King Con (1997)

by Stephen Cannell

  "I'm Beano!" he yelled loudly, just as another huge Arkansas inbred came in from the bathroom with a rooster under his arm and started to unleash him for another bout.

  Beano stepped into the circle. "I'm Beano Bates," he repeated, "and I've got money for you." That seemed to get their attention.

  "Hey, Echo, turn that fuckin' radio down," Bronco yelled.

  Echo Bates was an identical albino twin to Bronco. Born ten minutes behind his brother, he escaped being named after his mother's Studebaker, getting the marginally better name Echo. He got up, lumbered over, and turned the radio down.

  "I'm looking for Cadillac Bates," Beano said again.

  They all sat there and looked around at each other like contestants on Jeopardy! until finally, a tall, skinny man in his forties stood and walked over to him.

  "You ain't paid us what you owed, cousin."

  "That's why I'm here."

  "Blazer and Wrangler, you come on with me. Rest a'you hold 'em birds. I want in on this next 'un."

  He moved out of the room with Beano and John and across the parking lot. Finally he turned and stood by the row of shiny trucks, leaning his skinny ass on the bug protector grill of the closest one. He folded his arms and looked at Beano.

  "Nice t'see you again," Beano smiled. The last time he'd been around the Hog Creek Bateses he'd been about ten and had gone with his mother and father up into the Ozark Plateau mountains to hide from the law. They spent two weeks with the family in Hog Creek. Back then there were only two brothers and their wives and families. About fifteen people. They lived in a remote valley, miles from the nearest neighbors. It seemed they'd done a lot of serious inbreeding since then. "Lotta new family," he grinned at Cadillac Bates, who seemed in no hurry to speak. Or maybe, Beano mused, he just hadn't been able to form a complete thought yet." 'Bout half this many boys in the family back then." Beano continued trying to fill the awkward silence. "Bronco and Echo and lots of these cousins probably weren't even born yet; 'course, it was over twenty years ago."

  Then Cadillac furrowed his brow. A thought pushed its way out of his constipated brain. "Most Bateses ain't been born, they's squeezed outta bar rags," he said, without smiling.

  "That's pretty good, very funny," Beano said.

  "We come all the way out here 'cause you called, but we got no deal yet. You owe us travel money."

  "I didn't know you were gonna bring twenty people," Beano hedged. "I only need five or six."

  "Know the trouble doin' business with kin?"

  "No."

  "Y'all think we got a family discount."

  "Don't we?" Beano grinned, trying to lighten the mood.

  "Come all the way from Hog Creek, Arkansas, 'cause you said you wanted a posse." He dug into his pocket and handed a sheet of paper over to Beano. Somebody had obviously taught Cadillac Bates how to read and write because he had all of their expenses itemized. "That there's what it cost us t'git ta this place an' back. I'm puttin' three cents a mile fer wear an' tear on them pickups. Rambler an' Dodge lost a tranny on their Ram truck in Oklahoma an' I stuck that on there."

  Beano took the sheet of paper. It came to almost two thousand dollars. "Lotta money," he said, handing the sheet to John, who examined it.

  "Is what it is." Cadillac jerked a thumb toward Paper Collar John. "The other job he told us about gonna cost ya fifteen thousand plus ten percent of the takedown. Dental and medical is extra if we need it. That's the deal, no bargaining. Pay it now, otherwise Church is out an' you can deal with this mess yourself." John handed the accounting back to Beano.

  "Guess we need the back-up," Beano said and John nodded, so Beano walked to the trunk of the Caprice, opened it and took seventeen thousand dollars of Sabre Bay money out of the blue canvas bag, walked over, and handed it to Cadillac Bates. The skinny geezer hillbilly counted it and stuffed it into his overalls, way down into his crotch, where it would be safe, next to his shriveled nuts.

  "Listen," Beano said, "you gotta knock off the cock fights and hold it down. You're gonna get turned in by another guest. Fighting birds are against the law. You get arrested, you're no good to me."

