Aunt Sally laughed and walked around to where Rachel sat. She held out her arms. “I really did like working with you, kiddo. Now c’mere and hug Aunt Sally’s neck.”
Rachel smiled and got up for the hug. “It was great working with you too, Sally. Despite everything. You guys take care of each other.”
Aunt Sally let go and stepped back. “We been doing that for years. No reason to stop now.” She looked at Sam. “You got yourself a good one here, Sammy. I don’t often admit when I’m wrong—”
“Like, never,” William said.
“Hush, Willie. But I was wrong, Sammy. Getting involved is always a risk. But this one’s worth it.”
“Thanks,” Rachel said. She turned to Sam. “You ready to hit the road?”
Sam nodded.
“So where are you kids off to?” Sally asked.
Sam glanced at Rachel, then back to Sally. “New York, I think.”
“Belly of the whale, huh?” Sally commented. “Working? That’d be my guess.”
Rachel nodded. “You know how it is for people like us.” She smiled. “A grifter’s gonna grift.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.D. Rhoades lives, writes, and practices law in a little town in North Carolina. He has a lot of opinions. He’s written a lot of books. He plays guitar, likes rum, and reads a lot of other people’s books. He used to write a column for the local paper that won some awards. He got nominated for a Shamus Award, but didn’t win. Beyond that, he’s not that interesting.
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BOOKS BY J.D. RHOADES
The Jack Keller Series
The Devil’s Right Hand
Good Day in Hell
Safe and Sound
Devils and Dust
Hellhound on My Trail
The Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn Series
Breaking Cover
Broken Shield
Stand-Alone Novels
Storm Surge
Lawyers, Guns and Money
Gallows Pole
Monster: Nightrider’s Vengeance (as J.D. Nixx)
Linger 2: Trail of the Beast (as Edward Fallon)
Ice Chest
Fortunate Son
Short Story Collection
The Caretaker
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Here is a preview from The Whale by Lawrence Kelter, A Grifter’s Song Episode 3.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
One
Sam stood outside the University Club for a long while fighting his fear of those who resided within the “old boys club,” the robber barons and captains of industry, those of such staggering wealth they rivaled the sheiks of the Fertile Crescent and the diamond miners of South Africa. He’d read everything that was available online, the club’s history and facilities as well as descriptions of the fabled rooms inside. Nothing could’ve prepare him for the spectacle that met his eyes as he entered the building. Passing through the revolving doors was like entering Dr. Who’s Tardis, deceptively small on the outside—mind-blowingly large once within. The grand lobby was ringed with columns made of stunning blur marble. The ceilings, modeled after the Vatican apartments, were breathtaking—trimmed in gold, they were tall, vaulted, and grand. The walls were adorned in dark wood. Plush carpeting felt like a cloud beneath his feet. Leather chairs were so thickly padded it seemed the pleating might burst at any time. It was the most extravagant and opulent interior space he’d ever seen. Though he’d traveled the country shore to shore over the last several years, at heart he was a country boy from a small town in Iowa. As practiced a grifter as he was, he couldn’t help but lose his breath as his eyes widened to take it all in.
“Holy Mother of God, Dorothy,” he muttered. “I’m a long way from Kansas.”
Rachel’s voice mirrored his astonishment as it poured through his earpiece. “Holy crap. It’s the goddamn Taj Mahal.”
The sub-vocal microphone hidden behind his ear relayed his response. “I guess the camera in my glasses frame is working.”
“Yeah, it’s working. Now stop standing there like a deer caught in the headlights. You’re Peter Keys, the Bill Gates of Madison Avenue. Start acting like it before you blow your cover.”
“Does it matter that I already wet my pants?”
She hacked out a laugh. “Jerk!”
Two
He’d left Sam at the doors and become Peter Keys, the identity he would assume until the sting was over and they were safely in the wind. It was going to be their last job, the one with a payoff so large they’d never have to look back, the payday that would allow them to quit the game once and for all.
One last score.
The mother of all scores.
Seven figures and out.
He signed in at reception and was greeted with a smile and a robust, “Welcome back, Mr. Keys,” from the slick-looking suit behind the desk, a Brooks Brother’s two-button worsted wool with a nametag that read Michael Broadbend. Broadbend was ridiculously handsome, a Jude Law lookalike with a prominent jaw and confidence to match. Sam immediately wondered what angle he was playing, but pushed the thought out of his mind. Passing for Peter Keys was the challenge he faced at the moment, not figuring out if Broadbend was rifling through coat pockets and purses in the cloak room.
