The Last Con

by Zachary Bartels

  “I . . . I have the money here. And the product. You can have it.”

  Marcus frowned and shook his head slowly. “Nah, you keep it. We’re not worried about one little transgression. What does concern us is what I like to call a pattern of sloppiness and overstepping. And this time you’ve taken one step too far. Doesn’t surprise me; I’ve been warning Bella Donna for years that you were eventually going to land in it, and now you have. You know how?”

  Dante shook his head.

  “Everyone says you can talk, Trick. Apparently you can’t shut up. Last week you were dealing with another guy who needed to ‘learn.’ Only you decided that this guy ought to learn about a quarter-million dollar deal coming up through the tunnel. Then he started flapping his jaw to his fellow lowlifes, and before long word was everywhere and the deal fell through. Bella Donna lost 225 large in one day. Because of you.”

  Dante shifted. He felt like his head was full of helium and his feet full of bricks.

  “But that’s not all,” Marcus said. “Cleaning up the mess and restoring good faith with the seller, that took another hundred grand and, as you well know, the boss is inclined to round up in such cases. Let’s call this a half-million dollar problem.”

  With startling speed, the old man lurched forward and drove his fist into Dante’s solar plexus, sending him to the ground gasping for breath. Marcus rose to his feet and reached up under his suit coat, pulling a handgun from the small of his back.

  “I can make it up to her,” Dante wheezed. Then he felt the muzzle of the gun pushing against his temple.

  “Mm-hmm. Normally your brains would be abstract carpet art from here to the wall,” Marcus said, “but you’ve been such a useful little cog in the machine that the boss wants to give you a chance to redeem yourself. You’ve got one week. Bring her the half million and turn from your wicked, wicked ways, and all will be forgiven.”

  “A week?” Dante was a master negotiator, but he knew better than to try his luck with the likes of Marcus Brinkman.

  “Seven days. You get the cash or you get removed from the equation.” He offered a hand to Dante and helped him to his feet. “Oh, and don’t make it worse for yourself. Don’t take it from her clients and don’t step on her interests. Understand?”

  Dante nodded.

  Marcus tilted his head as if reading his thoughts. “You run, I’ll find you. And, Trick, I won’t just come after you. I’ll hit you where you hurt most.” He replaced the pistol and walked out silently, leaving Dante to corral his panic.

  Hit him where he hurt most? What did that mean? As far as Dante knew, the Syndicate knew next to nothing about his private life. Was Marcus threatening to burn down the church building? The thought was unpleasant, to say the least, but in the end would be an acceptable loss. If that was it, Dante could run. He could blend in anywhere; that’s what he did. And the sooner, the better.

  Then something caught his eye, something stacked on the chair where Marcus had been sitting only moments ago. Photos. He scrambled over and snatched them up. With each flip, his stomach sank further.

  His mother. His sister. His niece.

  He looked around at the almost-worthless piece of real estate—worth less than a third of what he’d paid for it five years earlier, despite all the money he’d sunk into it. Even if he could sell the church in a week, it would barely help. He thought of his savings account and his two cash hordes. They got him nowhere close.

  Where would he get half a million dollars?

  CHAPTER 5

  The youth group room at Harbor Beach Community Church was the same as every youth group room everywhere. A collection of couches lined the perimeter—either castoffs from church members or picked up from the side of the road by overeager ministry interns. The cinder block walls had been spray-painted with a variety of slogans and patterns by a previous incarnation of the youth group, now all out of college with children of their own. Framed posters and prints captured the essence of decade-old Christian pop culture like some sort of unintentional time capsule.

  At the moment, Fletcher was the center of attention. He had just hit the climax of his testimony—the part where he was sitting in a prison cell, reading the Bible, giving his heart to Jesus. He’d kept the presentation short and light on details, as Brad had insisted, and was more than happy to have put this chore behind him.

  “The thing is,” he said, scanning the mostly blank faces of teens and parents, “Jesus saved me from prison, but he saved you guys from prison too. You were all in bondage to sin and death, and Jesus set you free.”

