King Con (1997)

by Stephen Cannell

  "You just don't get it," Beano said indignantly, beginning his spiel. He always liked to hit a mark with a little attitude before selling him. "You wouldn't understand what this is all about. You couldn't understand. It's too technical for you and you're too stupid to see it." Tommy's anger flashed. A psychopathic rage swept through him that was overpowering. It obviated all reasonable thought.

  Beano knew in that instant he had overplayed his hand. He could see the white-hot craziness flash in Tommy's eyes as the little mobster turned the gun on Beano and instinctively thumbed back the hammer. In those horrifying split seconds, Beano knew he was dead. He knew that he had made a fatal error in judgment. The mark had "come through" on him. Beano hadn't counted on Tommy's hovering insanity. He had always been able to read and control a mark; it was a skill he counted on. The click of the hammer filled the room. Tommy's finger went white as he started to pull the trigger. It was over.

  Then something exploded off the sofa and launched itself at Tommy's neck. ... Roger-the-Dodger was only twenty pounds, but he hit Tommy's throat like a Romanian bat, knocking the mobster over. Roger's jaws were firmly clamped on Tommy's throat. Tommy struggled to his feet, grabbing at the terrier, who was locked in a death grip. Blood was beginning to flow from the wound. Tommy dropped the gun and staggered around the cabin trying to get the terrier off his neck. Roger was snarling viciously and hanging off the mobster's neck like bad Indian jewelry. Tommy finally got his hands around Roger's throat and began to strangle him. The dog continued to snarl, but he was losing air, and when he was almost unconscious, Tommy finally pulled Roger off and flung him across the room. Blood was flowing down Tommy's neck, staining his white shirt collar. He screamed in fury and then grabbed for the SIG-Sauer, which was on the floor at his feet. He snatched it up and fired at the terrier, who had recovered and was now moving fast toward the rear door. The first shot was high--it broke a window and whirred away over the mud flats--but the second shot hit Roger in the hind end and knocked him down. He squealed in pain, but he rolled up and kept going out the door and across the deck. Tommy ran after him, but it was too dark outside and he couldn't see the brown and black dog, who was running and whining somewhere up the dock.

  Tommy stormed back into the saloon. He grabbed the chair Beano was in, shoving the gun into Beano's mouth. "That fucking mutt tried to kill me!"

  "Listen to me, that stock is worth billions," Beano slurred, his tongue tasting the gun barrel. He was desperately trying to focus Tommy on the bait. Beano's eyes were straining to see the black steel weapon that was in his mouth, buried up to the ejection port.

  "Yeah? You little fucks. How is this shit worth billions?" Tommy backhanded the stock certificates off the table and then he pulled the gun out of Beano's mouth so he could talk.

  "We found the biggest oil pool in North America, even bigger than the Alaskan strike. All those graphs there on the table confirm it. He and I are the only ones who know where it is," Beano said in a rush, looking toward Duffy. "The field's been proved out, but the oil company that's developing the field, FCP&G, they don't even know it's there, 'cause we haven't told them. We're buying up the company stock instead."

  The crazy murderous glare that had been in Tommy's eye now more closely resembled puzzled antagonism. "Oil?" he said. "What the fuck you talking about?"

  "Shut up," Duffy yelled at Beano from the floor. "Don't tell him. ... Don't. ... Please. My whole life, my whole life I been waiting for this."

  Tommy growled, already losing his patience, which was not a quality he was known for in the first place. He grabbed Duffy's coat and started to pull the chair upright. Jimmy and Wade moved to help.

  "All of these graphs, all of this stuff ... It proves that Oak Crest, California, is the biggest undiscovered oil find in North America," Beano continued, "and nobody but me and Dr. Sutton here, and Donovan Martin, know about it."

  "Zat what all of this stuff is about?" Tommy asked as he motioned to all of the graphs and drawings on the table.

  "Yes, those are seismic shots Dr. Sutton made. They were done over the last two years. FCP&G holds the mineral rights to that property in Oak Crest, they're the operator, but--"

  "You're giving it all away, Douglas," Duffy wailed.

