The Longest Con: A Family of Grifters Tale

by Bill Patterson

  Cole Coffey, though proud of how Albert's leadership of his group was growing, saw several ways for this particular gambit to fail, ways that could not be Fixed. “How do you know he can't spot a gold digger from a mile away?”

  “That's the beauty of this. Maria never even talks about money. You can be aloof, right, Maria?”

  Maria Madigan glanced over at her father from her spot in the back, looked at her fingernails, then pulled out her phone and started tapping at it.

  Eileen chuckled. “I'm almost willing to let them do it,” she said to Hans. “I can think of a half-dozen things that can go wrong with that scenario.”

  Hans clucked at her. “It's actually not that bad, Eileen. But you're right—we can't let them do this to themselves.”

  Albert frowned slightly, compressing his lips. “If you would let me finish my briefing, sir,” he said, but Hans held up his hand.

  “Hang on there, everyone. Look, you wanted a con of your own, right? And you wanted away from us, also right?” The group facing them nodded emphatically.

  “We would be fine with you going on any operation you want. However, we don't have that luxury right now.” Hans got up and made his way to the roll-top desk. “In this desk is your next operation. You can ask up to twenty questions, but you have to describe the con until we are sure you know what we have in mind. Ready?”

  “Wait,” said Albert. “With respect, why should we continue to take your orders, Mr. Swenson?”

  Eddie’s father smiled slightly. “I could quote a dollar figure, but I don't think that would move you. Let's just say, for now, this operation is the reason we've been short-conning you kids to death. Rather than have all that work be for nothing, how about we shelve the question until after you see what's in the desk?”

  Albert 'Einstein' Coffey stepped forward. The arc turned, the four young adults rotating to follow their leader, Albert, until they faced the closed desk. “How long do we have?”

  “Until you solve it,” said Eileen. “Roll back the top.”

  Albert glanced at his father, Cole, whose expression gave nothing away. He looked at his friends. “Anything you want to add, just say something,” he said. “This is one hell of a buildup.” He grasped the lower edge of the segmented wooden top and slowly but firmly rolled it to the open position.

  Inside, atop the desk, were five items. A listing of astronomical events for the next five years was centered on the desk. Surrounding it was a Daily Racing Form, a copy of Space Shipping News, and a transparent, light green stone set in a white gold band. It lay atop a cloth napkin embroidered with the words “Aphrodite Station.”

  Albert's eyes darted from one item to the other. He picked up the listing of astronomical events and examined it closely. He glanced at the Racing Form and the napkin, but picked up the ring and rubbed the small stone absently.

  “Any clues in the pigeonholes or drawers?” he asked the older adults.

  “None. What you see is all there is,” said Scott. Hans peered intently at his watch.

  “The Wire,” Albert breathed. “My God, you want us to do The Wire! Oh, it's so perfect! I'll need to see where the other planets are, first, but WOW. Nobody will ever see this coming!”

  “Sixty-two seconds,” said Hans.

  “Pay up, Eileen,” Cole said.

  She looked at him, scowling, and handed the money over.

  “Never bet against Albert,” said Cole. “He's just going to make you look bad.”

  Chuckling at his mother’s dismay, Carow looked over the items. “What's ‘The Wire?’ Did we go over that in class?”

  Scott Madigan laughed. “No kids, not at all. I don't know that The Wire has been successfully pulled off in the past hundred years. Pay attention, Maria. You will have a big role in this one. Femme Fatale, of course, and definitely Banker.”

  The Connors looked at Albert. He stared at Hans for a moment, shrugged minutely, and waved the rest of the Connors over to where Scott sat. Coffey's Conners would have to wait while they did this last job for their parents.

  Everyone gathered around Scott and Maria. Class was in session again.

  STEP 3 – The Buildout

  “Any word from Carow?” asked Maria, looking up from a schematic of Aphrodite Station. He had departed six weeks earlier to set everything up on the Station.

  “No, and that's a good thing,” said Eileen. She sighed. “I know you all think I'm a bitch, the way I rode my son. But he's a solid kid, with a good head on his shoulders. Hans said no unnecessary communications, and I agree with him. Besides, I bet he's just keeping quiet so that we don't have a chance to give him things to do or lecture him.”

