The Last Con

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The Last Con Page 11

by Zachary Bartels


  MESSAGE FROM UNKNOWN, it read.

  He opened the text. Grand River Ave. Get in the black Impala.—Andrew

  Fletcher trekked up to Grand River. He spotted the classic car and climbed into the passenger seat. The air-conditioning was on full blast. Andrew liked it cold.

  “Great work, kid!” Andrew said, happily receiving the briefcase and giving Fletcher’s shoulder a firm shake.

  Fletcher felt the battle raging in his guts. Part of him could see the path ahead of him, replaying the past: sitting in the freezing car with Andrew, counting the take. Sitting in the back of a squad car. Courtroom. Prison. But part of him could not hide the pleasure of being back in the saddle. Other visions crowded out the first. A never-ending backlog of vending machines waiting to be filled. Brad pulling coat hooks out of the wall and dressing Fletcher down for not asking before he punctured the sacred drywall of his house.

  “Where’s that smile, kid? You pulled it off.”

  “I’m supposed to be happy I dropped the wolf on some stooge at the back end of the Wireless? Give me something hard to do.”

  “You serious?” Andrew asked.

  “I don’t know. The way you did this whole thing—the pictures, the weirdo on the phone, all that stuff . . . that doesn’t exactly fill me with a nostalgic itch to go back on the grift with you. If I’m your mark, then I’m not your partner.”

  Andrew shrank back, a hurt expression washing over his face. “You think I’m behind this? I got pulled into it just like you, kid. I had no choice. It’s the Alchemist here. What am I gonna say, no?”

  Fletcher was skeptical. “Who’s the Alchemist? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Of course you haven’t. This guy’s below the radar,” Andrew said, his voice dropping as if someone in the backseat might hear. “A world-class thief, but that’s not all. Fixer, fence, long con, short con, muscle—he’s the whole thing. And you do not want to cross this guy. I’ve heard things.”

  An annoying and repetitive samba beat came leaking out of a tinny speaker in Andrew’s pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the display. “Speak of the devil,” he said. “Hello?” Andrew’s jovial air quickly deflated as he listened. “Uh huh. He’s right here. You got it.” He held the phone out to Fletcher. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Yeah,” Fletcher said into the phone.

  “Well done,” the Alchemist said. “Andrew assured me we could count on you. You salvaged the job. Now we can move forward.”

  “That’s great news,” Fletcher said. “You kids have fun. I’ve got to get to church.”

  “Not just yet. I have an errand for you to run.”

  Andrew put the car in gear and they began to move.

  “Where are we going?” Fletcher asked him.

  The Alchemist answered, “Back toward the church, Fletcher, as you wanted. But I need you to pick up a few things for me before you rejoin your fellow humanitarians. I’ll send the list to this phone, which I want you to keep on your person at all times. And hang on to the briefcase as well. You’ll need it.”

  Dante would be dead soon. Of this, he was increasingly sure.

  He left the office of his final prospect and walked aimlessly for blocks before flopping down on a bus stop bench. He pulled up the spreadsheet on his phone and added the final total. All other things being equal, he’d be extremely proud of what he had achieved in the last forty-eight hours. Between his own substantial initial deposit and the funds he’d been able to raise, his newly designated Father the Fatherless bank account held $46,516—nearly 10 percent of what he owed La Bella Donna, and he still had four days left. But he was spent. In every way.

  He hadn’t slept more than a few hours since the visit from Marcus Brinkman. He’d burned through every associate, acquaintance, and institution he could think of—and he’d spent hours thinking. Almost every church and ministry had told him the same thing: it sounded like a good cause, but the city was full of good causes. Lost causes. In a sense, it was a lost cause.

  If he was to have a prayer at raising the rest, he’d need a new strategy entirely. He snickered. A prayer. He was a preacher, at least to most people who knew of him, but he hadn’t prayed in twenty years. Not since the day after his dad left. Praying was for suckers. Preaching was for suckers. Throwing money at a church, hoping for points in the afterlife, was for suckers. And that was fine; suckers were Dante’s bread and butter. But now the suckers had all been used up.