  A few parents offered halfhearted amens, which seemed as good an indicator as any that he had reached the end of his talk. He turned back toward a particularly ratty love seat, where the comfy space between his wife and his daughter was beckoning him.

  “That’s an interesting way to look at it, Fletcher,” Brad said. He was perched on a tall stool, looming several feet above the others. “The Bible tells us that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Some of us just fall . . . further, I guess. Anyone have any questions for Fletcher? Any concerns?”

  Courtney Howard raised her hand. She was sitting on the floor, practically at Fletcher’s feet, smiling up at him from between two gum-chomping friends, and he could sense that she’d been waiting for a chance to jump in. Exasperation draped itself over him. Courtney was Brad’s sixteen-year-old daughter, and she had taken a shine to Fletcher immediately upon meeting him three months earlier. She frequently engaged him in conversation—particularly when her father was around—and always greeted him with a wide, bright-eyed smile full of blindingly white teeth.

  Fletcher glanced at her father, hoping for an out. Whatever his beef with Brad, he had no desire to get mixed up in some teenage girl’s campaign to irk her overbearing square of a dad. Brad said nothing, just fixed Fletcher with a warning glare.

  “Yes, Courtney?”

  “So if you’re a ‘white collar criminal,’ what does that even mean? Did you, like, steal people’s identities or something?”

  Fletcher chuckled. “No. We weren’t identity thieves, and we weren’t ripping off old people or single moms of their life savings. We only stole from the uberwealthy—the one percent, as they say.”

  “What difference does that make?” asked Courtney’s friend Tracy, an entitled little cheerleader with a perma-sneer.

  “It doesn’t, I guess. I mean, it’s still wrong. But if you could have met some of these people . . . In today’s economy, these milquetoasts just keep on piling it up. And I’m not talking about speedboats and Lamborghinis, but stuff they can’t even enjoy. Art. Antiquities. One-of-a-kind pieces they only want so that no one else can have them. Most of them didn’t even realize what they had. And so my partner and I would simply relieve them of said items.”

  Noah, an unmedicated guitar hero, piped up, raising his hand three words in, then lowering it immediately. “You stole milk toast? What the heck is milk toast?”

  “No, Noah. That’s not a—We targeted very old, very significant items and sold them on the black market.”

  “Did you use a machine gun?”

  “I’m a nonviolent—or, I was a nonviolent offender, okay?”

  “That’s what I don’t get,” chirped Courtney.

  Fletcher sighed. His spot on the love seat seemed to be moving further away. “What I did was called grifting. You don’t usually just steal something. You let the person convince you to take it.”

  Blank stares.

  “Look, every thief has his choice set of tools. Some prefer guns, others prefer lock picks and safe-cracking equipment. Some use lines of computer code. Then there are guys like me. Or like I was. I know human nature—at its worst and most predictable. That was my area, and when we used that, we weren’t even thieves.”

  “Who’s we?” Noah asked. “Did you have your own gang?”

  “I had a partner. He kind of groomed me for the Life.”

  “That’s hard-core,”
Noah whispered.

  Noah’s mother, Carol, sitting behind him and wearing an increasingly concerned expression, asked, “Didn’t you say you studied religion in college? How did you wind up being a criminal?”

  “I did study the philosophy and history of religion—and I’ve got the degrees to show for it.” Fletcher glanced at Brad. “But I wasn’t a Christian back then.”

  Everyone waited expectantly. They wouldn’t be satisfied until they had details.

  “Okay, it went like this,” he said. “In grad school I got this internship at the metropolitan museum. When it ended I stayed on as a custodian. I figured it would be good to have my foot in the door when I finished my master’s degree.

  “Well, I got the degree, but I just stayed a janitor. Even when positions opened up, someone with experience would swoop in and fill it. So I started on my PhD. And finished all my course work—still a janitor. Then one day we get this traveling exhibit of priceless Maltese artifacts. At the same time, all the security guards but one get food poisoning—bad meatballs, something. So I traded my mop for a nightstick. Turns out the other guard was planning on stealing a sword that used to belong to the Grand Master of the Knights of Malta. He asked me to help him, said he needed an inside man on the job. And I agreed.”

