The Last Con

by Zachary Bartels

  Dr. Foreman launched into a prayer of blessing, the sound of his voice bringing about instant silence. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for the food we are about to receive and for the good friends—both old and new—who surround us. Amen.” The din of conversation returned to the room as the hungry were released, table by table, to go through the line.

  “Why does he say that?” asked Keisha, Ivy’s new companion.

  “Why’s he say what, hon?” Meg asked.

  “Heavenly Father.” She traced a pattern on the table with her finger. “My dad’s in prison,” she added.

  Ivy stretched an arm around her. “My dad was too,” she said. “It stinks, I know.”

  Keisha’s eyes snapped onto Fletcher. “What did you do?” she asked.

  “He stole stuff from churches,” Ivy said.

  The girl’s jaw dropped. The burner chirped again from Fletcher’s pocket. Then again, two more times. He felt every eye at the table boring into him, but no one spoke. A volunteer rescued him with the news that it was their turn.

  Fletcher grabbed two trays and handed one to his daughter. “You know that’s not really who I am, right?” he asked her quietly. “That was something I did because I thought I had to, but it’s not really me.” They accrued silverware and napkins as they slid their way down a metal track.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to provide for you and your mom. I wanted you to have the best things, and I lost sight of right and wrong.”

  Ivy took half a dozen coffee creamers—undoubtedly to add the containers to the collection in her room, Fletcher thought.

  “I’d have rather had a janitor for a dad than no dad.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact.

  “I know,” Fletcher said, then added, “I love you,” because he didn’t know what else to say.

  “Got it,” Ivy answered, and walked off to the sparse salad bar. Fletcher’s pocket beeped again. Plate heavy-laden with hot tuna noodle casserole and watery green beans, he returned to the table, his appetite quickly evaporating. Despite Meg’s efforts to rope him into the conversation, he ate in silence, offering only the occasional syllable or two in response to direct questions.

  “Are you okay, Fletcher?” she finally asked.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “I just don’t feel great.”

  “Who keeps texting you?” Her words were laced with suspicion—understandable, since Fletcher rarely communicated by phone with anyone outside of his family.

  “I think it’s this new program I downloaded,” he lied. “Sends baseball scores to my inbox. I’ll turn it off.” He stood. “Just let me hit the bathroom.”

  Once in the privacy of a stall, Fletcher turned his attention to his eleven messages. Their tone grew increasingly annoyed at the radio silence. The last four were picture messages: a choice shot of Fletcher and Andrew in the convenience store, a couple of the drop at the coffeehouse, and Fletcher surreptitiously removing cash from the briefcase. Someone had followed him at a distance and snapped these with a telephoto lens. Someone good.

  Fletcher checked the time. The initial forty-five minutes had come and gone. Another message beeped in: Last chance.

  He hit Reply. On my way.

  CHAPTER 22

  The van parked at the corner of Ashland and Central was nothing special. None of the people trudging by paid it any notice. But the very sight of the old vehicle tapped into a well of memories locked deep inside Fletcher. He’d spent many nights climbing in and out of that old van—planning, prepping, monitoring. The flood of emotions twisted his stomach a bit—mostly in anticipation.

  The tuna casserole—lying in his stomach like a heap of wet rags—was a small comfort, as it meant he hadn’t lied to Meg outright; he did feel a bit ill. When he had hobbled up to her, bent tightly at the waist, and announced the impending emergency exit of his lunch, she had squinted at him with a combination of concern and distrust before offering to take him back to the church. Fletcher insisted that she and Ivy stay behind while he take the bus. After all, he’d reasoned, why should the women and children of the shelter be deprived of their company because Fletcher had ingested something that didn’t agree with him? She finally relented, admitting that leaving would be unfair to Ivy. Besides, she and Fletcher had always been rather private about illness, generally giving a wide berth to all things projectile.

