Sustevich says to me apologetically, “You must forgive Hovsep. He is a very stupid man.”
“But he’s good with the matches,” I volunteer.
Sustevich returns to the deal. “How much do I need to invest in this business venture?”
Even though I already know the answer, I pretend to think about it out loud. “Well, let’s see. I basically need the start-up capital. To run the con. You know, setting up an office, IT infrastructure, legal and accounting. I have to hire about a dozen people. And of course there’s the luxury speedboat I’ve had my eye on.”
Sustevich looks at me. “Really?” he says. Apparently my sense of humor loses something in translation.
“No,” I say, “just kidding. About the speedboat.”
“So how much?” Sustevich asks.
“Six million dollars,” I say.
“And you’ll return twelve?”
“Of course.”
“Fine,” Sustevich says. His eyes flit out to the Bay, and already he is thinking about something else. “I hate this weather,” he says. “Always gray.”
“Fine?” I ask. His quick acceptance of my terms make me regret not asking for more.
“Yes, yes,” he says. He waves his fingers. “And what is the second request?”
I’m so taken aback by the speed that things are moving I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Sustevich reminds me. “You said you had two requests. For us to do business together.”
“Right. Well, there’s the money. And then there’s my son. I want you to leave Toby alone while I carry out this business transaction.”
“I see.”
“So do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” he says. “Is that all?”
I nod.
“Dmitri,” he says quietly, as if the man were standing right beside him. Amazingly, within seconds, Dmitri strolls out of the mansion and across the grass toward us. Sustevich says to him: “We will invest six million dollars in Mr. Largo’s new business venture.”
“Yes, Professor,” Dmitri says.
“And you will tell Sergei to leave Mr. Largo’s son alone.”
“Yes, Professor.”
To me, he says: “You will call Dmitri when you are ready for us to wire the money into your bank account. Please open an account at Bank of Northern California. I have made special accommodations with them.”
I sense that these accommodations involve payments to top executives to ignore money laundering laws, and incentives to IT managers to rewrite the watchdog software that flags suspicious account activity. I admire the Professor’s audacity.
“Dmitri,” the Professor says.
“Yes, Professor?”
As if he is a travel agent describing a potential itinerary for a pleasant day trip, Sustevich says, “If Mr. Largo does not return twelve million dollars to our account in two months, you will kill him. And his son.”
“How, Professor?” Dmitri asks.
“However you like.”
Dmitri smiles.
Sustevich thinks about it for a moment. Suddenly, his control-freak nature shines through. “No,” he says, nixing the however you like idea. “You will use acid.”
“Yes, Professor,” Dmitri says. He looks disappointed. Whether this is because the use of acid is unpleasant and messy, or because the request stifles Dmitri’s creativity, I am unsure.
“You are a pleasure to do business with,” Sustevich says to me.
“Likewise,” I say. But all I can think about is: not to forget my cell phone on the way out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I leave Sustevich’s and take I-280 out of the city. The highway meanders along foothills, overlooking ravines of junipers and blue gorged lakes. Its path is gentle; its views scenic. Few know that the route follows, with cartographic precision, the exact path of the San Andreas Fault. You actually needle your car through a narrow channel of space between two tectonic plates. On each side of you is an ancient undersea continent, a landmass more vast than all of North America; and each half of the earth is caught, like a bolt of satin on a tack, straining to rip free and fall to its natural place—on top of you. This realization, which comes to me each time I drive this road, is one more confirmation of my theory of life: that beauty always hides something, that everything you enjoy has a secret price.
Driving south, with six million dollars of funding backing my plan, I feel the game afoot, and the effect is physiological: My heart speeds, my breathing deepens. Like a sprinter stepping into the starting block, my reactions are involuntary, but not unwelcome. I know that I am doomed, that this venture is destined to fail, but—on the other hand—how many more years can I work at Economy Cleaners? How many more jackets and shirts can I retrieve from the motorized hanger racks, how many pasta stains can I mark carefully with fluorescent tape? I will call Imelda tomorrow and tell her that I must quit, that family obligations require my concentration elsewhere. She will cluck her tongue at me, and say knowingly, “Kip, my dear, what are you doing? Don’t you know where this leads?” And I will have no answer, because she will be right. Where this leads is back to a prison cell, if I’m lucky, or to an earlier death than I have planned.
But it is the only path I see. My son needs me. Without my help, he will end up dead. For just a moment, I have a flash, a clarion realization, that my situation is not unique. That all the paths we choose are determined earlier, by decisions made years ago, sometimes before we are born; and that choices we seem to make are not really choices at all. My fate, to wind up back in Lompoc, with two strikes to my name, was written the day I was born to Carlos Largo, carny and small-time grifter, a man distant and reproachful to his son, because his father was that way to him. And so I am destined to either repeat his mistakes, or seek redemption for them—by stepping into hell for my own son.
The hurt will stop with me, I decide, and I will seek redemption for us all.
At Palo Alto, it’s a straight shot from I-280 to Sand Hill Road. Maybe this is why I chose the route: not the views of the ravines, but because I know it passes a hundred yards from the Stanford Hospital, where my son, Toby, lies.
