The Last Con

by Zachary Bartels

  “I am delighted that you have come to our island,” the Grand Master said. He held his hand out to Cagliostro, who stared at it for a moment, unsure of how to respond, before deciding to grasp it firmly—the sign of an equal.

  “The pleasure belongs to me, Your Eminence,” Cagliostro replied. He could sense in the old man’s eyes that he had guessed correctly.

  “Please,” the old man replied, “my knights call me Grand Master Pinto. My subjects call me Your Eminent Highness. But my friends call me Fonseca, and I believe that you and I are to become friends.” His smile widened. “Come, sit with me.”

  He grasped Cagliostro’s stout arm as if to lead him to a seat, but it became quickly apparent that he needed the support of the younger man, who helped him over to a cushioned bench.

  “I suppose,” Fonseca said, his breath slightly labored, “I should have said, welcome back to Malta. I understand you have been here before.”

  “Indeed I have, although I do not remember it.” Cagliostro leaned back and fixed his wide, round eyes on the Grand Master’s. “You must understand that, while I am only twenty-two years of age, I have led an exceptional life.

  “I was born of Christian nobles and abandoned on the shores of this very island. At a young age I was brought to the holy city of Medina, where I was raised in the Muphti’s palace and taught the mystical arts of necromancy, alchemy, and the kabala. Together with my servants and tutors I traveled to Mecca and then Egypt, where the temple priests took me into their confidence and entrusted to me many wonders, including the ancient rite of pure, untarnished Masonry.” He paced himself, not wanting his words to betray themselves as memorized. “I have traveled widely throughout Africa and Asia and hold within myself many secrets—not the least of which is the Egyptian wine, which prolongs life.” He smiled knowingly, his olive skin puckering. “I believe it is this secret that has earned me an audience with you.”

  Fonseca tipped his head toward his new friend and spoke quietly. “There is much we can do for each other, you and I. And much we can learn from each other. It is true that I am very old. Eighty-four years, and yet sound in mind and body.” He looked down at his trembling right hand and quieted it with his left. “I would like to continue living, yes, but not just for the sake of living. I have been the Grand Master of the Knights of Malta for twenty-four years—far longer than anyone expected I should last. And yet . . .”

  Cagliostro studied his face. “You fear you’ve been a disappointment to the order?”

  “I should hope not,” the Grand Master said, the words heavy. “When I was first elected to this office, I could sense that times were changing. We all could. And yet I ignored it, like the rest. I built cities in my name and pressed new coins for every occasion. But the truth is that all of this”—he gestured at the gilded hall around them—“is a veneer. Here we sit at the very crossroads of the world, where East meets West, with an army of the most powerful noble families in Europe—and yet our coffers are nearly empty.

  “I have tried cultivating silk, expanding our cities, raising taxes. It’s no good.” He stared up into the murals above them. “For six hundred and sixty-six years we have survived and flourished as an order. I will not see that glory fade away, even as the life fades from this body.” A fire seemed to rekindle in his eyes, and he turned again to face his companion.

  “That is why you’re here, Cagliostro. I have heard of your skills as an alchemist and a conjurer, that you can predict the future by way of dreams, and that you are very close to perfecting an Elixir of Life.”

  “This is true,” Cagliostro said, as if it were nothing profound.

  “Then you will have all of the remaining resources at my disposal.” Fonseca straightened his spine and squeezed his bony knees through his cloak. “I have a group of nobles very much interested in the occult, ready to aid you. And more importantly, I have this.” He reached into his cloak and withdrew the sacred object. “Do you know what this is, my dear Cagliostro?”

  The count was now on his feet, mouth agape, no longer able to hide his amazement. “Yes,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Yes, I think I do.”

  Fonseca grinned. “The world may change,” he said, “but we will cut it off at the pass.”

  CHAPTER 3

  PRESENT DAY

  You need to cook those first,” Fletcher said. He was leaning on the counter in the cramped kitchen, less than a foot away from his wife, being helpful again.

