“Okay, that’s done. We can still make those auctions but we’ve got to go separate. Let me get my phone and pull up the addresses.”
“Let’s do it,” Sam said.
The home auctions weren’t far apart, which was one of the benefits of working a con in a small town. Sam and Rachel were hunting for the perfect mark. More than likely he’d be male, rich and possess an ego the size of Trinity County. Because Bullion was fast becoming the new Carmel, investors and big-time house flippers were moving in like locusts and scooping up homes. Sellers looking for quick cash or banks looking to dump repossessed houses held auctions. As Sam wound the Porsche through Bullion’s winding roads he thought back to the moment Rachel pitched the scam to him.
“We find the guy, I show him my wares,” she’d began, and then paused to specify. “Some of my wares, that is. And I get him on the hook.”
“Okay,” Sam had replied. “So the horny rich real estate baron is on the hook, now what do you do with him?”
“I’m getting to that, babe,” she said. “We have drinks, dinner whatever it takes until finally I tell him that I work for a big-wig, highly confidential client as a buyer—maybe a few buyers. Naturally this competitive narcissist will want to know what I know, what homes I’ve got a line on and so on.”
“He’ll probably want to steal you away from your alleged boss as well,” Sam said.
“Bingo. But he can’t ’cause I’m too loyal. However, I might let him in on a deal that my boss doesn’t know about.”
“And his greedy competitive side will jump at the chance to one-up your boss and impress you, the loyal assistant.”
“Right on, Daddy-o!” Rachel smiled.
“I like it,” Sam said, “but one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re gonna need a house to sell this guy and last time I checked we—”
But, of course, Rachel had an answer for that, too.
“Okay, I’ll check this one out and meet you in town. We’ll grab a drink and a bite.”
“You don’t want me to pick you up?” Sam asked. “I should be done first cause I’m just observing. You might find the guy and it’ll be game on.”
“I’ll text you if that’s the case. Otherwise, I think I’ll walk—check out the lay of this utopia.”
Sam leaned across the seat and kissed Rachel goodbye then motored down the road.
Rachel was the last to arrive. A group of six investors gathered around a slender man in a dark Hugo Boss suit. His teeth were Hollywood bleached white and his thinning dark hair was brushed forward in an attempt to rescue the receding hair line.
“Some familiar faces and some unfamiliar. I’m sure you all know the rules so I’ll just touch on the main points. If you purchase this home today it is yours with a bona fide cashier’s check. Obviously, from a bank we’ve heard of,” he added garnering a few chuckles. “You will have twenty-four hours to get all your inspections and what-not done before the house is no longer returnable. But as I’m sure you’re all aware if your inspector is at the ready, any inspector worth his salt—”
“Or hers,” Rachel piped.
“Or hers,” the man added, “thank you. Any inspector worth their salt can clear this place in five, six hours tops. So without further delay let’s get started.”
It didn’t take Rachel long to recognize the type of mark she was looking for wasn’t there. Still, she wanted to hang around and witness how the whole process went down.
Sam pulled up to the three bedroom, three bathroom ranch-style and shut the car down. A sign out front claimed the auction was to take place on the front lawn just on the other side of the twelve-foot -high hedge. Sam let himself through the gate and joined the others. He barely got ten feet across the artificial turf before he knew he’d found the perfect mark.
We should have flipped auctions.
Sam immediately assigned the nickname Tony Montana, the name of the character Al Pacino played in the 1983 movie Scarface, to the investor in the full white suit. He had Mediterranean olive skin that was enhanced by weekly trips to the tanning spa. He puffed on an oversized cigar and shouted out his numbers as opposed to raising his hand like the other bidders. Sam was actually entertained by this guy who was straight out of central casting. He had a girl on his arm but she looked rented. Sam had no doubt that the locals would frown upon this behavior, probably frown upon the guy all together.
For his blustering and bloviating he was nearly outbid by some weasel looking dude in an ill-fitting suit from J.C. Penny. The weasel sniffled a lot and wiped his coat sleeve across his nose after every bid. Sam knew the type immediately: coke user.