I park in the hospital’s underground lot—no emergency today—and ascend to retrieve my son. The doctors said he would be free to leave this afternoon. Of course I will offer my apartment to him—even my bed, for he cannot sleep on the floor with a broken leg and two cracked ribs. It will be a small hardship, to tend to him—to help him bathe, and feed him, and keep him occupied—while also planning the con against Ed Napier; but I am willing. Now that I have extracted the Professor’s promise that Toby is safe, at least for a while, keeping him around will be good for him, and for me. I am looking forward to the chance to be a father again.
The elevator ascends from the garage to the first floor. It empties next to the nurses’ station. I start to walk past, to the room where I found Toby yesterday, but I am stopped by a male nurse. “May I help you?”
“I’m here for my son. Toby Largo. He’s in room 108.”
I turn, but the nurse says, “Toby Largo? He’s gone.”
I look up. The nurse is double-checking his computer screen, pecking on keys. “Yup,” he says. “Checked out about an hour ago.”
“Checked out? Can he even walk?”
“He had some help. His mother came.”
Damn Celia. Once again, I do the heavy lifting—walking uninvited into a Russian crime boss’s mansion, extracting a promise of safety for my son, signing my life as surety bond—but Celia claims victory by flitting into the hospital at the last moment and sweeping Toby away to a glorious homecoming.
My rage must show, because the nurse says, “Mr. Largo, are you okay?”
I try to smile. “Fine. I guess we crossed wires.”
“They’re probably home right now, waiting for you,” the nurse says. He is trying to be helpful, but unfortunately he is only half-correct. They are home, but not waiting for me.
“Thank you.”
I return to my car and pull back onto Sand Hill. I should not focus on Toby and Celia—there is too much else to do: I need to call work and quit; to begin planning the con, assembling my team; to start considering scenarios, and counterscenarios, and alternatives, and counteralternatives. But this rankles. I am about to give up everything, the normality and boredom I have for so long sought, and, at the very least, I hoped for some thanks.
I take my cell phone from my jacket and dial Celia’s number. The phone rings four times, and her answering machine picks up. “This is Celia and Carl,” she says, “we’re not home, but please leave a message.” I am surprised to hear the man’s name. It has been a long time since I called her, and I had no idea she was even dating, let alone living with someone. I try to imagine what Toby will think of this, relegated to the couch while his mother and a strange man make love in the next bedroom.
I hang up without leaving a message. Another thought comes to me. That doing right ought to be its own reward, and that I shouldn’t expect praise or thanks for doing it.
I mull this over for about a second, and then decide that, even so, it wouldn’t have killed either of them to call.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Let me tell you how to run your own Bank Examiner Scam.
First, find a victim. The elderly are best, but almost anyone will do. The important thing is that they live alone. So: Widowers and widows are good—people without friends and family, people so lonely that a strange voice on a telephone is a welcome intrusion into their miserable lives.
Once you find a victim, you need to collect information. You want a bank account number, maybe a list of some recent banking transactions. Nothing high-tech here. Just open people’s mailboxes when no one is around, and look for envelopes from banks.
One nice trick: Bust the mailman’s lock on an apartment’s communal mailbox. It will take two days for the landlord to notice and fix it. Return to the busted mailbox after the next mail delivery. You’ll feel like an addict in the pharmacist’s supply closet. Look for mailboxes with envelopes from the AARP.
Once you find a bank statement addressed to a widow or widower, bring it home. Make a copy of the contents. Reseal the envelope. Remail it to your victim.
Wait a week.
Now the fun begins. Call your victim on the telephone. Introduce yourself as, say, Frank Marley, bank examiner at Wells Fargo (or wherever your victim banks). Say something like, “Mr. Jones, we have a bit of an embarrassing predicament here at Wells Fargo. We suspect that one of the tellers at your branch is dishonest. She is stealing money from several customers’ accounts, including yours.”
My goodness, the victim will say. How much was stolen?
“Well, let me go through your records,” you’ll say. “First, would you mind confirming your identity for me? Does the following information ring a bell?”
At this point, recount to your victim all of the banking information you’ve stolen from him. “You’re account number 444-555, right?” you’ll ask. “You deposited $675 dollars on March 3rd, right? And you withdrew $400 on March 15th, right?”
Why, yes, your victim will say.
“Ah, that’s what I was afraid of. It seems we do have a problem. The bank teller skimmed a hundred dollars out of your account during your last withdrawal. Overall, the bank teller has stolen about two thousand dollars from your account, since the beginning of last year.”
“My goodness,” the victim will fret. “How is it possible that I did not notice this?”
Ignore the question. Say: “Mr. Jones, we really need your help. We want to catch this bank teller in the act. This will speed up the process of returning the money that was stolen from your account. Also, I think I’m allowed to tell you that Wells Fargo will offer a reward of a thousand dollars for your help in catching this criminal.”
The victim will now be perfectly played: upset at being ripped off, excited about the thousand-dollar reward. “What do I have to do?” he’ll say.