Peter Keys had always been something of an absentee member, traveling the world for long periods at a time, dropping in at the club only when in New York for a brief respite between excursions. His latest disappearance was the longest—almost a decade. He hadn’t been to the club since 2009, nor had he been back in the country in all that time. He was a thrill seeker with more than enough old money to indulge his every adventurous whim. He’d hiked the Torres del Paine in Chile, explored the mysteries of the Great Barrier Reef, and sandboarded the Atacama Desert.
Broadbend was a young man—mid-twenties. Sam felt confident he’d never met the real Keys, so he didn’t feel threatened. They’d used a computer program to age the last taken photos of Keys, building a composite of what the man would look like now, ten-years hence. He caught a glimpse of himself in a polished glass wall panel. Rachel had done one hell of a job with makeup, spirit gum, and prosthetic facial hair. With ten years elapsed since his last visit to the club no one would be able to tell him and the real Keys apart. At least that’s was what they were counting on.
Broadbend looked up from the computer screen. “I see it’s been quite a while since you last visited with us, Mr. Keys. There’s been significant renovation in the last several years. Would you like me to give you a quick tour?”
The club was like an Egyptian pyramid in that the outside façade revealed a mere three-story structure, while inside a full nine floors existed. From researching online, Sam was aware of the inner nine-level structure and what resided on each floor. Even so, guided tour would make his life so much easier. Still, he had a role to play and was well rehearsed. “A tour?” he howled. “What kind of simpleton do you think I am, Broadbend?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.”
“Why I’ve navigated the underground city of Derinkuyu in Turkey with nothing more than my sense of direction and a flask of brandy. Does it sound like I’d have difficulty finding the library in my own social club?” Cutting him down with a scowl, he watched the color drain from the young man’s face.
“Mr. Keys, I’m so sorry. I was only trying to be helpful. I—”
Sam leaned in, his scowl slowly resolving into a grin. He patted Broadbend on the cheek playfully. “Relax, young man. Your charm and boyish good looks are better spent on the wealthy widows. I’m a bit out of practice, but give me a couple days to get back into circulation and I’ll find you one who’s still got a figure and bags of money.” He winked at Broadbend and walked off with a swagger, leaving the younger man flatfooted with his jaw hanging.
He whispered
into his mic, “I may actually be able to pull this off.”
Rachel replied with a laugh. “Don’t get cocky.”
Three
Las Vegas, Nevada, Four months earlier
Rachel exited the elevator on the third floor of the Cosmopolitan Hotel. Before her stood the STK Bar, a breathtaking expanse that exuded an abundant amount of laissez-faire extravagance. It was dark enough to insure discretion yet bright enough to flaunt the stunning layout and accouterments—the bronze-tone, wave-like, floor-to-ceiling abstract statuary, the white leather half-circle booths, and the exquisite high-gloss wooden tables. Yet in such an extraordinary setting, it was Rachel who turned heads as she strode toward the bar in her figure-fitting black gown with a slit cut to the thigh, her long tanned leg emerging with each of her flowing strides. Her hair for this occasion was sunshine blonde, curled with rollers—it bounced on her shoulders when she walked across the restaurant to the bar.
She’d selected this particular bar with great care. Of all the opulent night spots in Las Vegas, the STK was the most pigeon-rich. The Continuing Professional Education Convention was in progress bringing accountants from all over the country to town for required continuing education courses and a little something extra. The hooker-to-accountant ratio was at an all-time high—you couldn’t traverse a casino bar without picking up glitter from skin contact from the working girls.
The STK was different from the run of the mill watering holes. There were no five and dime bean counters here. It was strictly top drawer, a place where the Who’s Who of the CPA world came to relax—those of such high echelon in the accounting world—their clients of such extreme wealth—that they, too, had become extremely well-to-do.