  Maria chuckled. She looked at the older woman, whose face softened when she talked about Carow. “It's been hard on you, hasn't it?” she asked softly. “Being bait for the scam, then coming back and being a mom to a bunch of rowdy teenagers.”

  Eileen smiled slightly. “One could say that. You four were little hellions. Remember playing The Pigeon Drop on visitation?”

  “That was so much fun! We couldn't believe how stupid some of the marks were! You'd fall down, and we'd stand around and bawl, and some man would just agree to take a wad of cash and run it over to the landlord so we wouldn't get evicted.”

  “It's not that simple, you know,” Eileen said, smiling.

  “We know that now. Still, it seemed like such a fun game. Whose idea was it?”

  “Cole. He feels he can fix anything. 'We need our own Baker Street Irregulars' said Hans once. Cole looked into the air for a bit. 'How about I guarantee four Irregulars in two months?'”

  “Let me guess, you all bet Cole couldn't come through.”

  “Damn Cole. I should know never to bet against Albert, or his father. But he set it up. One by one, when you four came for summer visitation, he seduced you to the grifter lifestyle.” Eileen shook her head. “I'm still trying to figure out the morality of it.”

  “Well, I've been a legal adult for a year now, and I'm the youngest. I know what I'm doing, and I couldn't imagine doing anything else.”

  “Remember that. When you're twenty years older, like me, ask yourself if your career is still your number one priority.”

  Maria stared at her, but the door opened before she could reply. Albert was standing in the doorway. “Anybody seen the electrical diagrams for Cargo-57?” he asked, naming off a compartment on Aphrodite Station.

  “They should be on the computer,” said Maria automatically, turning to the console to search. “Here, I'll send you the link.” She tapped in the air rapidly, fingers dancing across the softly glowing squares. “Sent.” Albert nodded his thanks and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “We should get back to work,” Eileen said. Maria nodded.

  About twenty minutes later, Maria stiffened. Albert knew how to work the computer better than she did. He’d stopped in just to get them back to work. Slave driver, she thought with amusement, and went back to her task.

  ***

  Sandro Contriole was brought out of a rather warm and sensuous dream by the raucous sound of his phone ringing. He rolled over to grab it, only to find himself blocked by a delicious barrier. Stacy? Or was it the other one, Kim? It didn't matter. She'd either get out of his way, or she would find herself in the hallway. He got to the phone and hit receive. That particular ringtone was set for his parents and grandfather only. They were the only bosses he acknowledged.

  “Sandro,” he said, attempting to radiate the proper respect. They might not be Family with a capital F, but they punished disrespect, usually nonfatally.

  “Are you just getting up, Grandson? It's almost lunchtime!” Mario growled in his ear. Sandro held the phone away from his ear. 4am!

  “Grandpa, it's 4am here in Las…on the West Coast. Where are you, Amalfi?”

  “Ah, yes. I am sorry. Time zones. Well, as long as I have you up, I must talk with you, face-to-face. Can you be here by this time tomorrow?”

  Sandro star
ed around wildly. Face-to-face? Madness! Outside of Board of Director meetings, he saw the old man only over a video screen. This might be that leg up he was looking for!

  “Sure, Grandfather. I'll get a flight out of here today, be in Italy by morning. Is everyone coming?”

  “No, son. Your folks are still up in Aphrodite. This is just you and I. I look forward to seeing my grandson again. I'm sure you have lots of stories to tell me.” The phone clicked off in his hand.

  Stacy and Kim found themselves in the hallway anyway. It took a few minutes for their clothes to follow them out.

  Sandro alternated between wild hope and crushing despair. He knew his directorship of the Contriole Solar Power Station (CSPS) in the Mohave Desert was a mere holding pattern, a step for him to pass through on his way up his grandfather's multinational empire. Truth be told, and he told himself the truth only when he could not avoid it, he spent most of his time in Las Vegas instead of the sere office building out in the burning desert. The company accounts were fair—the enterprise was kept in the black only because his lobbyists were adept at making the California government feel continuing guilt over their environmental record and thus willing to prop up CSPS with rate subsidies and grants.