  The idea of applying for some kind of business loan had occurred to him the night before. Sure, the economy was a mess and such loans were about as common as a payout in Greektown, but Trick had skills, swagger, charm. A bit of late-night research had blown the whole thing apart, though. Business plans would have to be assembled, permits pulled, studies and background checks conducted, references checked.

  Despair was closing in on him. Trick wanted to keep grifting, try and hit 100K, try and work out a deal with La Bella Donna. Trick could talk. But he had seen Marcus make examples of people who tried such things. Early on he’d been instructed to assist Mr. Brinkman on an errand that turned out to be horrifying. He assumed this was a sort of initiation that everyone underwent upon joining up with the Syndicate. It certainly put things in perspective.

  Dante rubbed his eyes. Midafternoon always hit him like a fistful of Benadryl, and it was many times worse today. He studied his feet and thought about running. Maybe taking his family with him. No, that was a stupid idea.

  What about going to the cops? Could they all be relocated in witness protection? But then, what did he really know? Marcus had been right when he called him a cog in the machine. Dante only knew what he himself had done. Each week the old ledgers were collected and new ones started. Only in the past two years had Dante started keeping his own scans week to week, and what did those prove? Nothing. It would be his word against the machine. Besides, he’d be dead before the first warrant was issued.

  All at once Dante felt something disconcerting. He looked up, across the street, and saw a large city bus placarded with an ad for a TV show that had been canceled a month ago. It pulled away from the curb, and Dante saw him. The old man from the jail.

  Dante stood up from the bench and began crossing the street. Cars skidded to a stop to avoid a collision. Drivers honked and yelled. But no one noticed the old man clutching that piece of cloth. No one gave his bizarre clothing a second glance, although here in the city, Dante wouldn’t expect anyone to stop and take inventory of the latest homeless fashions.

  But that was just it; the man didn’t look homeless. His robe was worn, but clean. His eyes probing, but clear and sane. A car buzzed Dante at forty miles an hour, just a couple feet away. He could feel the vibrations in his clothing. By reflex he turned to shout an epithet at the motorist, who was already disappearing over the horizon and never heard it.

  Dante looked back at the old man. But he was gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  You about done with this Jesus stuff?” Andrew asked. They had pulled to a stop a few blocks from the church. “I’d hate to see that get in the way of what we need to do here.”

  “Leave it alone.” Fletcher felt the same brand of violated as he had when Andrew asked about Meg and Ivy. He didn’t want to discuss his conversion with this man. These two worlds needed to remain separate.

  “I get it,” Andrew said. “You needed a little bump for the parole board so you put on a born-again act. And naturally, a gifted grifter like yourself is going to commit, do your research, play the part. But, kid, you’re out. You can take it off now.”

  “Why don’t you worry about your own soul, and I’ll worry about mine,” Fletcher said. He was in fact worried about it, but he hadn’t meant to disclose this to his once and current partner. The phone from the Alchemist emitted an annoying beep.

  “This must be my shopping list,” Fletcher said, skimming the text. “What is this, a joke? A jar of peanut butter? A porcelain dish? Car Jack 9? What the heck is Car Jack 9?


  “It’s a video game,” Andrew answered. “And you need precisely that one. Don’t come back with Car Jack 8, because we can’t use it.”

  “Whatever.” Fletcher stepped out of the car, back into the warmth of the sun.

  “Don’t forget your briefcase,” Andrew called out after him. “Boss wants you to hang on to it tonight. Besides, there’s five grand from our buddy Paul in there. That’ll more than cover expenses.”

  “Fine.” Fletcher grabbed the case and gave the door a healthy whump. As he walked back toward the Church of St. John the Baptist, he read through the shopping list more closely. A candle, sleeping pills, a talking greeting card, ammonia, starch powder . . . Why would the Alchemist send him to buy all this crap?