  "We can't spend the money if we're dead, Harry. Can we? This man is gonna kill us." He turned to Tommy, who was now squinting again at the confusing graphs.

  Duffy shook his head as Beano now looked directly at Tommy, going for the hard sell. "He's a doctor of physics, I'm a doctor of geology. We were both hired by the Fentress County Petroleum and Gas Company of Tennessee to check on a suspected stratigraphic trap near Modesto, a hundred miles northwest of here. But nobody really thought it was going to be there. All oil field exploration is a crap shoot at best, with only one in ten or fifteen fields panning out."

  "A strati what?" Tommy said, his snake-mean brain struggling to comprehend.

  "It's a separation in the natural rock layers in the earth's crust," Beano explained. "It creates underground caverns that trap oil. All big oil fields are a result of stratigraphic traps. Of course, the right geological substrata have to exist. We're looking for Paleozoic rock formations. Then we do what's called a three-D seismic shot. It's mildly complicated to explain, but basically, a seismic shot is accomplished when we drill a hole in the ground in the target area and then blast off a dynamite cap. The sound of the explosion travels through the rock. We trace it with sensitive geophones attached to our seismic computer; the sound waves bounce against the different rock hydrocarbons and tell us the nature of the rock and sand strata below the surface of the earth so we can graph them. Harry here is a seismic operator, a physicist; he uses his geophones to graph the hydrocarbon density to find the over-pressurized zones and then he interprets rock porosity."

  "The fuck are you talking about?" Tommy finally yelled, getting angry because he didn't understand a word Beano was saying.

  "What it boils down to is, we're sitting on the biggest undiscovered oil field maybe ever in the world. Bigger than Midland, Texas, or the Alaska find. It could be worth between two to five billion a year in crude E.O.R."

  Tommy grabbed his arm. "Talk so I know what the fuck you're saying, you geek," he growled. "I'm fuckin' up to here with you already."

  "E.O.R. stands for 'Enhanced Oil Recovery.' It's an upgraded pumping system," Beano added quickly.

  "You rucking guys stole my money to buy stock in this fucking oil company?" Tommy said, returning to his first basic fact.

  "But we didn't get enough money. We need three to five million. See, Fentress County Petroleum and Gas doesn't know the oil is down there, 'cause after we found it, we didn't tell them. If they did know, no amount of money could buy this company, because it would be worth billions. It's still our secret because we made a deal with the service company who was drilling the delineation well. The owner agreed to play along."

  "Slow the fuck down," Tommy said, still trying to reel in the facts.

  "Look," Beano said--he knew he had the hook in now and started a softer sell--"it's really simple. The oil company we work for, Fentress County Petroleum, spends millions in oil field discovery costs. People like me an' Harry are sent all over the world to find potential fields. We're sorta project managers. If we find a stratigraphic trap in the right Paleozoic rock strata, we do our seismic shots and, if we get what is known as a 'hot spot' or a 'bright spot' on our computer graphs, we notify the company and then they spend a lot of money to develop the potential field, put in pipes and cisterns. Then they hire an independent service company in the area to prove out the field. The service company drills what's called a delineation well to see what's down there. The service company Fentress hired is an outfit called W.C.P.D." Under Tommy's glare, he quickly added, "West Coast Platform Drilling Company, 'cause they also drill offshore. W.C.P.D. drilled a bunch a'holes in this Oak Crest field that were basic P an' A's."

  "Knock it off with the fucking letters."

  "Plugged and
Abandoned. Dry holes basically, but the core samples were promising. Dr. Sutton and I found out that W.C.P.D. wasn't getting paid by Fentress County Petroleum for their work. I complained to my boss about it and the Fentress County Petroleum and Gas Company fired me. At first I thought that was very strange, because I was running the operation out here. We didn't know it then, but Fentress is going broke. That's why they fired me. They were cutting new field development to nothing. We got together with Donovan Martin, who owns the service company, and all agreed to go ahead and try and prove out the field on our own. But because I'd been fired and Donovan's service company hadn't been paid, we agreed that if we found oil we would make it a tight hole, and not tell the F.E.R.C. We--"

  Tommy reached out and backhanded Beano.