  "Cousin Beano, you jist bought yerself a Hog Creek solution. We ain't too citified and that's a fact. Them boys in there, they ain't all quite right an' sometimes they tend t'eat supper 'fore they say grace. But that ain't gonna ever change, an' if anybody calls the po-lice, then we'll just hafta clean that plow when it gets here." He was still leaning against the truck, squinting at Beano through slate-gray eyes.

  Beano finally nodded his head. He was already regretting this choice. This branch of the family had been inbreeding for fifty years. Most of them were dumb as dirt, and tough as nickel steak. It was a dangerous combination. He didn't remember them quite this way, but he'd only been ten and maybe hadn't been paying very close attention. He did remember that his mom and dad had packed up the Winnebago and left weeks before they'd planned. The men in the motel room just a few yards away were a couple of notches down on the evolutionary chart. Their eyes betrayed a huge intellectual emptiness; their speech was born from a culture of moonshine and Confederate flags. But Beano had no choice. Tommy was on his way to San Francisco, and the final stage of the con was ready to be played. Tomorrow morning they would walk Tommy into the Fentress County Petroleum and Gas Company and try to separate him from Joe's five million dollars. Beano hoped this collection of yahoos could step up and save him at the blow-off.

  He left the Red Boar Inn and headed back to the Marina Motel, where Victoria was waiting. Periodically, he had an unsettling feeling, almost like he was being watched, but each time he checked his rear-view mirror he could see nobody following.

  He got back to the motel at seven and Victoria wasn't there. Her overnight bag was half unpacked and he stood in the room while an unreasonable panic washed over him.

  She was still not back at eight.

  He called John, but he had not seen or heard from her.

  At eight-thirty she opened the door and came into the room.

  "Jesus," he said, both angry and relieved. "Don't do this to me. Where were you?"

  "Law school girlfriend of mine lives here, we met for a drink, I lost track of time," she lied. Then she went to the curtains to close them. She looked out at the street. She couldn't see the FBI van, but she knew they were out there waiting to pounce. She felt so guilty, she could barely look at Beano.

  "Tomorrow we do the sting," he said.

  *

  PART SEVEN

  THE STING

  "Caveat emptor.' Let the buyer beware."

  -ROMAN PROVERB

  Chapter Thirty.

  THE HURRAH

  TOMMY WAS FLYING BACK TO SAN FRANCISCO IN THE Challenger, looking down at the two tan leather bags he'd brought from Nassau. They were on the floor before him and contained five million in banded cash. He had never before done something like this without his brother's permission, but despite that, he couldn't help himself, he was smiling. He could hardly wait to tell Joe what he'd done and how he'd done it. He had been fantasizing about that moment since they took off from Nassau. He kept visualizing the scene: He'd call Joe up, make him come to Tommy's apartment in Atlantic City. Joe wouldn't want to come, but Tommy wouldn't beg. ... He'd laugh and say something like "Come on over, I think it just might be worth your time." He'd have the graphs and the oil core sample, which his Texas geologist had told him was called O.C.M.--Oil Cut Mud. Tommy would show his geologist's report, which indicated the sample shale was over 90 percent pure. "Incredible," the Texas geek had told him over the phone in Nassau. Tommy would throw in some of the oil terms he'd been learning to show his brother he wasn't just some dumb street hitter with no brains and nine inches of lumber between his legs. He'd tell Joe about the high G.O.R.--Gas-to-Oil Ratio--and talk about how they would use water-induced B.H.P.--Bottom Hole Pressure. He'd scribbled all of this stuff down while the geek from Texas explained what he needed to know. Once he parked this huge deal in the family's dr
iveway, Tommy was absolutely, for damn sure, through taking shit off of Joe. From now on, his little brother would have to admit that it was Tommy who had brought this good fortune home.

  He leaned back in his seat and adjusted the air nozzle over his head. He closed his eyes.... Being smart wasn't all that difficult, he mused. He had let Joe convince him that he'd always fuck things up if he didn't let Joe run things, but he was about to prove that piece of horseshit wisdom wrong. Anybody could be smart. Doing deals was a lot like clipping guys. All you had to do was be careful, make sure you had good accomplices, and get rid of all the Dixie cups. He had decided that the two geek doctors from Fresno were definitely Dixie cups.

