The Last Con

by Zachary Bartels

  Fletcher thought of Brad’s malicious smile and veiled threats. “I don’t care. Brad can go—”

  Ivy returned to her chair, a large cup of red sugar water in her hand.

  “—home if he doesn’t like it.”

  “I was a little worried too,” Meg said. “You didn’t bring your cell phone. How was I supposed to know if something was wrong?”

  “Sorry,” he said again.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes until a matronly woman and her granddaughter sat down next to Meg and engaged her and Ivy in a tedious conversation that amounted to a simple exchange of everyone’s statistical information—age, hometown, general interests. Fletcher thought Facebook had removed the need for these conversations. He wished it had. Then again, the nonstop spouting of pleasantries was one of the only things to set this place apart from dinner in prison. That and all the teenagers staring at their cell phones.

  In the distance, beyond the rows of diners, something out in the hall caught his eye. Movement. Flailing arms and stomping feet. It was a fight. Or rather, an intense argument. The kind that only can take place between a teenage girl and an overbearing parent. The kind that Fletcher was not looking forward to having with his own daughter.

  At this distance he couldn’t know for sure, but Brad seemed more exasperated than angry. Courtney, on the other hand, was clearly livid, punctuating each word with her index finger, sometimes simply pointing at her father and sometimes jabbing her finger into his chest. All at once she spun around and stalked off out of sight.

  Brad collapsed onto a bench, head in his hands. Fletcher felt an unwanted wave of compassion. Yes, the man was obnoxious and judgmental, but he was also doing his best to be the single father of a rather willful teenaged girl. Meg had numerous times recounted Brad’s pain at losing his wife to cancer two years earlier and his struggles to be an adequate parent. In the back of his mind, Fletcher had assumed this all to be a ruse on Brad’s part—an attempt at creating some solidarity between the “single” parents. But now, looking at Brad’s broken form on the bench, he felt ashamed for making such assumptions.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving his half-empty tray at the table. The closer he drew to Brad, the less sure he was that this was a good idea. But he wanted to make peace. This man had helped his family in so many ways, and yet Fletcher was always ready to snap. It would feel good to lay this to rest.

  “You okay, Brad?” he asked, approaching the bench.

  Brad looked up, his eyes red. He started to say one thing, then seemed to change his mind and asked, “Where were you at lunch?”

  “I had to run out and get some things for Ivy.” Fletcher determined that they would not dwell on that subject.

  “You just disappeared. Are you twelve years old too?”

  “No. I’m not twelve years old.”

  “We’ve got a responsibility to watch these kids, you know.”

  “I know. I’ll run it by you next time.”

  “Good.” Brad looked in Fletcher’s direction, though not directly at him. “Is there something else, Fletcher?”

  “Yeah, look. I said some stuff earlier that I didn’t mean. And I just wanted to tell you that I really am grateful for what you’ve done for my family. And if there’s ever anything I can do for you and Courtney—”

  “You can stay away from Courtney. I already told you that.”

  “Right, no, but I mean . . . I saw you guys arguing and I know it must be hard trying to raise a daughter by yourself and—”

  “You must be kidding me.”

  “Sorry?”

  Brad leaned into a massive scoff. “Are you trying to give me fathering advice?”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “You, the guy who left his family to fend for themselves for six years while he did time in prison? You’re going to offer me advice?”

  “I was thinking more like encouragement.”

  Brad stood up, seeming taller than he had when they last stood nose to nose. “Listen to me, convict. I don’t need your advice and I don’t want your encouragement. Why don’t you worry about being there for your own daughter and wife? Because believe me, if you don’t step up to the plate soon, somebody else will.” He turned and walked down the hall, disappearing into the black.

  Fletcher was shaking with rage. He tried to gather the anger in a ball in his chest, as Andrew had taught him, so he could do away with it—change it into something else—but it filled every square inch of him. He thought of how useless all of Andrew’s grifter training had proved to be. Then he thought about bumping into Andrew that afternoon, and his rage turned to dread.