“It’s very simple. We have our suspicions about how the bank teller is stealing from customers, but we need to confirm them. As you know, the bank is monitored by closed-circuit television cameras. We’ll need to study these videotapes very carefully. What I’d like you to do is to visit your branch at one o’clock today, and withdraw four thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. It’s very important that you do not touch the bills yourself. Ask the teller to place the bills in an envelope for you.”
I see, the victim will say.
“Mr. Jones, here’s the important part. I am not sure how many employees at your branch are involved in this scheme. That is why you must not mention a word of this to anyone. If you tell anyone what you’re doing, you will jeopardize our entire investigation.”
“All right,” Mr. Jones will say.
“Now then, once you withdraw the four thousand dollars, the cash needs to be examined. Please drive to the parking lot behind the Kmart. My partner, Examiner Sam Smith, will meet you there, and will inspect the envelope. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Mr. Jones will say.
At one o’clock, you will send your accomplice to the Kmart parking lot. “Sam Smith” will pull up alongside the victim, and climb into the victim’s vehicle. Smith will produce a business card that says something like: “Sam Smith, Internal Controls, Wells Fargo.”
“Nice work,” Sam Smith will say. He’ll ask to see the envelope full of cash.
The examiner will inspect the contents of the envelope. He’ll make a point to scrupulously record the serial number of each hundred-dollar bill on a piece of paper marked “Investigation Records.”
He’ll write a receipt for four thousand dollars and hand it to the victim. He’ll say, “Make sure you hold on to this receipt. When the investigation is over, we’ll return the four thousand to you, plus the thousand-dollar reward for your trouble. Don’t lose that receipt, though.”
“Okay,” the victim will say. “What happens next?”
“Next you should return home and act like nothing happened. We’ll call you later tonight to let you know how the investigation is going. But please, Mr. Jones, do not breathe a word of this to anyone. We’ve worked long and hard on this investigation. If it’s disclosed now, it’ll be ruined.”
“I understand,” Mr. Jones will say.
The victim ought to be good for two or three further plays. Want to take more cash from him? Call him again that night, posing as Mr. Marley, the bank examiner. Compliment him on a job well done. Tell him that, thanks to his help, the bank and police have narrowed down the list of suspected dishonest tellers to two or three. Only a few more withdrawals will be required to determine the identity of the thief with certainty.
Arrange a few more withdrawals, and a few more meetings with Sam Smith.
As soon as you’ve taken everything you think the mark is good for, or as soon as you sense the slightest doubt in the mark’s voice, disappear for a few weeks. You’ll be able to return later, for one more big score.
CHAPTER NINE
My night begins with a phone call to Peter Room, my computer programmer. Peter is surprised to hear my voice. I have been avoiding his calls for so long, unable to pay him for his work on MrVitamin.com, that my sudden reaching out to him, unprompted, is like a miraculous visitation by the angel Gabriel.
“Kip?” he says. “Why are you calling?”
“I owe you money,” I say. “I’ll have it in a few days.”
“No, it’s no big deal,” he says. Peter is a member of the elite caste of programmers in Silicon Valley. Unlike their peers, who have permanent jobs at companies, these coding Marines parachute from gig to gig, hired as temps—brought in as expensive firepower to turn around a failing project, or meet an impossible deadline, or rewrite a program after a botched release. They command extraordinary rates—two hundred, three hundred dollars an hour—and some even have agents, like pro athletes, who wheel and deal to sell their clients’ services to the high
est bidder.
These programming jobs last for a month, sometimes two or three at most—and then the coders disappear from the real world of employment and paychecks for half a year at a time, to surf in Oahu, or hike through Nepal, or just sit and get stoned in their apartment in Palo Alto, until the money runs low and they are forced, despite their own wishes, to land another job, and start the process again.
Peter’s calls to me, seeking to collect the several thousand dollars I owe him for MrVitamin, started three weeks ago. I suspect that it was around this time that Peter’s hoard of cash ran out, and he was trying everything—even hopeless dreams, like collecting from me—to delay working for a few months longer.
Now, when I call him, offering to pay, he’s suddenly no longer concerned. Which means he has a new job.
“It’s no big deal, Kip,” he tells me. “It’s like, whenever you can, man.”
His sudden indulgence is bad news for me and my plans. I want him hungry.
“You know I’m a man of my word,” I say. “I owe you, and I’m ready to pay.” Actually, I think to myself, I’m almost ready to pay. As soon as Sustevich’s wire can be arranged, a few days from now. But I spare him the details. “Also, I want to get together with you,” I say. “I have a new project. I need some advice.”
“Uh-oh,” Peter Room says. “Bad news, man. I just landed a new gig. You know that company that Linus joined? Totally top secret? How they’re going to launch in three months?”
“Yeah, sure,” I lie.
“Well, they’re not,” Peter says, as if this information will prove delicious to me.
“You don’t say.”
“Anyway, I’ve signed on with them until September. I’m off the market.”
“That’s fine. I wasn’t really looking to hire you. This job isn’t exactly . . .” I let my voice trail off. More softly, full of innuendo, I say: “. . . Kosher.”
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