Con Ed

by Matthew Klein

  “Sergei the Rock?”

  He tries to nod, but the gesture obviously hurts. He says, “Yeah. But no ‘the.’ Just Sergei Rock.”

  Celia pipes up. “They broke his leg and two ribs.” She says it accusingly, as if I personally banged Toby around.

  When I look at her, I remember why I thought she was pretty once. She has long dark hair that falls in waves past her shoulder. She’s slender, with dark eyes that sparkle like firecracker fuses about to go off. Her nose is thin, with a small bump in it. But twenty-five years after I married her, the qualities that once attracted me have curdled. Long ago, her face radiated strength. Now I see circles under her eyes, and she looks tired—as if all that strength, which I loved once, took a lot out of her. Her posture, which long ago was lithe and elegant, has changed, and now looks aggressive, like a panther’s, coiled and ready to strike.

  I say, “Hi, Celia,” as kindly as I can.

  A young man in a white lab coat enters the room. He looks my son’s age, with smooth baby skin. I remember that Stanford is a teaching hospital, and suddenly I feel half-dead again—shocked by the realization that the next generation of doctors, those who will soon begin treating my final-stage ailments, whatever they prove to be—heart disease, cancer, diabetes—are younger than my own child. The world moves on, relentless.

  “Mr. Largo?” the young doctor says. “I’m Dr. Cole.”

  I shake his hand. “Hi, Doctor.”

  “Your son is going to be fine. He was beaten up a little. Lucky that your landlord found him so quickly.”

  Toby chimes in, “The young guy.”

  Great, I think. Now, in addition to rent, I owe Mr. Santullo’s Arabian grandson my son’s life.

  Dr. Cole continues, “He’s going to be okay. I was telling your wife—”

  “Ex-wife,” Celia says.

  “Sorry. I was telling Ms. Largo that we’re going to keep your son overnight for observation, make sure there’s no internal bleeding. He’ll probably go home tomorrow.”

  “That’s great,” I say.

  Dr. Cole turns to Toby. “The police are going to come by and ask you some questions.”

  “Okay,” Toby says.

  Dr. Cole says, “I’ll check in later today.” To Toby: “Hang in there.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Toby says.

  When the doctor leaves, I say to Toby, “Of course there’s not much you can tell the police, since you have no idea who did this to you, or why they would want to. Since it was a random mugging.”

  “Okay, Dad,” Toby says.

  Celia shakes her head in disgust. “Can I talk to you?” she says to me. Before I can answer, she heads out of the room, supremely confident that I will follow. I raise an eyebrow at Toby and then do.

  She leads me down the hall, to an alcove near the soda vending machine. We’re standing near the machine’s refrigeration vent, so it’s hot. I immediately start to sweat.

  Celia says, “What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What have you gotten him involved in?”

  “Nothing. I swear. He came to me last night. I had no idea he was in town. He said he owed people money.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “Bad.”

  “Why don’t you give him the money?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  She shakes her head, laughs. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Celia, how many times do I have to tell you—”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be some master con artist? Why don’t you—”

  She stops. A middle-aged woman walks into the alcove, pretending not to hear our conversation. We stand aside as she goes to the soda machine. She slides a limp dollar bill into the bill reader. The machine grabs it and sucks it in. After a moment, it changes its mind, and disgorges the bill with a spiteful whirr.

  The woman takes the dollar bill, turns it around in the other direction. Again she inserts it into the machine. The motor whirrs, takes her bill. The machine thinks about it. Then, again, it spits it out.

  Celia and I are standing and watching the latest generation of man-machine interface. Apparently the woman decides that the third time is the charm. She flips the dollar bill over, inserts it again. Whirr. The machine accepts it. Longer thought this time. I have high hopes. But then, with robotic stubbornness, the machine whirrs and the bill shoots back out.

  “Can I help you with that?” I say. I step up to the machine, reach into my pocket, and feed in four quarters. To the woman: “What would you like?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  “You got it,” I say. I press the button. A can thumps to the bottom of the machine. I reach inside, hand her the soda.

  “Thank you,” she says. She turns to go.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She stops. She turns to me, looks confused.

  I hold out my hand. It takes her a moment. Either out of slowness or embarrassment. I’m guessing embarrassment. Finally, she places the crinkled dollar bill in my hand.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I spend two more hours at the hospital, waiting first for the police to come and go, and then for Celia to leave. I insist on outlasting her. Toby needs to know who loves him more. I figure I have less to rush back to—five more hours behind the counter at Economy Cleaners—while Celia can choose among lunch with the girls, a day spent shopping, maybe a game of bridge. Like a master stock investor getting out at the market top, Celia divorced me at just the right time, removing half my money—just months before federal prosecutors convinced the courts to disgorge my illegally gained profits, leaving me with zero. Somehow, she refuses to believe that I am now poor, and insists that I must have secret assets somewhere. I probably have a few dimes in the crannies behind my couch, but that is the extent of my secret holdings.