  “But why?” Carol asked.

  “Pride, really. I was sick of being taken for granted. Andrew offered me a chance to actually use all the knowledge I’d been accruing. Looking back, he played on my disillusionment. He grifted me. He found my peg.”

  “Fletcher,” Brad said with a dollop of disdain, “these kids don’t speak Underworld.”

  “A person’s peg is what they want most in the world. If a grifter can spot your peg, he can win you over. What I wanted was respect. And he provided it. And excitement. And lots of money. I paid off my student loans and bought my wife a platinum ring with the money from that first job.”

  Every head wheeled and gawked at Meg, who stared down at her lap for a moment before rolling her eyes up angrily at Fletcher.

  “But that Andrew guy poisoned them, right?” Noah asked.

  “Poisoned who?”

  “The other security guards. He knew your peg or whatever, so he got them out of the way.”

  Fletcher paused. “Yes. I suppose he did. And I guess I always knew that. But Andrew needed me since he wasn’t really an expert on historical artifacts, and then I needed him because I couldn’t beat an alarm or a safe and I had no idea how to fence a five-hundred-year-old sword or an antique Bible.”

  “You stole Bibles?” The question came from more than one direction as teenagers and adults alike gaped at the felon in their midst.

  “If you know what to look for, antique Bibles can be very valuable.”

  “So you stole stuff too, right?” asked a jock in the far corner. “You didn’t just trick people.”

  Fletcher hesitated. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “How many things?”

  The truth was that Fletcher had lost count, but he wasn’t about to say that.

  “I think we’re getting off track here,” Brad said. “We don’t want to glorify what Fletcher did. Why don’t you tell us how you got caught?” A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “Well, it wasn’t a grift. It was more like the first job in the museum—a straightforward heist. We were stealing a monstrance. That’s like a golden stand that holds the bread for Communion in some churches.”

  “So you were raiding a church, stealing its priceless relics,” Brad said, clearly enjoying himself.

  Fletcher felt like he was back on the witness stand, being badgered by that rat-faced prosecutor.

  “It wasn’t even an active church anymore,” he said, trying not to sound defensive. “They just rented it out for weddings and social events and stuff. They had this thing collecting dust in the back.”

  Brad furrowed his brow. “You almost sound like you’re trying to justify your actions, Fletcher. Aren’t you sorry?”

  Fletcher caught his rage en route between his guts and his tongue. “Yes, Brad,” he said, looking him in the eyes. “I’m very sorry for what I’ve done.”

  “Might I suggest we leave room for grace?” Pastor Dave had slipped into the back of the room at some point during the discussion. “Fletcher’s sins are under the blood of Jesus, just like yours and mine, Brad. And let’s not forget how many of the characters in the Bible did time: Joseph, Paul, Peter, even the Lord Jesus.”

  Brad shrugged. “They were all falsely accused, weren’t they?”

  “It’s getting late,” Fletcher said. “And I still need to finish packing.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  “Good idea, Fletcher,” Pastor Dave said. “Let’s call it a night. I’ll see you all back here at seven thirty tomorrow morning. The elders and I will pray you on your way. Take it from me: a mission trip can be a life-changing experience.”

  Noah shot his hand up and immediately asked, “But what happened to that monster thing?”

  “No more caffeine for Noah,” Pastor Dave said. “He’s not making any sense.”

  “The thing Fletcher was trying to steal,” Noah said, annoyed. “Did you get it?”

  “No,” Fletcher answered. “By the grace of God, I got caught and left the old life behind. My partner got out, as far as I know. And the monstrance was moved, I think. Probably somewhere with more security.”

  Noah’s hand went up again, but the minister cut him off. “That’s enough for tonight,” he said. “Get some sleep. I want to see seven chaperones and eighteen youth groupers here at seven thirty sharp tomorrow morning. And don’t forget your air mattresses. Twin-size only. You’ll be sharing your sleeping quarters with about two hundred other kids.”