  "I'm sorry." Beano winced. "Federal Energy Regulatory Commission. A tight hole is a secret oil well. You're supposed to tell the F.E.R.C. if you get positive results, but we agreed not to." He looked at Tommy. "We proved the field. Our delineation well came in. It was huge. This oil find is incredible! Fentress County Petroleum and Gas is in big financial trouble. They don't know we proved the field, they're going to go out of business, and their stock is falling. We're trying to get a controlling interest before the bank takes them over. Once the bank grabs the company we're out of luck, because there'll be an army of bank examiners and--"

  Tommy held up his hand to silence Beano. "So you two assholes come to my casino in the Bahamas and steal money to buy this oil company, using crooked dice?" Tommy said, getting his next basic fact.

  "It was his idea," Beano carped, looking at Duffy. "Harry used to do close-hand magic. He discovered the cellophane gas. He said we could do it, it's just we couldn't get enough money from the casino to buy the company before you shut us down."

  "How can I believe all of this?" Tommy said, beginning to get interested.

  "We've got the oil core drilling samples. They're at the service company warehouse," Beano said. "Donovan Martin, who owns the platform drilling company, has got 'em."

  Tommy picked up the stock certificates from the floor and table, then gathered up the seismic graphs, the drawings, and the glossy printed brochure. "Let's go see," he finally said. "If this is all true ... you guys just got yourselves a new partner."

  Chapter Twenty-Two.

  GOING WITH THE FLOW

  VICTORIA HAD BEEN CROUCHING IN THE FRONT SEAT OF Beano's blue and white Winnebago, deep in the parking lot of the Fresno Mud Flat Marina. She had a brand-new Nikon long-lens camera on her lap and a copy of that day's Fresno Herald on the dash in front of her as Beano had instructed. She'd been sitting there for almost two hours, thinking about the last several days.

  Her mind was a mixture of conflicting thoughts and emotions. She wasn't at all sure what she was doing there, but at the same time, she knew this was where she belonged. She was glad to be avenging Carol's death and to be a part of the plot to bring the Rina brothers down, but she resented her minor role in the adventure. So far, all she'd done was stand in the parking lot of the Sabre Bay Club waiting for the phone to ring so that she could give Duffy's phony credit rating, and now she was waiting in Beano's Winnebago with the new long-lens camera, waiting for Tommy to show up while Beano and Duffy told the tale in the houseboat. She could see how it worked now. The inside men were the important players in the con, there was no doubt about it. Everybody else was a shill or a lugger and performed a minor role. She was not used to the sidelines, and it bothered her. She understood that Tommy would recognize her if he saw her, but that fact didn't help. She had always been in control of everything in her life, from her pep squad in high school to moot court in law school. She had been the quarterback on the fifty or so felony cases she tried in the D.A.'s office. She was not good at holding other people's coats and was determined not to let that be her role in this situation.

  Still, she had to admit that, so far, it had been the most invigorating experience of her life. She had enjoyed chasing the ambulance in the Bahamas more than she dared admit. She had relived it in her mind countless times, all the way up to the moment she pulled up alongside and yanked the wheel, spinning the van sideways and then slamming it into the speeding ambulance. There was something very freeing about the loss of control, like letting fresh air into a stuffy room. She knew the pictures she was supposed to take now would be critical later, and she was looking forward to her confrontation in two days with Joe Rina. It would be a chance to finally score a few points on that elegant piece of shit. As these thoughts were going through her mind, a black Lincoln limousine pulled into the parking lot. In a few minutes, Tommy and two men, roughly the same size as Texaco Phillips, got out. They dwarfed the five-foot eight-inch Tommy. ... The three of them moved over to the railing and looked down at the marina. She took a few pictures, being sure that the newspaper lay open on the dash in front of her and was included in the shot. Then she watched as they walked down the gangplank to the wooden dock below. She crouched low inside the motor home, the lens of the camera pointing out of the window just under the shade. Again, she could feel the excitement bubbling. Beano had been right so far. He had gotten Tommy to do exactly what he had planned. They had controlled his movements. She wondered if Dakota was in the black Lincoln thirty yards away, as Beano had predicted.