  Fletcher had caught a cab back to the church and, with no little luck, slunk in unseen. After grabbing a couple things from his luggage, he returned to the file cabinet, where he changed into the suit, stuffed his own clothes into the gym bag, and emerged back out into the garden. He followed the stone path, head down, not daring to glance back up toward the window where Father Sacha had spotted him the day before.

  The side door of the van rolled open now as he approached, and a familiar boyish face grinned at him from beneath a shock of red hair.

  “Fletch lives,” the guy said, reaching out his hand—first in greeting and then by way of helping Fletcher and his bags up into the monster of a van. All but the driver and passenger seat had been removed, and in their place were a couple of swiveling captain’s chairs, a small table, and two counter tops—one on either side of the van—covered in monitors, computers, tools, and surveillance equipment. The smell of cigarettes permeated everything. The first time he’d seen the setup, Fletcher had laughed, thinking it looked more like a cartoon than anything professionals would really use.

  “Happy,” Fletcher said, feeling his anger recede as the word left his mouth. “How did I not see this coming?”

  “No one sees me coming,” Happy replied. “That’s the point.”

  “Never thought I’d climb into this bucket of bolts again.”

  “And you don’t deserve to.” Happy slid the door shut with more force than he needed.

  Fletcher chortled. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about that stupid vanity plate.”

  “Stupid van—?” Happy swiped at the air. “You don’t take a van’s plate, Fletcher. That’s her identity. That was her heart and soul!”

  “Happy, it literally said ‘nondescript.’ That defeats the whole purpose of driving a nondescript vehicle.”

  “It didn’t say ‘nondescript,’ ” Happy mumbled. “There were no vowels.”

  Fletcher shrugged. “Sorry, man. What can I say?”

  “You know what?” Happy said, his face softening. “Let’s put all that behind us. Because that’s what friends do.” He paused. “Oh, and unrelated: I may have been the guy who took the recent incriminating pictures of you.” He traced an X over his heart. “I had no idea you would be involved until it was too late.” He slapped his hands against his knees. “So we’re good, then? All is forgiven?”

  “You I forgive,” Fletcher answered.

  “I see how it is,” Andrew called from the driver’s seat. “You don’t forgive me.”

  “You didn’t ask me to.”

  “And I won’t either. Remember how Cagliostro began his treatise: ‘Men who live by the art of misdirection must never apologize nor implicate themselves in any scheme or falsehood unless it is required to further the deception.’ ”

  Happy groaned. “You been away for years. He still won’t shut up about Count Whatsisname.”

  “And that gives him away,” Fletcher said, leaning up between the front seats. “The envelopes you left me—both of them had Cagliostro’s seal.”

  “I told you,” Andrew said. “It’s not me.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s some other guy who just happens to share a penchant for the same semi-obscure historical figure. Look, I don’t know why you think you need to make me your mark to get my help on a job, but don’t insult my intelligence.”

  Andrew shook his head. “There’s a whole school of grifters who look to Cagliostro as the ultimate con. That’s why I had you read his memoirs when you were coming up. It’s why I study his work so intensely. Because at any given moment he was exactly who he needed to be to get what he
was after.” He started the van’s engine, which turned over on the third try. “And speaking of which, let’s head out. We’re already late.”

  Fletcher eased back into the chair next to Happy, the familiar feeling of the vinyl and duct tape striking a chord of nostalgia. “So what’s the job?”

  Happy whacked him on the arm. “Don’t worry, we’ll brief you. But first, did you bring the video game?”

  “Got it right here.” Fletcher rummaged through the gym bag.

  “Aha!” Happy inspected the item, almost giddy. “This right here is the most shoplifted piece of merchandise in America today. It’s a 3D first-person video game about this guy named Jack who steals cars and kills people. Really popular among tweens.” He ripped open the shrink-wrap. “Seriously, dude. Our generation is, like, the worst parents yet.”

  Fletcher anchored his mind, kept his thoughts from tipping toward Ivy.