  So, at least there was that.

  “HELLO, OFFICER ROBERTS. THIS IS FLETCHER DOYLE, INMATE #491632.”

  “This is my cell phone, Fletcher. You don’t need your inmate number. I know who you are.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be sorry and don’t call me sir. What’s up, Fletcher?”

  “Just calling to check in.”

  “We had our appointment two days ago, Fletcher. In person, per regulations. I was happy to give you my cell number, but it’s for special circumstances. Is that what we’ve got here?”

  “I don’t know. I’m on this mission trip. It just started.”

  “Oh, right. How’s that going?”

  “Not awesome. Look, I don’t know if you’re allowed to talk to me about this stuff or not, but I remembered you used to be a chaplain and a minister, and I’m really just feeling lost right now.”

  There was a brief pause on the other end. Roberts was either sitting down or switching ears. “Okay. We can have this conversation, Fletcher, off the record. But realize this: I’m not your pastor or your priest. If you confess a parole violation to me, I’m obligated to report it.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Okay, then. Tell me why you’re feeling lost. Your family is with you, right? Are things going all right with them? Meg and little Abby?”

  “Ivy. Yeah, it’s going okay with them. Slow, but good.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  Fletcher ran a hand through his hair. “I feel like a fake.”

  Officer Roberts laughed. “The Department of Corrections agrees with you there, son. You’re one of the best con men we’ve seen in some time. Maybe you’re feeling like a fake because you’re not being one. Maybe being genuine is foreign to you. Give it some time.”

  “No, it’s . . . I feel like I’m faking this whole Jesus thing. I know a lot of people think they find God Inside and then they get out and God’s not there anymore. But with me, I thought it was real.”

  “And now?”

  “Fire’s dying down. It’s been, what, two years since I got saved, and it’s already dying down.”

  “What do you mean by that? ‘Dying down’?”

  “At first, I was so intense about it. I wrote my wife letters every day about Jesus and what he was doing in my life and how everything would be different and all this stuff I was finding in the Bible. I mean, you know my academic background; I already knew the Bible better than most pastors, but I was leading Bible studies and finding things for me in there. It was awesome.

  “I was so excited about it that Meg started taking our daughter to church. And that was a huge turning point for us. I think . . . I think she was planning to divorce me before I got out. I think she was just saving up the money. But once we started this Jesus stuff . . .”

  “And now your initial zeal is wearing off. That’s normal, Fletcher. This sort of thing comes in seasons. Just stick with it. Don’t give up on God.”

  “It’s not just that. I’m afraid I was grifting the whole time. Like, grifting myself. You and I both know parole boards love a born-again story, so everybody tries to sprinkle a little of that in. What if I knew I needed to sell this thing so completely that I fooled myself into believing it? What if I’m the grifter and the mark here?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be the firs
t false convert in the world. But the fact that you’re even worried about it makes me think you’re the real deal. It was good that you called. Keep reaching out to people, okay? Promise you won’t lone-wolf this thing. Keep going to church with your family.”

  Fletcher felt his eyes growing moist. By sheer instinct he walled off the emotion. “Yeah, that’s half the problem. There’s this guy, this jerk, who’s one of the leaders of the church. He’s such a hypocrite, and he’s dragging me down with him.”

  “Maybe try a different church?”

  “Wouldn’t matter. He’s my landlord too.”

  “Ahhh. Yes, I’ve talked to that man. He . . . does not like you.”

  “So what should I do?” Fletcher could hear someone—a child?—trying to get Officer Roberts’s attention on the other end. He knew they were about done.

  “Two things. One: do not violate your parole. You’re back in the dragon’s lair for a week, and there is bound to be some temptation. Add this whole internal struggle with your faith and it could go bad quickly. I’d hate to have to send you back to prison, son.”

  “And number two?”