  The back seat of the Lincoln was stuffy, and Dakota felt awful. She had begun to suspect she had some bad internal bleeding. One of Tommy's body blows must have ruptured something. The pain in her abdomen and stomach had become intense. It was hard for her to concentrate as the big enforcer in the front seat kept talking.

  "I got lotsa stamina, I can stay hard for hours," Keith Summerland was bragging. He had turned around and was looking at Dakota in the back seat, a big wide leer on his flat, uninteresting features. "Soon as Tommy gets through with you, I'll take you someplace and give you a demonstration. Some guys don't like going down, but my tongue can do magic tricks. You're gonna beg me for more. Then you get to sit on Mr. Buffy. You're gonna get a ride you won't forget."

  Dakota couldn't believe this piece of shit. The minute Tommy got out of the car, he'd started up with this. Dakota could barely talk because of the pain and he was up there bragging about his Johnson, which he'd named Mr. Buffy. She tried to get more comfortable.

  "Right now, you're probably thinkin' you're gonna find a way to get out of it, but Tommy's nuts. He's not like other guys. I ask him if he's through with ya, he'll give ya to me." He grinned at her; he was twisted around in the front seat and eyed her hungrily like she had just been served to him, fully garnished, at a steak-house. "You're gonna see a lot of me for a while."

  Changing conversational topics, but not anatomical subjects, "Look, I didn't get a chance t'take a leak back at the airport," he said. "'Gonna go over t'that stand a'trees over there, and tap a kidney. I should tell you when I played football I did a four-six in full pads, in the forty, so don't try an' take off on me. You ain't gonna make it," he bragged.

  "I'll be right here," she said softly.

  He got out of the car and moved away from the limousine. As soon as he was gone, Dakota struggled up, grimacing in pain. She reached over the front seat, grabbed the cellphone, and dialed a number.

  In the motor home, Victoria was startled to hear a phone ringing somewhere. She had to go searching for it. It was on a table in the bedroom.

  "Hello?" she answered.

  "It's Dakota ..." But Victoria thought she sounded funny. Her voice was deeper and without the "fuck you" lilt it had before.

  "Where are you?" Victoria asked.

  "Parked in the marina parking lot ... probably about twenty yards from you. Look, I don't have much time. Tell Beano I can't control this guy. I've lost him."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Tell him I need to get out of here. I'm trashed. I think I'm hurt real bad. Something inside is leaking. ... The pain's getting worse. I don't have much left. ..."

  "He's in the houseboat. They're in there with him." And then Victoria could
see the big bodyguard coming back from the trees, zipping his fly. "Listen, Dakota, your guard's coming back. I'll find a way to get you out of there. I promise. Hang tough," Victoria said, not at all sure how she was going to accomplish that feat, and then, just as the bodyguard approached the car, she heard two shots ring out. They actually sounded like dry limbs snapping off some distant tree. It took her several seconds to identify them as gunfire.

  "You hear that?" Dakota asked. "Shots. This guy Tommy is nuts."

  "I'll get you outta there but the other guy is right outside your car. Hang up!" Victoria said.

  The line cut out as Keith Summerland turned to look down at the houseboat. He made no move to check out the shots. It was almost as if he expected them.

  Then Victoria saw Roger-the-Dodger running awkwardly up the gangplank. He seemed to be limping. He moved past Keith Summerland, who turned to watch as the little terrier teetered across the pavement toward the Winnebago, barely staying upright. He got halfway there and fell over on his side. Then he pulled himself up and kept going, now almost dragging his hind end. Victoria could hear him whimpering as he got nearer. Then the heavyweight who had turned momentarily to watch the wounded dog refocused his attention on the houseboat. He started to walk down the ramp, then stopped. He was still in view of her with his back to the motor home. Roger-the-Dodger was moving very slowly now, and it didn't look like he would make it, so Victoria decided to risk going to him. With Keith's back still to her, she opened the door, ran outside, and scooped the terrier up. When she picked him up, his whole back end was wet and covered with blood. She ran back into the motor home, closed the door, and locked it. She laid Roger on the floor. He looked up at her with an expression she could describe only as gratitude.