  And if the Alchemist persona was just misdirection on Andrew’s part—an idea that seemed increasingly viable—what could Andrew be trying to prove? That Fletcher was expendable, the intern who could be thrown menial tasks? He thought about the hundreds of vending machines he’d filled in the past three months and felt his blood run hot.

  Or did the Alchemist want to hammer home that he had Fletcher under his complete control, even to the point of sending him to buy a random list of—

  Wait. Fletcher’s mind was making connections. Candle, starch powder, porcelain coaster, makeup compact with brush. The rest began to fall into place. This list was not random. These were supplies for a bigger job, something on a whole different scale from the drop that afternoon. That’s why the Alchemist, whoever he ultimately was, wanted Fletcher to do the shopping. Fletcher would have the supplies, the case, the grease money. He would have it, he would keep it safe, and he would have to get it to them somehow. And that would all reinforce one message: This isn’t over. It’s just getting started.

  Dante didn’t bother locking the door of Broadmoor Outreach Tabernacle. For the first time since receiving the keys, he didn’t care about protecting this veneer of legitimacy. What did it matter? Someone off the street could come in and kill him for the contents of his wallet and the copper pipes running through the walls, and they’d just be saving Marcus Brinkman the bullet.

  He looked around the meeting hall. The altar and pulpit had come from a church that was folding nearby, as had the majority of the religious items in the room. Its members had been delighted at the idea of another church carrying on their use. Dante had struggled a bit with the guilt of accepting them, but these pangs grew duller and less frequent over the years. The pile of money in his newly opened bank account had barely registered a blip on his conscience.

  After all, Dante’s father hadn’t been there for him, and neither had anyone else. So what? He was doing just fine. At least he had been, right up until he started relying on other people. Perhaps the greatest gift one could give those kids was to show them that they need to fend for themselves, that they can’t trust anyone. Dante had learned that lesson decades earlier and was now having to relearn it the hard way. The hardest way.

  Sitting there in that folding chair, right where Marcus had held a gun to his head two days earlier, Dante knew he had two choices: give up or double down. The first made no sense—not with four days left—but it was oddly appealing. He looked up at the large wooden cross on the back wall. He used to stare at the cross when his mother brought him to church as a boy. The music did nothing for him, and the emotional railing of the preacher struck Dante as disingenuous.

  But the cross captivated him. Two lines intersecting, the simplest thing, and yet compelling people to weep, to rant and rave, to kill or be killed. He used to wonder what it was about this symbol, apart from all others, that could so easily motivate people. Grifters talked about a peg, an ultimate desire—usually sex, money, power, or revenge—that could be exploited in order to manipulate a mark. Is that what it was? He leaned forward in his seat, transfixed by the two pieces of wood. Any simpler, and the shape would literally be one-dimensional.

  Like most church crosses, this one was usually stark and bare, then draped with a purple pall during Lent, black on Good Friday, then white on Easter morning—the most trivial alteration, eliciting massive changes in mood among otherwise intelligent people. Easter had been a month and a half ago, but the white cloth remained. It looked good up there, and Dante was hardly a stickler for religious convention. Besides, he liked the effect it had on his faithful flock—a little souvenir of the Big Day to hold them over to the next one. If the cross was a peg, the ultimate long con, then it was worth studying, contemplating. But if it wasn’t, then perhaps there was a third option for Dante. Perhaps this simple shape had such an effect on people because it meant a way out when there seemed to be none.

  Dante stood quickly, tipping the chair behind him, and took five long strides up to the cross. He grabbed a fistful of the white cloth and yanked it down. Pulling the Communion table back, he riffled through a battered cardboard box beneath it, quickly finding what he was looking for. He had to jump a bit to loop the black pall over the cross, and he missed the first time. He took two steps back and surveyed the icon, draped in black. That’s better.

  What now—pray? How? Prayer was a gimmick Dante employed to feed instructions to inmates. The last time he had spoken directly to the Almighty had been twenty years earlier, and had ended abruptly with the realization that he was talking to himself. But praying is what men did when they were about to die. And really, what did he have to lose?