  “But what I need is not the game itself,” Happy said, pulling a small metallic sticker from the inside cover of the case. “It’s this: next-gen RFID tag.”

  “What’s it do?”

  They hit a bump on the road, and everything in the van bounced a little and slid.

  “You know those sensors at the mall that buzz if you try and leave a store with unpaid merchandise? Well, those go off when they pick up a radio frequency from a passive tag in a product. But those tags are only good for a few feet. These little babies, however,” he said, holding up the sticker with a pair of tweezers, “can track the product around the store and out into the parking lot. Range of two hundred yards or more. Not widely used yet, but perfect for what we need.”

  He turned his attention to a business card, one corner of which had been carefully split into two thinner pieces. Despite the van’s worn shocks and the sad state of the city streets, Happy placed the tag inside the card with a surgeon’s precision and carefully glued the edge back together. He blew on it for a few seconds before placing it in a sleek metal case atop several other identical cards and handing the whole thing to Fletcher.

  “Remember, the top one goes to the head of security, not the old man.”

  Fletcher pocketed the case. “What old man?”

  “William Belltower,” Andrew answered. “Millionaire auto executive turned capital investor and currently in possession of something we need.”

  “Belltower?” Fletcher laughed. “You’re making that up.”

  “No, I’m not.” Andrew adopted an exaggerated accent. “He’s of noble birth.”

  “Guy’s like two hundred years old,” Happy said. “Total gomer, easy mark. Didn’t you look through this?” he asked, pulling the file folder from the briefcase Fletcher had collected the day before.

  Fletcher shook his head. “Financial information?”

  “Nah, Ultima Insurance Company’s file on old Belltower,” he said, leafing through the pages. “We’ve got room-by-room inventories, insurance values, an overview of his home’s security, the works.”

  “Not bad,” Fletcher said, settling back into his role in the group. “What’s his peg?”

  “What do all gomers want?” Happy said. “Dinner by four thirty, then right to bed.”

  Andrew chuckled. “Don’t worry about Belltower. He’s the mark, but he’s not really the mark. He does whatever’s expected of him. The guy we need to grift is his head of security, Julian Faust.”

  Happy dropped a much thinner folder on Fletcher’s lap. “Also a senior citizen, but younger than his boss and plenty dangerous. Have a look; formerly British Special Forces, knows three hundred ways to kill a man using only his pinky finger, that kind of thing.”

  Fletcher opened the folder and saw a picture of a severe man in his midseventies. His receding hair was black, tinged with silver, his eyes a metallic blue. “And what are we after?”

  “Just need to set the table for tonight—a house call.”

  “Tonight? I don’t know.” Fletcher’s stomach churned and dropped as they hit another pothole. With each successive absence, Meg’s suspicion was rising exponentially. Denial would only keep her from drawing the obvious conclusion for so long.

  “Yes, tonight,” Andrew said. “You’ve got what you need to fade out of there, but let’s keep our focus on the job at hand. Step one: we drop in on Belltower and Faust at their office. You follow my lead and get him that card. And hopefully Mason will come through.”

  “Paul Mason?” Fletcher asked. “The guy from the coffee shop?”

  “That’s him,” Happy said. “He’s a midlevel IT drone for Ultima. I gave him a patch to run on their phone system. Nothing he can’t handle.” He handed Fletcher a clip-on name badge. “And you are Jordan Lyons, an art appraiser contracted by Ultima Insurance. Congratulations.”

  CHAPTER 23

  I have nothing in the appointment book,” the receptionist said, peering over her glasses as if reprimanding a child. She wore a bulky headset that reminded Fletcher of the nineties but somehow still seemed to add to her air of authority.

  “Of course you don’t,” Andrew raged. “We left three messages, and my colleague here is only in town today. You tell Mr. Belltower that if he wants the insurance coverage on his two Renoirs to continue past midnight tonight, he will see us right now.” He punctuated the last two words with his knuckles against her desk, then glanced at his watch impatiently.