Tony Montana was not happy at having to pay far over his number to get the house—ego all the way. The weasel laughed and jittered his way off the property. As the other bidders left Sam walked out to the car and texted Rachel, letting her know he’d found the dupe…unless she was doing better. He also told her he’d sit on the guy and see where he was staying and then meet up with her. For now, he waited while Tony Montana did a quick walk-through of his new purchase.
Illiana Tolenti turned up the A.C. of the rented Audi S4 and pulled her thick black hair up into a bun. She watched the son of a bitch Sam leave the auction house and climb into his Porsche. She could tell by the plate it was a rental, which meant he and Rachel were trying to look a certain part for a grift. That’s what they did. And their little pastime cost her favorite uncle, Rocco, his life. It was the grifters’ fault and Illiana planned to make them pay. She noticed Sam didn’t drive off right away so she took the time to dig out her phone and listen back to a voicemail from her cousin Massimo who was mere days away from being a made wiseguy with the Philly mob.
“Listen, cugina, it’s complicated. I talked to the boys up top. As you know there is an open bounty on those fucks but you ain’t exactly a sanctioned hitter so…look, just be careful. If any heat from the cops comes back to them or us, well…just make sure it’s done clean and by the way you didn’t hear shit from me. I don’t mind tellin’ you I don’t like you doin’ this on your own but…Jesus, listen to me carrying on like a chick. I gotta go. Love ya.”
Illiana felt a tear roll down her cheek. But it wasn’t sadness. She hadn’t cried for her uncle and wouldn’t until the job was done. It was a tear of rage. She didn’t care either way about the mob’s approval but she knew they’d do right by her when Sam and Rachel were in the ground. A bounty’s a bounty after all. And Little Vincent, whose number one go-to guy used to be Rocco, would be especially grateful. He was far from being over the loss of Rocco.
She wiped away the tear and watched Sam, who was staking out some dipshit in a white suit. When the dipshit left the premises Sam fired up his rental and tailed him. Illiana powered up the Audi and followed Sam.
Sam tailed the white suit and his girl to a boutique hotel called The Hibiscus. Giving the couple a moment to valet their vehicle and walk inside Sam entered the cozy lobby after them.
“Hello, are you a guest here?” the twenty-something woman asked Sam. He gave a warm smile and said it was a possibility and that so far he liked what he saw.
“Great, have a look around if you like and I’m here if you have any questions.”
Sam took a quick peek on the main floor and was pleased to see the place although small, had a decent sized bar.
“The place is beautiful,” Sam said. “What would a guy be looking at say, for a suite in high season?”
“Well of course it varies but our suites start at around four fifty.”
“Sounds like a bargain. Have a lovely day.”
Sam grabbed a brochure and made his exit. On his way to the car, he called Rachel who told him to meet her at a cute little Mexican taqueria called La Flor. A giant-sized margarita was waiting for him when he sat down. He hoisted the goblet and toasted Rachel.
“So, tell me about him,” Rachel said.
“I’m calling him Tony Montana,” Sam s
aid. He downed half the drink while filling Rachel in on the white-suited man she was going to get on the hook.
“I figure you could hang around the bar in your stepping out clothes and work your magic.”
“What about his hired help, the girl you mentioned?”
“I think this guy is cheap. So if he lands you, he won’t have to pay her.”
“That it?” Rachel asked raising an eyebrow.
“That and you’re way hotter than her—not that I was looking. So, ya flirt with him then miraculously show up at the next auction he’s at, because I know the type. This guy’s gonna try to scoop up more properties, I can feel it.”
Rachel raised her drink. “Then I guess we’re at the point where we can occasionally be seen together but no public displays of affection…dear brother.”
“Sad but true,” Sam said. “Unless we want to make it creepy,” he teased.
Rachel crinkled up her nose and called him a weirdo. “Are you all good on the deed, the LLC, banking and so on?”