  “Keep reaching out. Seek out a mentor. Or better yet, a couple of them. Maybe someone older and wiser and someone more your own age. People who’ve been through some struggles but aren’t in the midst of them now. That’s my advice. Give me a call back in a couple days and tell me how things are going, okay?”

  “Sure. Good-bye, sir.”

  Fletcher squeezed the phone. He’d called for encouragement and advice, but the only thing he could remember was, Don’t violate your parole . . . send you back to prison. He thought about bailing on the trip and heading home. But then, he didn’t have a car here, and he and Meg didn’t even have money for bus fare.

  His stomach was gripping the mystery meat with a vengeance. What was going on here? What were the odds that Andrew would just happen to be in that store at that moment? He’d been so sure he was ready to come back, and yet he’d violated the terms of his parole within two hours of crossing the city limits. Could this be any more of a mess?

  His phone buzzed, announcing a text message: Hey, can we talk? Courtney

  CHAPTER 11

  JANUARY 31, 1785

  PARIS, FRANCE

  Everyone in Paris knew who lived at No. 30 Rue de St. Claude—at least, everyone of consequence—and they all coveted an invitation. After all, Count Cagliostro was known throughout Europe as the greatest conjurer, psychic, and (as rumor had it) alchemist who had ever lived—not to mention a pharmacist so accomplished that he had served as Benjamin Franklin’s personal physician during the American’s time in Paris.

  But more than that, the count simply knew how to throw a party.

  A gaggle of young women jostled their way through the wide gate and up the stone stairs, holding tight to the railing, as the stairway was narrow and they had already indulged in a good deal of wine. Although, at five gold livres, it had not been a “good deal” per se.

  Taking up the rear, sandwiched between two particularly busty women in silk dresses, was the man who had paid the five livres, Cardinal Louis de Rohan—a churchman, yes, but also a libertine. He, too, had indulged in much wine that night and, while he was generally marked with regret and self-loathing, the only regret he seemed to have at the moment was that he possessed but two hands.

  The entrance hall of the house was decorated at great expense to resemble the ancient halls of an Egyptian temple. Several servants milled about, dressed as Egyptian slaves. At the center of it all was a black marble slab, engraved with the words of Alexander Pope:

  Father of all! in every age,

  In every clime adored,

  By saint, by savage, and by sage,

  Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

  The cardinal and his companions entered the main hall and were met by Count Cagliostro himself, dressed in a black silk robe embroidered with Egyptian hieroglyphs. On his head he wore a gold turban. An emerald-studded chain hung around his neck, from which were suspended several gold scarabs. From a red silk belt hung the sword of the late Grand Master Manuel Pinto da Fonseca.

  “My dear friends,” he said in a warm but reserved tone. “Welcome.” He offered his hand, which they each kissed. Cagliostro’s French was flawless, his only accent the one he placed there by design.

  “It is so good to see you, Grand Kophta,” Cardinal de Rohan said, beaming. “They tell me we are to see a divination of spirits tonight.” His eyes were wide with excitement.

  Cagliostro drew back. “What! With a cardinal of the Holy Church in attendance? I should think not!”

  Cardinal de Rohan giggled, high and effeminate. “He’s kidding,” he said, first to the woman on his right and then to her leftward counterpart. “Not only does the Grand Kophta know of my interest in divination and sorcery, but he keeps laboratories in my episcopal palace in Strasbourg. In fact, Count Cagliostro lived with me there for several months.”

  “It was a pleasure,” Cagliostro said. “The cardinal has one of the finest libraries of alchemical texts in all of Europe. Now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare for the evening’s event.”

  As soon as Cagliostro was out of sight, a gong sounded through the house and the servants corralled the group into the divination room.

  Nobles and friends of Cagliostro were seated in the front. Near the back of the hall, curious onlookers stood on their toes, hoping to catch a glimpse of something incredible. The air was filled with expectancy. Eyes flitted here and there, taking in the Oriental statues, the kabbalistic markings on the wall, and especially the small wooden booth, itself covered in glyphs and occult symbols and closed off with a black velvet curtain.