  The receptionist disappeared for a moment, ostensibly into Belltower’s office, then returned accompanied by Julian Faust, a thin but solid man who was far more imposing in person than on paper.

  “Gentlemen,” Faust said, his accent pleasant and crisp. “I am afraid there’s been something of a mix-up with the scheduling. Mr. Belltower is unavailable, but perhaps I can help you.”

  Fletcher let out an exasperated sigh. “Let me just call the Art Gallery of Ontario and tell them that I’ll be another day late because ‘Mr. Belltower is unavailable.’ ”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you keep playing these games, your coverage will expire. And not just on the Renoirs—on everything.” His voice was rising steadily.

  Faust thought for a moment, his eyes moving between Andrew and Fletcher, before saying, “Why don’t you two gentlemen step into Mr. Belltower’s office? I trust we can deal with this matter quickly.”

  Entering the spacious office, Fletcher had to fight down a sense of awe. It was all oak and mahogany, antiques and leather-bound volumes, with a panoramic view of the city. William Belltower sat at a ship of a desk, smiling at his visitors as if they were the first people he’d seen in some time. His unruly white hair stood up from his head in several spikes, like a hand reaching for the ceiling.

  “Hello,” he said, standing with some difficulty and reaching out over the end of his desk.

  Andrew shook his hand, firm and a little curt, and said, “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Belltower. Now, when can we have a look at your home?”

  “My home?” He turned to Faust. “What is this young man talking about?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m going to find out.” He flipped through a Rolodex at the edge of the desk, then punched the speaker button on the desktop phone and dialed. Fletcher noticed that there was no computer on the desk, nor digital devices of any kind.

  “Whom are you calling?” Belltower asked.

  “The insurance company.” Faust fixed Andrew with a stern look. “They’ve never dropped by unannounced before.” He rested his right hand on his hip, causing his jacket to ride up and offering a glimpse of a handgun in a black leather holster.

  “Ultima Insurance,” crackled a voice from the muffled speaker. Fletcher immediately recognized it as Paul Mason. “How may I direct your call?”

  “This is Julian Faust, calling on behalf of William Belltower. There are currently two men here in our offices claiming to be agents of your company and acting rather rudely.” He paused. There was no response. “Are you still there?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Do you know who—?”

  “The question
is, do you know who William Belltower is? He’s your second-largest client. So why don’t you connect me with someone else—someone with some authority? I don’t have time to waste chatting with a trained monkey in a cubicle.”

  Fletcher smiled inwardly. He loved grifting jerks. Faust was exactly the kind of pretentious gasbag he and Andrew had sought out in the early days. And Andrew’s plan—if it was Andrew’s—was the kind they’d perfected. Their initial mark had not only supplied useful information, but he was also establishing their cover as insurance company employees, something no one would pretend to be if they were not.

  “I’m sorry for the wait, Mr. Faust,” Paul was saying through the speaker phone. “Let me connect you with Ms. Vischer. She’s in charge of our corporate division.”

  “No,” Faust said, “this isn’t—”

  There was a beep and click, and a moment later a woman’s voice filled the room. “This is Caroline Vischer. How may I help you?” Her voice was familiar to Fletcher, but he couldn’t quite place it. She sounded educated, pleasant, and attractive.

  “There are two men here demanding to see some of Mr. Belltower’s valuables. They showed up unannounced a few minutes ago. Please explain.”

  They heard a few keystrokes coming from the other end. “It says here,” she said, tapping more keys, “that our intern Hunter has left three messages over the past week, trying to set up a meeting while our appraiser is in town.”

  “We did not receive any calls from your office in the past week,” Faust said sourly, “and Mr. Belltower has not acquired any new art in the past five years.”

  Fletcher spoke up. “It’s nothing new.” He retrieved the inventory from a green file folder tucked under his arm and handed it to Faust. Two lines were highlighted in yellow. “You have these two Renoirs insured for a combined 3.5 million dollars, but I have reason to doubt their authenticity.”