“What isn’t handled will be,” Sam said. “What do you think about Gerald the banking guy?”
“I’m confident in him. Porter trained him.”
Sam glanced down at his margarita, focusing on the salty rim. “I’m wondering if that is such a great metric for us to use anymore. After…”
Rachel touched his hand. “What else do we have?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“Anyway,” she added, “if Porter were still with us, he’d vouch for the Gerald.”
Sam took a drink and forced his thoughts to the task at hand. “He’s going to have to do some financial acrobatics to bounce our money around before it hits our account.”
“You’re being obvious babe. Is this nerves or caution?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just miss Porter.” Sam’s eyes misted. “I always figured him to be the ultimate stand-up guy.”
Rachel reached a hand across the table and covered Sam’s. “I miss him too, Sam. But everyone has a price, babe. You know that.”
“Yeah,” Sam muttered. “I know.”
“Gerald was his guy,” Rachel said, “and that means Gerald is now our new stand-up guy, as you say.”
“You’re right. I just needed to hear your confidence.” They shared a momentary smile before Sam broke the silence. “Anyway, I’ll be doing the clerical work while you have all the fun.”
“I promise to not have too much fun.”
Later that night Sam searched the home’s study from top to bottom. He rummaged through a stack of papers he pulled from the desk’s top drawer.
“Nothing here but—ah ha,” he said aloud.
The bottom drawer to the desk was locked. Sam located a letter opener and had the drawer open in ten seconds flat.
“You’re slowing down, pal,” he said to himself.
He sorted through a stack of letters until he found what he was looking for: a document with the homeowner’s signature. He placed the rest back in the drawer and took the signature letter with him to the kitchen’s giant island. He considered pouring himself a glass of cab-franc but decided to hold off until his work was done. Climbing onto a counter stool, he began working on forging the signature. Sam couldn’t help but think back to his high school art teacher Ms. Perkins who suggested Sam focus on subjects…other than art. The teacher had a point, but Sam had managed to become a competent forger over time. Still, the signature would take some doing because this guy did a strange thing with his double r’s. What felt like five minutes turned out to be an hour and ten minutes before the work was completed. He put the signatures side by side and was convinced only an expert could tell them apart…maybe.
“Now that’s what I call art, Ms. Perkins,” he said. Earlier he’d downloaded a Transfer of Deed form from the Bullion City Registrar website. He pulled out his fake I.D. with the Steve Sawkins signature and signed with careful dexterity. The deed of the home owned by Terrence Clarke now belonged to Steve Sawkins. He pulled his lucky zippo and lit the two candles that sat on the island instead of flipping on the giant overhead fixture. Then with a smile he poured himself a large glass of the cab-franc. He’d earned it.
“And so the honey-do list grows shorter.”
Rachel wore a long vermillion red dress with slits on both sides that rode up to the hipbones. No matter which way Rachel folded her long legs, her stems were on display for all to see. For footwear she went with her black Anne Klein’s with the pointed toe and the kitten heel pumps. She almost felt sorry for the baby-faced millennial bartender who blushed every time Rachel so much as glanced his way. When he poured the lemon drop mixture from the shaker to the glass his hand had a slight tremor to it and Rachel knew the kid was far too young for Parkinson’s. For earrings she went with a simple glass tear drops accented by a slender silver choker and thin bracelet. Her fingers were ring-free.
Rachel didn’t need an F.B.I. data site to profile the man Sam referred to as Tony Montana. She heard his approach before she laid eyes on him. His voice bounced off the lobby walls as he admonished his partner for how slow she moved in her stilettos. Rachel disliked him immediately.
All the more fun to take him down…
The couple took up a spot at the end of the bar. The bartender approached. Rachel could tell his smile was manufactured.
“Couple o’ bourbons, kid,” the investor said without looking at the bartender. Then Tony Montana began a conversation with his date that was more of a monologue. He carried on about being tired of waiting for her all the time. That “time was money” and a half dozen other clichés as they seemed to pop into his head. Rachel watched the whole thing out of the corner of her eye. The first moment the investor looked her way, Rachel turned her head and smiled demurely. It was enough to stop the investor’s diatribe.