  “They’re already cooked,” Meg said.

  “But not really. I mean, they’re pink. Like raw-hamburger pink. When you cook them, they change color.”

  “What does this say? Right here?” She pointed at some smallish print on the label.

  “No, but that’s—”

  “What does it say?”

  “ ‘Classic wieners.’ ”

  She laughed. “Down here. It says ‘fully cooked.’ ”

  “Who can read that? That’s nothing.”

  She pulled a long knife from the block and gestured at him with her elbow. “You want to give me some space here?”

  “They’re cold, though. That’s the thing.”

  She cut the package open and retrieved three hot dogs. “I leave it all on the stove so it warms up together. That’s how she likes it.” She sliced the hot dogs into half-inch segments and dumped them into a pot of macaroni and cheese bubbling on the stove. “You will eat it and you will like it.”

  “Can’t wait. Third time this week.” He didn’t mention that he’d been keeping count since returning home three months earlier. Tonight would make thirty-two times that mac and cheese and hot dogs had graced the menu in the Doyle household, not counting leftovers for lunch.

  Meg sighed. “It’s cheap and it’s one of about three things Ivy will eat, so yes, we have it a lot. We’re used to it, Fletcher. And I would think you’d be used to a lot worse, so stop complaining.”

  “The food in the chow hall wasn’t actually that bad.” He scratched his head, further tousling his intentionally disheveled blond hair. “But the stuff people came up with on their own . . . This one guy, Little Domino, would make pizza—I mean, he called it pizza. The crust was crushed-up crackers and ramen noodles, and he’d put it in a trash bag and kind of knead it into shape.”

  “That’s disgusting.” She stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, distributing the hot dogs. “What did he use as toppings?”

  “Whatever he could get his hands on. Corn chips, salsa, ketchup, Slim Jims, sliced-up hot dogs. But even he had the sense to cook the things first.”

  “You think you’re funny?” Her tone was sharp, but her smile gave her away.

  “Maybe a little bit?”

  Their eyes locked for a moment, and he considered moving even closer. She was wearing an old cotton T-shirt and no makeup, and her auburn hair was pulled back in a careless ponytail. He wanted to put his arms around her and pull her in tight, like before. But he hesitated, and the moment passed.

  Pathetic. Who ever heard of a confidence man who lacked the confidence to kiss his own wife?

  They heard the front door swing open, and their daughter breezed in. She moved quickly past the kitchen, a rather full canvas bag in tow. To Fletcher, Ivy looked like a miniature version of his wife, his only obvious genetic contribution being her slightly cleft chin.

  “Hello to you too!” he called out after her. Her footsteps stopped, then reversed, and she appeared in the doorway.

  “Hello, Father. What’s for dinner?”

  “What do you think?”

  She nodded her approval, a crooked smile on her face, and Fletcher was suddenly fine with macaroni and cheese with hot dogs.

  “What have you got there?” he asked.

  “Just some stuff for my collection.”

  “More trash?”

  Ivy rolled her eyes. “It’s not trash, Father. It’s from the recycle bin at the Dairy Mart.”

  “You really can call me Dad, you know.”

  “Go
t it.” She looked down at the bag in her hands quietly for a moment.

  “This is almost done, sweet pea,” Meg said. “Why don’t you go wash up?”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t get sidetracked. We have to be at church in less than an hour.”

  Ivy twisted her face up. “Why are we having youth group tonight if we’re spending a whole week with those people?”

  “We just have to go over last-minute details,” Meg said. “Besides, your dad is speaking tonight.”

  “You?” She looked at her father. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” Meg said. “Now go wash up.”

  THEY HAD JUST DISHED OUT THEIR MEAL AND SAID GRACE WHEN the doorbell rang. Fletcher sighed and dropped his fork back onto the table.

  “It better not be him,” he said.

  “I’ll answer it,” Meg offered.

  “No. I got it.” He stood and repeated, “It better not be him.”

  It was him. “Him” being Brad Howard. Fletcher saw his smug face through the window from ten feet away, and by the time he opened the door he was already in a foul mood.

  “We just sat down to eat, Brad,” he said as curtly as he could. “What do you need?”

  Brad smirked. “You know, on the outside we greet each other with words like ‘Hello’ and ‘How are you?’ ”

  Everything about Brad was loathsome to Fletcher, from his holier-than-thou attitude to his thinning, probably dyed ink-black hair, combed back in a bad attempt at a pompadour. Fletcher pegged him at somewhere between forty-five and sixty. It was hard to pin down precisely, as his skin was badly sun-damaged (from boating, no doubt), and he always seemed to be wearing the uniform of the ageless dork—pleated khakis, golf shirt, braided belt.

  “Look, Brad, this thing at church was your idea, and we’re a bit crunched for time. Do you need something?”

  “It’s about that. I wanted to make sure we’re on the same page tonight. Can I assume you cleared this trip with your parole officer?” The way he drew out the words parole officer made Fletcher want to knock the smirk off the guy’s face.

  “Yes, Brad. Not that it’s any of your concern, but yes.”

  “And your boss at the . . . Where is it you work again?”

  “Labrenz Vending. Yes, I’ve taken the time off work.”

  Brad squeezed out a condescending little smile. “I think it’s just terrific that you’ve been able to hold down a job for three months. I know it can be tough.”

  “I have a doctorate, Brad. I think I can probably handle refilling vending machines. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  “Just make sure you tell them you’re sorry, okay? Tonight? Say those words. That’s what we’re going for.”

  “Tell who I’m sorry?”

  “The parents and the youth group kids. That’s why we’re all getting together before the trip, Fletcher—a lot of the parents have come to me to voice their concern that there’s a convicted felon accompanying their kids on a week-long trip. This is an opportunity to clear the air.”

  “Who voiced concerns?”

  “A lot of people.”

  “Name one. Pastor Dave told me that everyone was fine with me and Meg going. So tell me the name of just one of these mystery people.” Fletcher caught his anger rising and intentionally slowed his breathing. Very few people had successfully gotten under his skin in the past ten years, six of which had been spent in prison. And yet Brad managed to do it every time they spoke.

  “Look,” Brad said, “I don’t want to make a big thing of it. It was a pretty big group, and I assured them that I would be going along as well to keep an eye on everything, and that you weren’t that kind of criminal—you know, a sex pervert or something.”

  “Appreciate it, Brad.”

  “But if there’s still significant concern after tonight, we may have to ask you to stay behind.”

  Fletcher gathered his anger in his chest, an old trick his mentor had taught him, and forced it all up into a smile. “Whether you like it or not, I’m going. I’m looking forward to spending time with Meg and Ivy, meeting new people, helping out, and I think it would be best if you and I just steered clear of each other.”

  “You don’t think Ivy is too young for this trip, do you?”

  “Three other twelve-year-olds are going. So, no.”

  “And what about you?” His face read overstated concern. “Is this too soon? Are you worried about going back into the city? Your old territory?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s good. We wouldn’t want you falling back in with the wrong element. Your old cronies or homies or whatever.”

  “I haven’t seen any of those people in almost seven years. My PO is fine with this and I’m fine with it and Pastor Dave is fine with it. And you don’t get a vote.”

  “Fair enough.” Brad looked past Fletcher, into the house. “Well, I guess you should get some dinner in you. How’s the range working, by the way? I know while you were locked up it would sometimes go on the fritz. I had to come by many a night and help make the macaroni and hot dogs a reality.” He smirked again. Or was that just how Brad smiled?

  “It’s fine,” Fletcher said, slowly closing the door.

  “Okay. Just trying to do my part. See you at church, Fletcher.”

