crashed down beside him, a concerned paternal expression creased his freckled forehead.
He said, “Gawd, my boy, you look torn down. It was a wild goose chase, wasn’t it? You didn’t find that piece you’ve got your heart set on?”
Folks closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids with his finger tips. He murmured, “No Cecil, I didn’t. Maybe the statue existed only in the scuttlebutt of ancient drunkards. I’ve spent ten years and a fortune, turned two continents inside out searching for her. Oh God, where can she be? If she exists! I was certain I’d find her here in this area.”
The mark tugged at Folks’ sleeve and said, “Let me fix a drink and order some food.”
He slipped off Folks’ jacket and stooped to pull off his shoes. Folks looked down at his sympathetic, seamed face. He didn’t look like a murderer at all, Folks thought, as he followed him to the mahogany bar. He shook up a series of double martinis and ordered food then sat at the bar beside Folks, comforting him for a couple of hours.
Folks strolled into his bedroom and closed the window drapes to cue Trevor. He went back to the bar and waited for the desk to announce Trevor. He let Stilwell pick up the desk ring several moments later. He looked at Folks with his mouth agape as he passed him the receiver.
Folks said, “Yes, this is Mister Remington. Who? Mister Lee! My business manager, why, I can’t believe it! Put him on!”
Trevor came on.
He said, “Mister Lee, what the hell are you doing in town? This morning I sent you to Indiana to evaluate Mister Stilwell’s parcel of farmland for purchase. You’re fired! What? You’re certain of that? Let me speak to the desk clerk. All right, Miss. He’s my Mister Lee, pass him.”
He hung up with a shocked face.
He whispered, “He claims he’s found her! The Unhappy Virgin Statue here in a ghost town. If he hasn’t, I will draw and quarter him!”
Shortly the doorbell chimed. He opened the door to Trevor. Exultant Trevor seized them both when he opened the door. He danced them into the living room, gurgling with wanton joy, then pulled them down on the sofa beside him.
Folks said, “Now control yourself, Mister Lee, and give me a coherent report of your alleged find.”
He babbled, “Alleged in a pig’s eye! I’ve found her an hour’s drive away . . . ghost town . . . a
derelict called Aztec Billy, oblivious to her fame and glory . . . the fool has junked the statue behind his shack.”
Folks said evenly, “Mister Lee, have you ascertained her authenticity? Are you sure she isn’t an excellent reproduction?”
Trevor exclaimed, “She’s the Virgin! I’ve seen her! I’ve verified five points of her authenticity and I tell you, Mister Remington, she’s real!”
Folks shook his head dubiously. The mark, between them, swiveled his head in the crossfire con, like a tennis buff at the Forest Hills championships.
Folks said, “Five points verification isn’t enough. I need ten, and that requires our fluoroscope, which, unfortunately, is in the field in New Mexico.”
Trevor leapt to his feet, his face smug. He proudly drew himself up and said, “You have an efficient, inventive man in your employ, Mister Remington. I rented a fluoroscope a half hour ago for immediate confirmation of the statue’s authenticity. Albert, your chauffeur, and I have it hitched to your limousine out front. Well, what are you waiting for, Mister Remington?”
Folks said, “A fluoroscope couldn’t prove ten points with daylight gone.”
Trevor laughed. “That one on the street can. It’s one of the latest, with an ultra violet capability.”
Folks let the floodgates of ecstatic joy burst free. He leapt up and hugged Trevor. He jigged and raced to the bedroom for his jacket and shoes. He sprinted through the open door behind Trevor, and heard the mark pounding the carpet behind him.
As Speedy cruised from the city limits, Folks lay his head back on the cushions between Trevor and the mark.
He mused the “convincer” legend of The Unhappy Virgin. “Ah, what a poignant legend she bears, my magnificent obsession. What a bitter, awful story her living counterpart suffered ages ago.
“Once upon an incestuous time, an Aztec King fell madly in love with his voluptuous virgin daughter. The King was determined to be her first lover. One night he stripped nude and invaded her chambers. He caressed all the secret, fragrant places with his eager tongue. But she awakened and she clawed and maimed the King. The royal guards rushed to his rescue. They raised their daggers to slay her, but the King saved her for a worse, hellish fate. Jail . . . until she agreed to lavish her royal cherry on the King.
Long White Con Page 3