It was also where the cleverest grifters came to play. Not that the con was a form of entertainment but it was most definitely a game, a game of strategy like chess, of baiting and switching, and creating the illusion of victory in the minds of their marks only to yank it away at the very last moment. Though she considered each scam deadly seriously business, she couldn’t deny that there was a thrill and sense of excitement that went along with it, especially now at the very beginning when the plot would materialize before her eyes, the webs of deceit expanding like the pedals of a blossoming orchid. She had studied for her role no differently than an actor rehearsing for a performance on Broadway, and had no ego in this process other than the self-confidence in knowing that she had what was necessary to get the job done. The real star was the mark, the person who would be worked and cajoled, played up to in a dozen different ways. All she had to do was find the right one and spot the angle from which to exploit him.
Rachel ordered a vodka gimlet and nursed it for a while. Business was dead slow and she was getting no real action worth following up on. She considered moving on to a different location, and even gathered up her small purse in preparation to leave, but the bartender appeared in front of her with another drink.
“It’s early,” he assured her. “Give it time.”
She checked her watch. “Almost eight o’clock.”
“Like I said—early.” He leaned across the bar and whispered, “Please stay. I’ve got you covered. All right?”
She was already feeling no pain. “Sure. Why not?”
With a second, and then a third, cocktail down the gullet she began to doubt her ability to do an effective job of landing a nice fat pigeon even if he sat down at the bar right next to her.
She was getting antsy but before she could call it a night the bartender placed a dish in front of her filled with day boat scallops atop pancetta. “It’s our signature dish.”
She smiled at the bartender politely. “I am kind of hungry.”
“Eat slowly,” he said and moved off.
“That looks amazing.” A gent pulled up a chair next to her at the bar. “Day boat scallops, am I right?”
Rachel’s mouth was full and her eyes open, open for a mark. She finished chewing. “That’s what Clive told me.”
“That’s me,” the bartender said. “What can I get for you, my good fellow?”
“What kind of sipping whiskeys do you have?”
“All of them,” Clive said pointing to the top shelf. “I’ve got Macallan Fine Oak and Macallan eighteen years—both single malt—Glenfiddich twenty-one years. For a little less money there’s Highland Park eighteen years, then—”
“Whoa. That’s enough. When I asked what you had I wasn’t asking for an audited inventory. I’ll have the Macallan eighteen.”
“Great choice,” Clive said as he reached for the bottle and placed a glass in front of his new customer. “It’s a hundred dollars a pour. Is that all right?”
“Just pour heavy,” he said and tapped the rim of the glass with his finger. He turned to Rachel. “Would you like one?”
“I am getting tired of the gimlets.”
The gent tapped the bar in front of her and Clive poured another whiskey.
Rachel wiped her mouth on a linen napkin before turning to him. Her mind was still clear enough for her to zone-in on two important points. Number one: he’d mentioned an “audited inventory,” which was clearly accountant’s terminology. Number two: the roll of hundreds from which he paid the tab was fat and juicy—at least three grand to her eye. “Layla Riggs,” she said. “Are you always so generous with strangers?”
“I now know your name, so, you’re no longer a stranger.”
“But you’re still a stranger to me,” she said.
“Alton Wrent.” He picked up his glass and they toasted. “To new friends,” he said. “So, how are the scallops?”
“Mouth watering, Mr. Wrent.”
“They’re from Maine, you know, and the fishing there is strictly regulated. They’re harvested only three months a year, and are shucked and put on ice immediately—never frozen.”
“You seem to know quite a lot about scallops. Are you a fisherman?”
“Ha! Do I look like a fisherman?”
“Not at all, but you are here…fishing, are you not?” Her eyes conveyed a clear message.
Wrent smiled before taking a sip of scotch. “I very well may be.”
“Good.” She placed her hand on his arm. “Then I’m prepared to hear all about these scallops.”
And anything else that comes along with catching you, hook, line, and sinker. Mama’s got to put some bread on the table.
Click here to learn more about The Whale by Lawrence Kelter.
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Here is a preview from Ten-Seven, the fourth Penns River crime novel by Dana King.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
1.
Vicki Leydig didn’t gamble. Drank a little, and the Allegheny Casino had the cheapest booze in Penns River. When Mary Zelesko asked if she wanted to go to the casino—oh, and Doug Stirnweiss would be there—Vicki thought a few beers might not be a bad idea, summer coming on after a miserable winter.
She and Doug maybe on the brink of becoming a couple. Mary—a primary source on all Doug-related scoop—said he would’ve asked her for sure if they’d met a few months earlier, before his divorce became final. Two years since the formal separation, Doug as checked out of that relationship as he’d ever be, the final decree hit him like a death in the family. