by Beth Ciotta
He reached in his pocket for a hit of Tylenol.
Gina passed him the last of her beer.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Sure.”
He chased the caplets with Heineken, then picked at the label, deep in thought. “You were right about Mrs. Clark. The woman’s an emotional basket case.”
“And the senator?”
“Away on business.”
“If you would have called ahead—”
“I did. Under an alias. I considered it a bonus that he was out of town. I wanted Mrs. Clark’s story, not her husband’s spin.”
“And her story had merit.”
“It did.”
“Still have that bad feeling?”
“I do.”
Winning back her losses wasn’t the sticking point. If Turner was a cheat, he deserved tit for tat. It was the intimidation and cover-up aspect that left Milo cold. Made him feel like a hired thug. Making Turner go away. He still hadn’t decided how to handle that part of Crowe’s directive without completely obliterating his ability to sleep.
Tabasco and Arch returned, bearing food and drinks. Tabasco spoke first. “How’d the interview go?”
“After speaking with Mrs. Clark, I think there’s a strong possibility she was, in fact, fleeced.”
Arch smoothed a hand over his goatee. “So we’re taking the case.”
“We’ll proceed as discussed earlier.” Milo refused to admit he was actually looking forward to the challenge. Between determining whether or not Mrs. Parish was being scammed and playing a long con on a big cheat, it would leave little time to dwell on his Twinkie fixation.
He couldn’t help remembering the way she’d melted at the sight of his partner. He’d remembered over and over on the ride to Hammond and back. The envy that had pumped through him, the disappointment. He couldn’t help wishing she’d look at him with the same heart-pounding affection.
An Ellington classic taunted his brain. I got it bad and that ain’t good. Then a phantom Evie kicked up his misery, singing Peggy Lee’s “Fever.” In a wet T-shirt.
Shit.
He traded the empty beer bottle for a full one, tipped the longneck toward the rotten apple of Evie’s eye. “You and I will stay in Greenville, playing up the nobility angle, garnering publicity and credibility.”
“I’ll allude to my great wealth and leak my fondness for gambling to the press,” Arch said. “By the time we’re ready to rope Turner he’ll be champing at the bit to rope the Baron of Broxley. But in order to beat the man at his crooked game, I need to know what I’m up against, yeah?”
Gina tucked her long, dark hair behind her ears. “Which is why Tabasco and I are going in first.”
“There’s no poker room on that riverboat, so you’ll have to hit the tables,” Milo said.
“Caribbean stud?” Gina asked.
He nodded. “You’ll be playing against the house. No bluffing. They also offer four-card poker.”
Tabasco grunted. “Serious players don’t consider those games real poker.”
“You can use that to your advantage,” said Arch. “Make mention a time or two, yeah?”
“Sure.”
“According to Crowe, Senator Clark will cover expenses,” Milo said, “so you can both make a significant financial impression.”
“Show your greedy side,” Arch said. “Bitch about the stakes.”
“Not high enough,” Gina said. “Got it.”
“I don’t have the name of the dealer who steered Mrs. Clark to Turner’s game, but I have a description. I called Woody on the drive back. Maybe he can narrow it down.” Milo sawed the juicy steak. He wasn’t hungry, but Tabasco was a gifted cook. “One of you needs to get roped into that exclusive game. We need a better description of the layout than what Mrs. Clark provided. And if Turner’s cheating, we need to know how.”
“Done,” they said simultaneously.
“With pleasure,” Gina added with a smirk.
“Meaning?” Milo asked while forking meat into his mouth.
“Meaning,” she said, flashing a look at Arch, “this place is crowded. I’m happy for the night out.”
Milo waited.
“Twinkie,” said Tabasco.
“What about her?”
“She’s here. Speaking of, I want to run her up a PB&J and a glass of milk. Maybe she’ll give in to comfort food. Gotta eat something.”
Milo watched the man go, then focused back on Arch. “I thought she was staying with her mother.”
“So did she.”
“What happened?”
Arch glanced at the stairway, then replayed the afternoon in a low voice.
Milo shook his head at the tree-climbing incident. He couldn’t decide if she had a screw loose or initiative and balls. As for her parents…“You think her mom had another man in the house?”
“I dinnae know what to think.”
“Must’ve hurt,” Gina said, surprising them both. “Her mom pushing her away like that.”
“She pretended it didnae. Told her ma she appreciated her new liberal ootlook. If I didnae know…” Arch shrugged, swigged his beer. “She’s getting better at snowing me. Not sure how I feel aboot that.”
“I’d think you’d be ecstatic.” Gina angled her head. “Unless you’re not keen about her being an active operator. It is, after all, what we do—lie.”
Milo eyed Gina and Arch, who were eyeing each other, and not in a good way. “Since I’ve got you two together, now seems a good time—”
“Water under the bridge,” Gina said.
“We’re fine,” Arch said.
Milo frowned. “Right.”
Gina leveled him with a look. “I don’t care that Ace and Twinkie are carrying on, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Were carrying on,” Arch said. “Past tense.”
Whether she believed him or not, Milo couldn’t tell. He sure as hell wasn’t convinced. “Then what’s the problem?” he asked Gina.
“She doesn’t have a background in law enforcement or grifting. She’s not one of us.”
“I didn’t hire her to grift,” Milo said. “I hired her to sing.”
“What the hell did you need a singer for? You’ve got a jukebox, a CD audio system. Live entertainment might lure in new customers, and as I recall, the club’s a cover, not a moneymaker, so the fewer patrons the better.”
Milo didn’t comment. She was right. He’d hired Evie because she’d suckered him with her passion, her determination and those big blue eyes. She was genuine and sweet, a rarity in his line of work. The optimist in him had viewed her as a ray of sunshine in his bleak world. The pessimist had viewed her as a way to control Arch—the man studying him just now with unnerving calm. Trouble was, the more he got to know her, the more he wanted to know her. Intimately.
Gina rolled over his thoughts. “You allowed Pops to bring her into the Cave. The heart of our operation. Team members only. You’re not treating her like a freelance singer, Jazzman. You’re treating her like one of us. You, too,” she said with a quick glance at Arch. “You’re both thinking with your peckers. It’s dangerous. And more than a little insulting. She’s a piece of fluff, for chrissake.”
“There’s more to Evie than meets the eye,” Arch said. “As to my willy…Chameleon’s juggling two potential swindles. Mind’s on other things, yeah?”
Gina polished off her beer.
Milo started to say he didn’t fraternize with team members, except he’d just told Gina he’d hired Evie as a singer, not an operator. So technically that made her fair game for both Arch and Milo without compromising his unwritten policy. Hadn’t thought of that before. Well, hell.
Just then, Tabasco loped down the stairs. “Think I should make a run into town. Pick up some cold medicine for Twinkie. Want anything from the quick-mart?”
Everyone stared.
“What?”
Gina smirked. “You fell for that relapse line? She’s not sick, you idi
ot. That cough was as fake as Ace’s numerous passports.”
Tabasco shifted his weight. “Her voice was hoarse and her eyes were watery.”
Arch glanced at Milo. “Told you, mate. Honing her deception skills.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MARK: A VICTIM OR intended victim.
Outsideman: the member of the con mob who locates the mark, brings him to the store and assists in fleecing him. Also lugger, roper.
Insideman: the member of a con mob who stays near the big store and receives the mark whom the roper brings. Insidemen are highly specialized workers….
The glossary of The Big Con: The Story of the Confidence Man by David W. Maurer was extensive and probably somewhat dated, as the original copyright was 1940, but it had been reprinted at least twice, and I’d heard Arch use many of the terms. I read with great interest, committing the basics to memory. I’d wussed out tonight, but I would finesse my way into an official meeting at some point, and when I did, I wanted to blow the team away with my knowledge of their profession. The lingo was colorful, the concepts fascinating. Each definition spurred me to look up a new word like…
The Big Store: an establishment against which big-con men play their victims.
Big Con: any big-time confidence game in which a mark is put on the send for his money, as contrasted to a short con, where the touch is limited to the amount the mark has with him.
Since I was in the dark about developments concerning the senator’s case, I focused on my mom’s. Applying these notions to her scenario and assuming she was being hustled, I surmised she’d fallen victim to a big con. She’d gone to the bank for a large sum, so she’d been put on the send. Was the dance studio the big store? Was the dance instructor the roper or the insideman? Was she, as Tabasco had suggested, a victim of a Sweetheart scam?
I swapped Maurer’s book for a more recent release and snuggled deeper beneath the rose quilt as I consulted the table of contents. I read the chapter on Sweetheart scams twice. Lothario cons were on the rise, it said, due to Internet dating services. These days a con artist could swindle his mark without even meeting her in person. Seduction by way of numerous amorous e-mails. Once roped, he could utilize any number of scenarios to persuade her to send him money—a business opportunity, a plane ticket, a personal loan. In the end he’d break her bank account and her heart.
The whole thing made me sick and angry. Lonely people fell for these scams. Mostly the victims were older, divorced or widowed. When I got to the part where it described how some scum artists cruise the newspaper obits looking for premium marks, I decided I’d had enough for the night. “Slimeball rat bastards.” I didn’t want to believe Mom could fall victim to any of those scenarios. But then I thought of the bonds, the makeover and that dashing middle-aged dance instructor. She wasn’t divorced or widowed, but she was surely disillusioned with Dad.
Needing to know there were some good things in this world, like hope and true love, I chucked the manual and dug out the romance paperback I’d packed in Big Red.
I glanced at the door, surprised that no one aside from Tabasco had checked in on me. Although I’d made it clear I wasn’t feeling well and wanted to be left alone. Which was true. Sort of. I settled under the sheets, trying not to think about Arch.
Two chapters into Lord Geoffrey and Lady Victoria’s adventure, I drifted off with visions of star-crossed lovers going at it on a picnic table. Soon after, the whimsical dream about a dashing hero and a klutzy heroine turned sinister. The Lord and the Lady morphed into the Baron and the showgirl. She crippled a touchy-feely dance instructor. He hooked a slimy, smooth-talking shark. Slot machines and blueprints. Henchmen and G-men. Tripping. Tussling. Gun aimed at Arch. No!
I jerked awake—heart pounding, shirt damp with sweat. I set aside the novel, glanced at the bedside clock.
Eleven-thirty.
I’d conked out for three hours. It felt like seconds.
I listened.
Silence.
In-the-middle-of-nowhere silence. Scary Freddy Krueger silence.
Sure, I’d grown up in these parts, but we lived in town. Houses on either side, a stone’s throw away. An entire neighborhood to run to for help. The Appleseed B and B was twenty minutes from civilization, the nearest farmhouse a good mile down the road. Assuming a crazed serial killer offed the other team members, saving me for last, no one would hear me scream, and if I had to run a mile…can you say dead meat? If Freddy didn’t kill me, the sprint would.
“Get a grip,” I whispered, releasing my white-knuckle hold on the quilt. “The others aren’t dead, they’re asleep.” Probably.
My imagination was in overdrive due to the chaotic nightmare. I massaged my temples, plagued by convoluted fragments of the Simon the Fish fiasco. Amazingly, I’d been spared similar nightmares. My subconscious, I suppose, was in denial, not wanting to dredge up that awful moment. Because I’d blown our cover, a man had died. A bad man, yeah. But dead is dead.
I’d broached the subject a couple of times with Arch. Every time I tried to recall the exact details, I remembered them a little differently. It made me nuts.
Let it go, he’d said. You banged your head hard, twice. Blacked out. Suffered a concussion. No wonder you’re unclear, yeah?
Yeah. But it still bothered me, so I’d pressed, and he’d told me what he’d told Beckett, the facts supposedly backed up on tape.
“Let it go,” I told myself, then I remembered what Marvin the janitor said. We knew you’d see justice done.
My brain threatened to explode. I grabbed my journal and pen and scribbled midthought.
Letting your imagination run wild. Arch is a lot of things, but he is not a premeditated killer. He only meant to con Simon, setting him up for a fall that would land him in prison. Locked away for his crimes. Justice done. So it ended differently. Not his fault. Mine. I botched things. Not Arch. Simon pulled the gun. Not Arch. I was trying to protect him. He was trying to protect me. Struggle and—bang! Self-defense. An accident. Not premeditated.
End of story. I set aside the pen, breathing easier now. I blamed the nightmare and my subsequent freak-out on my reading material. I shouldn’t have crammed so hard on grifts, not in my exhausted and depressed state. All the lingo and definitions reminded me of my first sting gone bad, a troubling memory I’d yet to put to rest.
Now that I’d spewed on paper, I felt better. About that issue, anyway.
I ventured into the connecting bathroom, washed up and changed into paisley lounge pants and a white tee. My stomach grumbled and I kicked myself for blowing off that darn peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Nearly midnight. No way was I going to traipse downstairs in this big old house. Alone. In the scary Freddy Krueger silence. And no chance of falling back to sleep, either. Not with slasher films on the brain.
I went back to my journal, sat at the antique desk—lovely—and turned to a fresh page.
I blocked thoughts of Simon the Fish. Of Arch. I focused on family. Dad’s generosity made mincemeat of my heart, but it was Mom’s new liberal attitude that vexed my brain. All these years I’d mourned her conservative nature, wishing she’d live and let live. Now she was doing just that and all I felt was resentful. At least I knew the old Marilyn Parish. The new version was a frustrating mystery. Who had been with her in the house? Why was she willing to distance me and Dad in order to stay close to that mysterious someone? Dear Diary, What’s the deal with my mom? Why can’t she love me for who I am? A hug now and then would be nice. Same goes with Dad. A show of affection, please. I understand that saying “I love you” is hard. For some people, anyway. If you really mean it, that is. Although, why would you say it if you didn’t mean it? And if you feel it, why wouldn’t you say it?
I looked up from the pages. “Because it’s big. And scary. And if the other person doesn’t say it back, you’ll feel foolish.”
No one wants to be the first one on the dance floor.
The heavens opened and angels sang. Not literall
y, of course. But epiphanies always struck me that way. I had to stop looking to others to get the party started. For approval. For fulfillment. Instead of worrying about who people wanted me to be, I just needed to be…me.
I doodled purple hearts, deep in thought. I swallowed a gasp when I heard someone moving around in the connecting bathroom. Not Freddy, I assured myself. Probably Gina. Although she was kind of scary. I refocused on my writing, adding…
Life’s too short. I’m gonna boogie.
A knock on the connecting door prompted me to hide my journal. No way did I want Gina to know I kept a diary. I’m sure she’d view it as juvenile. She was one of those women who spoke her mind. Kind of like Nic. Only Nic was nice.
I padded to the door and eased it open. Not Gina. Arch. And just like that, the only thing on my mind was sex. My heart thudded and my mouth went dry. He looked much as he had the first time I’d seen him half-naked, except this time he was wearing gray sweatpants instead of a hotel towel. He smelled of Irish Spring and tobacco, and I couldn’t decide which was sexier, his goatee or the Celtic tattoo. Both summoned primal urges.
I took a step back.
“Heard you moving around in here. Thought I’d check in before turning in.” He eyed me hard. “You okay?”
I thought about the nightmare, my scribbled logic. I looked into Arch’s eyes and all I saw was kindness. Still, Marvin’s statement niggled. “I’ve never asked and I need to know.”
“Aye?”
“Did you set out to kill Simon the Fish?”
“No.”
“Because if you did—”
“I didn’t”
“He killed your grandfather.”
“I wanted revenge, aye. But I wanted The Fish to suffer. Life in prison would’ve been more satisfying.”
That made sense. It also jibed with my scribbled logic.
He skimmed a thumb over my cheek. Zing. “I need you to let this go.”
“Why?”