  A groan of complaint rose up from among the youth.

  “Not to worry. You’re staying at Life Journey Church again this year. We stayed there for service camp a few years back, and it was really nice and plenty roomy. It’s not like sleeping in a cell or something.”

  Every eye went from the pastor to Fletcher and back again.

  “Oh, ohhh,” Dave blustered. “I’m so sorry, Fletcher. I meant like a monastery cell.”

  Brad snickered loudly.

  CHAPTER 6

  NOVEMBER 8, 1772

  VALLETTA, MALTA

  Cagliostro rushed down the hall as quickly as his plump legs would carry him, past full suits of armor demarking the beginning and end of brick arches. His green silk coat flapped against the air, causing the design of its gold brocade to shift and morph. He burst into Fonseca’s bedchamber and found his friend reclining. The old man was still in full uniform—black cloak and pantaloons, boots, wig—clutching his sword to his chest but breathing shallowly, with a pronounced rattle.

  “I have brought more of the Elixir of Life,” Cagliostro announced.

  “I am in great need of it,” the Grand Master said. He accepted a small bottle from his friend’s hand, removed the cork with his teeth, and swallowed down its contents. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before sitting up with some difficulty. Cagliostro relieved him of his sword and set it down on a small rosewood table. He took a moment to admire its craftsmanship. Where the hilt and handle met there was attached a large, ruby-studded eight-point cross—a Maltese cross.

  “They all thought you had taken me for a fool, you know,” Fonseca said, “when I took you into my palace and gave you rooms for your laboratories. The treasurers tell me I spent a million lira entertaining you. I’ve heard them laughing about it. But look at me—ninety-one years old, still lucid and leading my knights. I owe that to you, Cagliostro. But we must move forward with our plans. I fear change is coming.”

  “It is indeed. And we must ride ahead and cut it off,” the younger man replied. “I was in Rome when word of your illness reached me. And I have been in England and France. Your instincts are correct. While you live here in your palace, revolution is spreading across the once-civilized world. It
is imminent in America, of course, but also in Europe. On the streets of Paris and even here on Malta, people are embracing the absurd notion that all men have been created of equal estate. Empires that have stood for millennia will fall, Fonseca. And this sovereign order of knights, which has endured for seven centuries, will not last another generation. Mark my words: what the masses do not take, the Protestant nobles will.”

  “Stop!” Fonseca rasped. “Do you prophesy? Or is this only an opinion?”

  “I am . . . not sure.”

  “You must be wrong. For we did not arrive at this island by chance. It was the Great Architect’s design. Look at the evidence! When the Moslems lost the Holy City, our order came to dominate the Christian quarter. To show our faithfulness we kept the infidel at bay, protected Christian pilgrims from their demonic scimitars.”

  “I know this well, old friend. You need rest now.”

  Fonseca ignored him. “And when we lost the Holy City, we took Cyprus and Rhodes. Even when the Templars ceased to be, devoured by their own avarice, we carried on with divine protection. For six hundred more years, we have carried on!”

  “Please, try to calm down, Fonseca. The elixir takes time.”

  “We built a navy such as the world had never seen. And castles! Defenses!” He tried to rise out of the bed but flopped back down. “The very mention of our name caused the Turks to wet themselves for fear. When the Moslems again stole our island, we came here, where the Great Architect wills us to be. Here we are the scourge of Barbary pirates and the subject of every Turk’s nightmare. They still tell frightful stories of their folly on our shores, when forty thousand Mohammedans attacked us.” He raised his hands as if giving a rousing speech to a gathered army. “They nailed the bodies of our dead to crosses and floated them into our harbors. So we fired the heads of their dead from our cannons. Their ships crashed against our great underwater stakes in our harbors and were forever lost.”

  “Yes, my friend,” Cagliostro said soothingly. “You have told me this many times. And two hundred years later, Voltaire still says that ‘nothing in the world is better known than the siege of Malta.’ ”