  With a sudden puff of smoke the Grand Kophta appeared before the booth, his arms stretched out at his sides, palms up.

  “Tonight you will witness what your modern minds think to be impossible,” he said, his voice grave and foreboding. “We will look beyond the sphere of this world and see with more than just our eyes.”

  He beckoned to a young girl of about eight to come forward from the back of the room.

  “To do this, I have selected an innocent spirit to serve as our clairvoyant. She is pure and can see what we cannot.” He took the girl by the hand and led her over to the booth. He pointed at the black curtain and, without touching it, caused it to fall to the ground. A few in the crowd gasped. Inside the booth was a small table covered with a black cloth, upon which sat a crucifix, two burning red candles, and a large glass globe filled with water. In front of the table was a short stool.

  “Please hold out your hands,” he said to the girl. When she obeyed, he poured oil over them. “Now, enter the booth and kneel before the globe.”

  She knelt and two servants rehung the curtain, hiding her from view.

  “And now,” said Cagliostro, “we must test our clairvoyant. Who is willing to help me in this?”

  Every hand went up. Cagliostro selected a young man in the front row, handed him a card, and instructed him to sign his name on it. The man did so and handed it back to the Grand Kophta, who produced fire from out of thin air, burning the card in a stunning display of first green, then blue, then red flames.

  “Dear clairvoyant, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the girl answered from behind the curtain.

  The Grand Kophta closed his eyes and pushed his fingers against his temples. “If you look beneath the bench upon which you kneel, you will find a sealed envelope. Tell me, do you see it?”

  “I do,” the girl replied. The envelope, however, was not sealed at all and was, rather, lying open on the table while she used the flame of one candle to heat the bottom of the other, now extinguished. She heard Cagliostro’s voice say, “Give me the envelope,” and then saw his arm appear through the slit in the curtain. As they had rehearsed, she quickly reached into the sleeve of his robe and drew the card out from the hidden pocket. With speed and quiet precision, she slipped the card into the envelope, shut the flap
, and sealed it closed with the base of the red candle. She pushed the bottom of the crucifix against the wax, leaving an intricate impression behind.

  “I have it in my hand!” she heard Cagliostro shout.

  She blew lightly against the wax for a moment and handed the envelope to Cagliostro. The moment the envelope touched his fingers he withdrew it back through the slit in the curtain. The whole process had taken no more than two or three seconds.

  “Now,” Cagliostro announced, “I wonder if the gentleman who wrote his name on the card would be willing to break this seal and tell us what lies within.”

  “I certainly would,” the man said.

  “Excellent.” Cagliostro held the envelope by its four corners, about four inches from the man’s eyes. “But before you do, tell me: What do you see on this seal?”

  “It looks like a snake with an apple in its mouth, shot through by an arrow.”

  “Indeed.” He looked around the room. “Do any of you comprehend the meaning?”

  There were several murmurs in the affirmative, although no hands went up this time. Cagliostro tapped his finger surreptitiously against the wax seal. Finding it to be dry, he handed it to the young man, who excitedly tore the envelope open, gasped in delight, and held up the card for all to see.

  Cagliostro flipped his hand toward the curtain, which again fell to the ground, revealing everything as it had been, the candles both burning and upright and the young girl hunched over the table, gazing into the water-filled globe.

  “And now,” he announced, “having proven herself, our clairvoyant will receive the spirits that surround the throne of the Divinity and tell us what is happening at this very moment in Vienna, in St. Petersburg, and on the enchanted Island of Malta.” Suddenly, the water in the globe churned, and the forms of seven winged creatures came rising up from within.

  The Grand Kophta looked down the row of astonished faces nearest him. For a moment he locked eyes with Cardinal de Rohan, who was sure he had just seen something supernatural and who was completely oblivious that he was already Count Cagliostro’s mark in the greatest grift of all time.