“Where was I?” he said to his date. “Oh yeah, you need to respect my time better, honey…”
Rachel half listened a while longer then timed another glance perfectly. This time she held his look a full five seconds. She dropped the demure and put a hint of playful into the smile. Again, the investor lost his train of thought. Rachel was going for a hat trick. The next time the investor checked her out, Rachel hoisted her glass high and chased the remnants of the drink around with her tongue.
That was all the show Tony Montana needed. He told his date to sit tight, and walked straight up to Rachel.
“I been here three days and nothing as beautiful as you has sat in this bar.”
Rachel fed him a confident smile then slowly turned back so she faced the bartender.
“Have dinner with me,” he said not put off by Rachel’s attempt to ignore him. “Please,” he added leaning in.
“Don’t you have a date?” Rachel said eyeing the redhead seated at the end of the bar. The puffed-up investor made no attempt to hide the slow sweep of his eyes over Rachel’s body. In fact, he wanted her to know his full intentions.
Finally, “Wait here,” he said.
He pulled the redhead gently by the biceps deeper into the corner of the bar and failed miserably at speaking in a whisper. Rachel caught every word.
“Take tonight off, I got something going. I’ll call you tomorrow—maybe.”
With a quick backward glance at Rachel the man pulled four large bills from a gold money clip. The woman accepted the cash with bored eyes. Clearly she’d been in this movie with him before. Shoving the money into a plain white clutch she said “good luck” as she moved past Rachel to exit the bar. The millennial bartender seemed fascinated by the whole scene.
“Voila,” the big man said. “Just like that my schedule’s opened up. What are we drinking?”
“The world’s greatest lemon drop built by Bullion’s cutest bartender,” Rachel said smiling at the mixologist.
The real estate investor scowled at the bartender. “He ain’t that cute,” he said. “Gimme what she’s having, will ya, kid?” He turned to Rachel. “Francis
co Glanis, mother was Spanish and father Greek. Friends call me Cisco or Sco,” he beamed.
“But never Fran? or Franny?”
“Fra—what? Fuck no, never.”
Sensitive fucker, aren’t you…
“Nice to meet you Cisco. I’m Julia Sawkins,” Rachel stuck with the name she’d given the home concierge. She shook the big hand Cisco extended and was not surprised he hung on a little too long.
“I gotta tell ya, sweetheart, that’s one dynamite dress.”
Rachel said nothing and sipped her martini as Cisco’s eyes took another pass over her body.
Cisco remained seated sideways to take in the Rachel show. “So what brings you to this quaint little town?”
“I’m here on business,” Rachel said.
“Really? Most people come here to relax,” he said, running a hand over his slicked back hair. “I’m here on business too—real estate. I buy it, sell it, remodel it, build it, flip it, demolish it, everything. If it’s got square footage, I’m all over it.” He leered at her. Rachel pretended to like it.
Cisco carried on for another five minutes about project after project including a little rancher he acquired that very day where he took down some real estate runt he despised. Rachel was happy to let him talk. It was all downloadable intel in her line of work.
They had another round of drinks. Cisco seemed impressed with himself based on the fact that the knockout in the red dress sat, listened and smiled at the appropriate times. Rachel grinned to herself. From the opening moment when she said she was in business, Cisco never once asked what that business was. Sam was right—they had their guy. An old adage came to mind.
The bigger the ego, the more pliable the mark…
Illiana Tolenti sat outside the house of glass and steel. It would be difficult to creep the place with so many windows and abundance of outdoor lighting. She had no doubt the place had motion detectors as well. It didn’t concern her too much because once she got the chance to take them both, she’d do it simple: knock on the front door and tap whoever answered square in the forehead. Then she’d find the other one and do the same. The neighbors wouldn’t hear a thing thanks to the suppressor fixed to the barrel. Her body temperature ticked up just thinking about it.
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