  His personal accounts were another matter. He was still afloat, but barely. Sure, he spent a lot of money on The Strip. After all, he was one of the people who kept the lights on. He would have to settle his accounts eventually, but for now, he was living on credit, looking for that one lucky hit that would even everything up.

  His women still remained the finest, though. Italian women might be better than West Coast girls, but they often came with complications, like families that needed appeasing when their daughters came home disgraced. He liked his women willing, available, and most of all, disposable.

  The hypersonic jet was cramped, of necessity. He was lucky to get one—hyper capable civilian transport was thinly scattered, expensive, but universally cramped, for performance reasons. It was also the only way to meet the old man's deadline.

  A beep sounded in his ear. “Sir, if you would please accept communications,” said the pilot politely. “There's an incoming package for you, rather large, and we'll be out of range soon.” Sandro growled but got his tablet out and accepted the incoming comm. Just as he thought, the entire briefing package. Well, he should have time to absorb it before he got to Mario's.

  “Grandson! Welcome back home!” Mario was the very soul of congeniality. At seventy-eight and tanned a deep nut brown, the man who owned Contriole Enterprises was still lively, still vibrant, and had an energy that belied his years. His palatial home sat overlooking the Amalfi coast on ten acres of lushly manicured grounds, including a small vineyard, olive orchard, and several large gardens. “You landed two hours ago, but the airport is only twenty minutes away. Where were you?”

  Sandro opened his mouth to answer, but his grandfather cut him off. “Let me guess. Absorbing briefing material so you can look informed, eh?

  Sandro looked down to hide his anger. How could the old man sting him so easily?

  “Don't be angry. I do want you to brief me, but family first, business later. Okay? So, let's go to the garden and let me show you my flowers.”

  “Thus, CSPS remains profitable and will remain so under the current rate structure for at least the next three years.” Sandro felt pleased. The briefing passed right through him as if done by his chief of operations herself. He even understood it. He wasn't a complete playboy.

  “Good, good. I am glad. CSPS practically runs itself, eh?”

  Sandro didn't know if that was good or bad. “Yes, sir.”

  “I'll say it does. I've looked over the security records. You have spent only twenty percent of your time at your job. The chief of operations, what's her name? Never mind, she's the one who runs everything, you're just a figurehead. Am I right? Eh?”

  Sandro felt the sudden prickling of sweat breaking out on his scalp, hidden by his exquisitely styled black hair. “Yes, sir. But there's nothing to do!”

  “Nothing? Sure there is! Do you know what employee turnover is? Do you realize how many people have come, stayed less than a year, and left?”

  “The desert is not a great place to work,” said Sandro.

  “They left for our competitors, also in the desert!” thundered Mario. “They hate working for us! They call us the Eighth Circle of Hell. Your nickname is Dante! The one who walks through Hell and is not tormented.”

  “Sir, I had no idea.”

  “Of course you didn't! The employees won't drive out to Las Vegas and tell you. You're a disgrace! Now, you must pay the price. To be a Contriole means to be responsible. Authority, yes, you have that. But consequences, ah, those must be there, too. I have a plan for you, Grandson. Do well, and this will be forgotten. Do poorly, well… But you won't, will you?”

  “No sir.” Sandro tried to think what special place of torment Mario had in mind, but all he could do was mourn the loss of his Vegas lifestyle.

  ***

  Dinner was the one time that both grifter teams, Swen's Squad and Coffey's Conners, were in the same room. By mutual consent, talk never touched on The Wire, code-named The Hesperian Hustle. That didn't stop them from talking generalities.

  Eddie Swenson opened the conversation. “So, why were you working us like dogs, Dad? Just to see how much we'd take before we'd revolt?”

  “That's just one component of it,” said Hans. “The second was to raise capital for The Hustle. Those spaceship tickets to Venus aren't cheap. Plus, we're going to have to make it look like a legitimate operation, which means buckets of cash.”