  In the cockpit of Joe Rina's Challenger jet, the phone rang, and the pilot, Scott Montgomery, picked it up immediately. It was a new airphone that got its calls off of the Satcom 9 geosynchronous satellite. The calls cost twenty dollars a minute, and the only person who ever used this phone was Joe Rina.

  "Yes, sir," Scott said into the receiver while his copilot, Daniel Rubin, looked over.

  "Is Tommy aboard?" Joe asked from his house in upstate New Jersey. He was looking out through the windows of his den at a shallow man-made lake that was beginning to freeze in the unusually early winter.

  "Yes, sir, he's on board. We're headed to San Francisco."

  "I don't want you to tell him I've spoken to you," Joe said firmly. "I want you to give me an estimated time of arrival in San Francisco and the name of the F.S.O. you're going to use there."

  "We're scheduled to land at Pacific Aviation Flight Service Organization in two hours, at about ten P.M.," Scott said, wondering what the hell this was all about. Tommy and Joe never worked behind each other's backs. Their trust in one another was legendary.

  "Okay," Joe said, "if that changes or if Tommy diverts you to another field, I want you to call me. And Scott, I'm warning you, if you tell him anything, I'm going to deal with you harshly and personally--you understand?"

  "Yes, sir," Scott said, and hung up the phone.

  In New Jersey, Joe stood in his den, seething. It was a little past eight as he looked out at the last glimmerings of twilight playing across the glistening gray body of landscaped water. He couldn't believe that Tommy had turned on him. Black anger churned like boiling asphalt.

  Then Joe extinguished these emotions. He would deal with this methodically, not emotionally. So far, all he had was some pictures given to him by Victoria Hart, who was, after all, a mortal enemy. She could be trying to fool him. He still wasn't convinced she hadn't played a role in the jewelry store scam. Tommy said she had, that it was on tape, but Joe hadn't been able to see it yet and now Tommy was making some very spooky moves. Maybe there was another explanation. He would give Tommy a chance to explain. If the explanation made sense, then he would have Victoria Hart killed for her treachery. But if Tommy had been stealing from him, if he'd arranged to put the card sharp into the game in Greenborough, like Victoria had said ... if Tommy had been involved in the tat at the Sabre Bay casino and had stolen money from the dead-drop without an overwhelming personal reason, then Tommy would have to pay the Sicilian price. He would no longer be Joe's brother and would die in agony.

  Joe was now moving impatiently around his den as these thoughts consumed him. He was waiting for a phone call from San Francisco. His mind played across the facts once more, searching for a plausible explanation he might have missed: He knew for sure that Tommy had taken the money from the bank in Nassau. What possible reason could Tommy have for stealing five million dollars? Why would he do that? If he needed money, Joe would give it to him. No matter from which angle he surveyed the question, there seemed to be no answer except one: Tommy must have done it to show disrespect. Tommy had broken their bond of faith, and that fact tortured Joe. He could not excise it from his mind. It seared the edges of every other thought.

  Then the phone rang and he snapped it up. "Yeah?"

  A voice he knew well said, "You get the info?"

  "He's landing at San Francisco at ten. They're using Pacific Aviation. Let me know."

  "Done," the voice said and then they both disconnected, providing very little, if any, information to a potential government phone tap on Joe's house.

  The man he had just talked to was named Reo Wells. He was not a made guy, but an independent contractor that Joe used when he had to do sanctions outside the family. Reo was government trained, a Delta Force commando, who had once done unauthorized wet-work for the CIA.

  Joe paced in the den for several more minutes. The sun was down now and he had not turned on the lights. He couldn't seem to control his emotions. Anger swelled. He couldn't just stay caged up here and do nothing.... He snatched up the phone and dialed an air charter service and booked a private jet to San Francisco.

  * * * *

  "The Hurrah," Beano explained to Victoria, "is that point in the confidence game where the mark has completely committed himself. From this point forward there's no way he's going to pull out. He's got the bit in his teeth. He can smell the gold."