  Fletcher said nothing.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dante unlocked the metal accordion gate blocking off Broadmoor Outreach Tabernacle and slid it back just far enough to unlock the door. The storefront church was situated in a less-than-desirable neighborhood, and Dante kept his guard up while coming and going. The unwritten rule was that ministers were off-limits when it came to the local criminal element, but he took no chances. He locked the door behind him and deactivated the burglar alarm.

  The day had been a waste. Dante had spent four hours at Mercy Hospital, waiting for some street-level punk to get out of surgery so he could waltz past the police into the recovery room, Bible in hand, and find out who had shot him. And, of course, deliver a firm reminder of just what would await the kid should he get chatty with the cops.

  But the boy hadn’t made it through surgery, and now Dante’s back was killing him. What kind of sadist would fill a hospital waiting room with such criminally uncomfortable furniture? He stretched and groaned, feeling far older than his thirty-eight years.

  “Welcome to Broadmoor Whatever Church. Please be seated.”

  A shot of alarm crackled up Dante’s spine, and his mind went to the Glock in his desk drawer in the study. Then he saw the man standing behind the pulpit, partially obscured by shadows, but unmistakably Marcus Brinkman. The fear left Dante, leaving a low-grade dread behind.

  “Have a seat, Trick,” the man said. “We need to talk.”

  The last few rays of sun were spilling in on Dante through the window and seemed to lock him in place, holding him back from the darkness and the man on the platform.

  “You know I don’t like to repeat myself, Trick,” Marcus said.

  Dante suppressed his instincts and slowly approached the man.

  Bella Donna’s primary enforcer had to be at least seventy years old, but Dante felt no shame in being terrified of Marcus Brinkman. The man looked like a cautionary tale, with the eyes of a corpse on a good day and a swollen head, shaved completely bald and covered in liver spots that reminded Dante of kill tallies on the side of a World War II fighter plane. His bulbous nose looked like it had been broken a dozen times.

  Dante took a seat near the front of the makeshift sanctuary. Marcus dragged a chair around and sat facing him. He said nothing for several seconds, just sat there sucking his teeth.

  “How are things, Marcus?” Dante asked. He’d been chewed out by this man before, and it was anything but pleasant. He wanted to move things along, get it over with.

  “How are things?” the older man repeated. “I’ve got problems. Like anyone, I suppose. My doctor tells me I’ve got high cholesterol. Wants me to stop eating red meat like some kind of you-know-
what.”

  “Vegetarian?”

  “Sure. I tell him it’s the twenty-first century and he can just give me some medicine to fix the problem. And he says they don’t make medicine to lower this kind of cholesterol. I guess there’s more than one kind of cholesterol now. So he’s got me taking fish oil capsules, three every morning. And then all day long, I’m burping. I’m tasting fish all day.”

  “That’s . . . I’m sorry to hear that, Marcus.”

  “So now I’m sitting in this phony little church of yours for two hours waiting for you to show, burping up fish. That’s how things are over here. How you been, Trick?”

  “I’m—”

  “Not good, that’s how. When I show up at your door, means the boss isn’t happy.”

  “Okay?” Dante crossed and recrossed his legs.

  “You’ve been taking liberties, Trick.” He raised his eyebrows and waited a moment. Dante said nothing. “I hear you collected four hundred dollars from that Barnes kid yesterday. Funny thing is, it wasn’t in the ledger.” ’

  Sweat began to crowd Dante’s eyes. He blinked it away. “He didn’t take the product, Marcus. I can’t really put it in the ledger if he doesn’t take the product.”

  “But you took his money.”

  “The guy had to learn—”

  “What? What did he have to learn? The exact chain of command from his insignificant little carcass on the street all the way up to Bella Donna? Did he have to learn that? Because he’s been bragging about that over at his new home in Jackson. Yappin’ about it to anyone who’ll listen. And that information could come in handy if, say, he wants to work out a deal for himself.”

  Dante opened his mouth, but decided that silence was his best tactic at the moment.

  “You been around awhile,” Marcus continued. “You’ve figured out how things work, and you think that makes you bulletproof. But it doesn’t.”