  Dante dropped to his knees. If he was going to do this, he would go all out.

  Fletcher guessed he had close to two hours before the service groups began arriving back at the church. He probably should start shopping. This would be difficult to time properly. Arrive late and he’d have to explain himself to Brad or Meg, or both. Arrive too early and face another awkward run-in with Father Sacha.

  What he didn’t want was time alone with his thoughts, which despite Fletcher’s best efforts were crowded around Dr. Foreman’s question: Which you is the real you? The grifter? The convict? The scholar? The father? Fletcher wished he had bags of Fritos and Cheez-Bombs to count. Such tasks had kept these questions from filling his mind for the past three months. But he’d known all along that it was only a matter of time before they would have to be addressed.

  He had just rounded a corner, eyes peeled for a convenience store, when he saw him again. The robed man. He was forty feet away, standing on the sidewalk and staring Fletcher in the eye as if he’d been waiting there for him. After a moment the man broke his gaze and disappeared into one of the storefronts. Fletcher felt compelled to follow. He wanted to see a clerk or waitress react to the weird little man, the way no one had on the street the day before.

  It was impossible to tell where the robed man had gone, but it didn’t matter. As he drew closer, Fletcher found that about half of the storefronts were empty. Another was a barbershop—currently closed—and another a hole-in-the wall church. Most likely, the poor guy lived in one of the abandoned units. Fletcher walked slowly by, looking through the cracked windows, but he saw no one.

  He picked up his pace, suddenly feeling very exposed. Here he was in one of the more criminally inclined parts of the city, carrying a briefcase that contained five thousand dollars in cash and who knew what else.

  A few more steps and he was standing at the door of the church. BROADMOOR OUTREACH TABERNACLE, the sign read. A cartoon dove poked its beak down between the first two words. Fletcher smiled. This place was the very opposite of what he’d looked for in a church—as a student, as a grifter, even as an ex-con. But at least it was authentic. It lacked the IKEA ethos of the suburban “worship centers” back home. The furnishings were a mixture of old junk and genuine antiques, somehow creating an eclecticism that hit Fletcher just right.

  As if to complete the look, a man was up on the dais, kneeling in prayer. Officer Roberts’s words filled Fletcher’s head. Seek out a mentor. Someone who’s been through some troubles.

  Why not? He pulled the door handle, found it unlocked, and entered the air-con
ditioned building. Unsure how to interrupt a praying man, Fletcher approached slowly and quietly until he was just a few feet behind him.

  The man stiffened, clearly aware he had company. “I hadn’t really started yet,” he said, “so I don’t suppose you’re the answer to my prayers.” He let out a weak laugh, tinged with desperation.

  “I was hoping it might work the other way around,” Fletcher said.

  The man laughed again, this time more robustly. “You came in here looking for some hope?” he asked, still kneeling, his back to Fletcher. “You see that Bible on the chair next to you?”

  “Yeah. Nineteenth century. Not bad.”

  “Open it.”

  Fletcher hefted the old book and parted the pages, revealing the void within. “I don’t get it,” he said.

  “That’s the kind of place you just walked into. It’s all misdirection. No hope here. Got the black cloth goin’ now.”

  Fletcher glanced up at the cross. “That’s out of season.”

  “Not for me.” Dante finally stood and turned. Recognition spilled across his face. “Oh.” He snickered, again laced with despondence. “You want the list back.”

  “What list? Aren’t you the guy from—?”

  Dante was pulling a stack of papers from a briefcase. “Can’t use it anyway,” he said, extending the pages toward Fletcher. “Just a lot of foundations and grants and stuff. I don’t have time for that.”

  Fletcher pushed the papers back. “I’m not here for that. I just wanted some . . . guidance or something, I guess.”

  “It’ll cost you five hundred thousand dollars.”

  Fletcher patted his pockets. “Other pants.”

 

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