  Eddie groaned. “We were flogging everything in the book. Quick Con, Short Con, and some other things I don't quite know how to define. It's one thing when you finger the wallet off of some fat drunken banker on his three-martini lunch. It's another when you stiff a cabbie. I never felt comfortable with that,” he said. “I mean, won't that screw up our karma?”

  “Karma,” said Hans, “is one of the most important things in the grifter life. When you scam little old ladies, you deserve whatever nasty fate you get. Yes, the cabbies were a bit much, but if you notice, we only targeted the rude ones, the ones with larceny in their hearts.”

  “Like that one that drove us around the park twice before you threatened to remove his kidney?” said Maria, smiling.

  “Exactly,” said Cole. “Grifter Code Rule Two: Only target the deserving.”

  “And what's Rule One?” asked Hans looking at his son.

  “You can't cheat an honest man,” said Eddie. “Corollary, if you abuse the trust of an honest man, you get a load of bad karma. Thus, honest men have nothing to fear from us.” Eddie sighed. “What is this, kindergarten, Dad? That's the first lessons you taught us.”

  After dinner, as customary, they retired to the sitting room, where their parents tried to instill an appreciation for fine brandy, port, and cigars.

  Maria relished her thin glass of forty-year-old port. “I still have a hard time realizing this is almost twice my age.”

  “That's dedication for you,” said Albert. “Some artisan probably filled the cask when he was a teen, helping his dad. Now, a father himself, he bottled it so that someone else's child could savor it.”

  Eileen turned to Cole. “Your son is turning into quite the philosopher. Must be a mutation.”

  Eddie stirred restlessly. “I thought that was the Roper's job, to philosophize.”

  “Depends,” said Scott, the Squad's Roper. “A good Roper must understand philosophy in order to grasp the worldview of the mark. He doesn't need to expand on any particular one. A good Roper is highly relatable and empathetic to the mark. Tell me about the mark, Eddie.”

  “Sandro Contriole. He is thirty years old, single, and rich. He's third generation Contriole. The family business is mostly shipping, but like every multinational, they are into a little bit of everything. Mario Contriole, seventy-eight, is the head of the firm, the patriarch of th
e family, and is not happy with Sandro. One of about fifteen in the third generation, Sandro was in charge of the solar energy farms in the American Southwest. In reality, that means that he has been in Las Vegas, spending a considerable amount of time and money in the casinos. Mario's shipping him off to Aphrodite Station to take charge of the diamond mining operation on Venus.”

  Maria looked up. “The Green Diamonds of Venus,” she said. She frowned. “The ring?”

  Albert nodded. “That was the clincher, when I knew it involved Venus. Only source of non-radioactive green diamonds in this corner of the universe.”

  Scott held up a hand. “I want to hear more about the mark. Eddie, please continue.”

  “Sandro is taking the move as a demotion and punishment. Think of it: from a world of wine, women, and song, to the grinding sameness and danger on Aphrodite Station, society limited to his own family, a few crazy tourists, and miners. He has a few weeks left in Vegas, and I've been talking to some of the girls around him. He's not very discreet. From what they tell me, he's determined to use the diamond mines as a way to accumulate some personal wealth to force old man Mario to respect him again.”

  Albert smiled. “Mario is a tough old bird. I suppose he is well aware of Grandson Sandro's intentions.”

  Eddie snickered. “Of course. I would not be surprised if half of Sandro's entourage are spies for Mario.”

  Albert looked up in alarm. “If they are talking to you and reporting back to Mario, how do we know they aren't telling him about us?”

  “Good point, Albert,” said Hans. “What is your role in the Hesperian Hustle, Eddie?”

  “I rope in the mark. Don't worry, I'm working through a cutout. He wears a wire, and I overhear everything. The cutout is also a grifter—he's doing short con to have the cash to hang with the entourage.”

  Hans shrugged and motioned for Eddie to continue.

  “There's not that much more to tell. Sandro's pissed, living it up like he's getting sent to Alcatraz. The next fast ship is due out in six weeks, and Sandro and I are going to be on it.”