  Toby does a fine job with the police. The Palo Alto cops send a lone detective, a young woman named, appropriately, Detective Green. She takes Toby’s statement, challenging nothing, asking no follow-up questions—simply accepting his story: He was heading out of my apartment for a cup of coffee when he was mugged by two black men. While it’s not politically correct to admit, I’m proud of Toby’s touch: He understands racism latent in police officers, and knows that a story about mean black men will be believed faster than a story about a mugging by two white Stanford kids. Maybe Toby has some of my street smarts, after all.

  After Detective Green leaves, it takes Celia another hour before she throws in the towel. With resignation in her voice, practically admitting that I’ve won, she says, “Well it looks like you’ll be able to stay here longer than me. So I’m going.”

  “That’s fine,” I say.

  She kisses Toby goodbye, and, leaning over his bed, whispers to him, “I love you. I’ll call you later.”

  She passes me as she leaves. She says, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  I’m not exactly sure what she means by this, but it’s hard to object. It seems like a good rule to live your life by.

  I return to my apartment at three o’clock in the afternoon. I step over blood drops on the carpet, near the entry. I look around the room, figure out the story. Muddy shoeprints, two different sets. The Professor delivered his message using two guys. Maybe one of them was Sergei Rock, his muscle. Toby’s sleeping bag is on the floor, tossed open as if he just got up. I’m guessing: He heard the door open, woke, and rose to greet the men. They carried a baseball bat. They shoved him back into the room, closed the door behind them. They delivered their message. They left Toby lying unconscious, on the floor, with the door ajar.

  I walk into the kitchen. There’s a message on my answering machine from Peter Room, my computer programmer. “Just checking in,” he says. “Call me.” Which means: When will you pay me for the programming work I’ve done for you?

  I check the bouncing vitamin on the screen in my living room. Sales since I left for work: zero. Silently, I curse American Capitalism. I try to calculate t
he odds of a sudden revolution, a violent overthrow of the system and redistribution of the nation’s wealth. Slim, in my lifetime. I glance at the cartons of multivitamins stacked along my living room wall. There is a lot of inventory to liquidate before the Day of Reckoning comes.

  There’s a knock on the door. I open it to see the Arabian Grandson. He has an uncertain look.

  “You come from the hospital?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes.” As much as it kills me, I add: “Thanks for helping. For calling the ambulance.”

  “No problem,” he says. He peers into the apartment behind me, at the vitamin cartons. “What’s all this?”

  “Nothing. Vitamins.”

  He thinks about it. He’s trying to decide if I’m being facetious by using the word “vitamins.” It sounds like a punch line. Like I’m implying: cocaine.

  “You running a business in here?” he asks. From the way he asks, it sounds like I should say no.

  “No,” I say. I think about it. “Well, it’s a nonprofit,” I add.

  He looks around the room. I can tell he wants me to invite him in, but I refuse. I stand up straight in the door frame, to block his view.

  Finally, the Arabian says, “Does my grandfather know you’re running a business in your apartment? I’m sure you need a license.”

  I’m sure you need a punch in the stomach, I want to say. But instead I say, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I need to talk to my grandfather about this.”

  “You do that,” I say.

  There’s an uncomfortable silence. Finally, he says, “I’m glad your son’s okay.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and close the door in his face.

  It takes me five minutes, alone in my apartment, thinking about money I can’t afford to give my son, before I call Lauren Napier’s cell phone number.

  It rings once, and she picks up right away. “Hello?”

  “This is Kip Largo. We met at the bar a few days ago. The Blowfish.”

  “Right,” she says. She tries to keep her voice neutral. “Well, that sounds good. But I’ll need to call you back about it. Let me talk to my husband. He’s right here.”

  “Whatever,” I say. I hang up.

  I go to the fridge to grab a beer. My note from this morning is still posted: “Toby— See you here at six. —Dad.” It’s written in a childish scrawl. I wrote it in the dark, before the sun rose. Already, this morning seems like forever ago.

  I try not to think about what I’m about to do. I know I’m making a decision that will haunt me. The first danger sign: getting involved in something because you’re desperate. In the history of the world, has a plan conceived in desperation ever worked? Look around at the richest, happiest, most successful people. Can you imagine any one of them gambling recklessly? It’s the mark of a loser—to start a venture because you have no other choice. That’s the funny thing: Winners never actually need to win.

  But what is my choice? Toby is my son. He needs my help. In my life, I have already let him down too many times to count. What would you do, if you were me? What would you do, for your son?

  I open the can of beer, sit at the table in the kitchenette. I check my watch. A little past three. Too early to drink, but with the end of my world coming, I decide to drink anyway. The beer goes down cold and easy.

  In another minute, my phone rings.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “It’s me,” Ms. Lauren Napier says. “Sorry about that.”

  “You’re very naughty.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Can you talk now?” I ask.

  “I want to see you in person,” she says. “We need to meet. Somewhere safe. Somewhere my husband never goes.”

  “There’s a church around the corner from me,” I say, joking.

  “That sounds good,” she says. She’s serious.

  “Fine. St. Mary’s, on Homer Street, in Palo Alto. It’s Catholic. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

  “It’s not the Catholics who bother me,” she says. “It’s just the dirty wops.”

  I smile. Another danger sign: I’m starting to like her. That’s when all hell breaks loose. You start to fall for a woman, and can’t even see the stupid truth an inch in front of your face.