  They were driving to the Penn Mutual Building two blocks east of Market Street, where Paper Collar John had dressed the top three floors to be the Fentress County Petroleum and Gas Big Store. Beano parked in the parking garage next door; then he and Victoria rang the security buzzer out front. She looked around, sure there would be a government sedan with two buzz-cuts somewhere nearby watching, but she saw nothing. After a few minutes, an aging security guard came down from the mezzanine. They showed their driver's licenses through the thick glass door and the guard found their names on a list John had left; then he let them in.

  "Lotta people up there. You havin' some kinda do?" he asked.

  "Yep," Beano said nonchalantly. "It's some kinda 'do,' all right." They left the guard and took the elevator up to the twenty-fifth floor.

  When they walked out, there were fifty members of the Bates family standing around, or sitting on desks or in chairs. A few were sitting on the floor. They were all dressed about the same, mostly jeans and T-shirts. When Beano walked into the room they started to applaud. He was their famous cousin and the acknowledged best sharper in the game. He was the only member of the Bates family to ever be known as "King Con."

  The top floor of the office building, which would serve as the Fentress County executive floor, was magnificent. John had really done his job in the last three days. Rented antique furniture, computers, and beautiful statues on pedestals dominated the carpeted floor. The blond, matched ashwood walls were now decorated with beautiful paintings in gold leaf frames. This was a setting that reeked of class, money, and success.

  Steve Bates came up and shook Beano's hand. "John had everybody put on name tags 'cause I figured you ain't met some of these family members," he said.

  Beano smiled and nodded. "That's great," he said. "Where's John?"

  "Don't know," Steve said. "He was supposed to be here, but we should get started. He'll show up."

  Victoria wondered if the FBI Agents might have broken their promise and picked up John, but why would they? It would ruin everything. She'd given Gil her word, which was her bond ... and then she remembered that Gil's word was worth almost nothing.

  Beano stood in front of the group. "I'm Beano," he announced unnecessarily, as they all nodded and grinned. They'd seen him on America's Most Wanted.

  "Thanks for being part of this Big Store," he began. "The mark, as I'm sure John has told you, is Tommy Rina. But there's something that he probably hasn't told you." He paused to make his point. "Tommy is, in my opinion, certifiably insane, a homicidal maniac who can't control his temper. When he loses it, you can't steer him. He's an unguided missile. If he comes through hot, he'll shoot up the place. You should all know this, and if anybody wants out, now's the time, no hard feelings."

  They all looked down, shook their heads, and waited for him to go on.

  "Whatever we take from him, we split evenly."

  An old man named Theodore X. Bates, from
San Francisco, stood up. He was handsome, with a closely trimmed white beard and full white hair. "That's real nice, cousin Beano, but Carol was our family. We talked it over 'fore you got here, and we don't want no money. We're doin' this for her, same as you. Don't seem right to take money for it." They all murmured their assent.

  Beano took a moment with that, and then he nodded. "Thank you, that really means a lot," he said, looking out at them. "Okay ... here's how we're gonna run the bubble." Then he told them about the sting, explaining in detail what they were supposed to do and how they should act. He showed them a computer disk that Victoria had programmed, which would replicate the falling stock price of Fentress County Petroleum and could be interfaced with the on-line Quotron business report, which ran the real New York ticker at the bottom of the screen. "Remember, those of you who haven't played inside on a Big Store, the idea here is this has to be so realistic and so flawless that it would never even occur to the mark that what's going on here is not real. Never for a moment come out of character, no matter what happens."

  They nodded and murmured and fell silent as Beano continued: "This Big Store con we're running is a variation on 'The Magic Wallet.' It was originally developed by a sharper named William Elmer Mead at the turn of the century, but it works just as good today. It basically gets the mark to invest in a dying company to save it. His magic wallet will buy the failing company at the last minute and make him rich. We have to convince Tommy that Fentress County Petroleum is on its last legs, that the float on the stock is so thin that his five million could control a hundred-million-dollar company." They nodded. "This isn't like running a short con. On this we have to be ready to move in any direction to head off the mark's questions. He's gonna be nervous about laying out five million dollars. He may even bring an accountant or attorney. He may get balky at the last minute. If that happens, I have a stall and a red ink close-out set up. We're gonna do the play-off somewhere else. The play-off is against the wall."