  I change my clothes to get rid of the hospital smell. Maybe also because I remember Lauren Napier was an attractive woman, and you never know. I put on my best button-down shirt, blue gingham checked; a pair of linen pants; loafers. I brush my teeth, comb my hair. As I look in the mirror, I curse myself. What are you doing, Kip? You should know better.

  I drive five blocks to St. Mary’s, park around the corner. St. Mary’s is built of white clapboard, with a single spire holding aloft a tasteful crucifix. It looks more Episcopalian than Catholic. That’s what happens if you live in Northern California too long: No matter how radical you start out, you end up quiet, moderate, and plain. I know a Black Panther who settled here in 1972, with an Afro the size of a cosmonaut’s helmet; now thirty years later he’s a white man who shops at Whole Foods for organic barley.

  In the church, it’s dark and cool. I look around for her in the pews, but she hasn’t arrived. The church is empty.

  I take a seat in a middle row and stare at the altar. Above the proscenium there’s a big Jesus in agony. I’ve been to this church four times. The first time was two weeks after I got out of prison. I went weekly for the next three Sundays. It was all part of my plan to become a different person—someone better. I ran out of steam after a month. I’m still the same person, just less ambitious.

  I hear her footsteps behind me. I turn. She’s wearing sunglasses again, but not Jackie O glasses. Now she has small blue lenses. Like John Lennon. With her bruises healed, she has nothing to hide.

  I don’t remember her being this pretty. When I saw her last, at the bar in Sunnyvale, I wasn’t interested. First, she was trying to hide her face behind those ridiculous glasses. Also, she seemed out of my league: too wealthy, too beautiful—in a different class than I usually associate with.

  Today she’s different. She’s dressed casually, in jeans and a yellow T-shirt. She looks about five years younger. Now she’s one of the girls. Maybe this is the real her: blond hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, well-toned arms, little makeup.

  She sits beside me in the pew. “So you’ve reconsidered?” she says.

  For a moment, it sounds like she’s talking about how I feel about her.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “It’s a simple job.”

  “I’m sure at some point you’ll tell me what the job is.”

  “You do what you’re good at. You keep a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “And what am I good at, exactly?”

  She smiles. She opens her purse, takes out two photocopied sheets of paper. She hands them to me.

  It’s a copy of an article from San Francisco magazine, from six years ago, called “The Return of the Big Con.” It was published during my trial. It was a puff piece about me and some of the cons I’ve run: the fake antique shop in Cape Cod, the swamp land time-share in Florida, the unclaimed funds scam in Knoxville. Any other businessman welcomes a glossy profile in a magazine. But in my kind of business, it’s the kiss of death. Also, it doesn’t help convince the jury that they have the wrong man.

  “That article isn’t even halfway accurate,” I protest. Which is true. The author didn’t know about half of the scams I committed, before I hit the big time with Diet Deck. She had some of the details right: that my dad was a grifter, that I grew up running Pigeon Drops with him, that I put it all aside to enroll in CUNY when I was twenty, to become a lawyer and go legit, but that—finally—with my father dying and my mother alone and helpless, I turned to the only career that was a sure thing: parting people from their money, by any means possible.

  “I thought it was romantic,” she said.

  Everyone thinks cons are romantic. They see t
oo many movies. In real life, cons are about ripping off old people, swindling workingmen out of their pensions, pretending to be in love with the ugly girl to get her bank account. There’s nothing romantic about them. Except that suitcase of cash under your bed.

  I fold the article in half, stick it in my shirt pocket.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “My husband,” she says, as if that explains everything. She sees I need more. “I want you to take money from him. I want you to steal it.”

  “You know, this is why I always put down the toilet seat when I was married. Women hold grudges.”

  “Do you know much about my husband?”

  “Just that he’s the kind of guy you shouldn’t mess with.”

  “No,” she says. “He’s the kind of guy you shouldn’t get caught messing with.”

  I shrug.

  “I met him four years ago,” she says. “I was eighteen. Modeling. Just runway, nothing exciting. We met at a Galante show. He was forty-six. He swept me off my feet. Picked me up in limousines. Flew me across the country in his private jet. To his own hotel. A huge suite. I gave up everything for him. Everything.” She says the word through clenched teeth. I try to imagine what kinds of things a naive eighteen-year-old girl gives up to a forty-six-year-old man. When I figure it out, I decide I’ll need to shower again when I get home.

  I ask: “And now what?”

  “He’s not the man I thought he was.”

  I think to myself: So he hits you. Tough luck. Leave him.

  As if she has read my mind, she says, “I want to leave him, but I can’t.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I signed an agreement. If we divorce, I leave with nothing.”

  “You came with nothing.”

  “The reason I can’t leave is because of what he said.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He told me what would happen if I left.”

  “What would happen?” I ask, even though I know.

  “He said he’d spend every cent he had tracking me down. Then he’d—”

  She stops at the sound of footsteps approaching behind us. I turn and see an old woman, with a cane, hobbling up the aisle to the apse of the church. We wait for her to pass. She reaches the altar, kneels, lays down her cane. She bows her head in prayer.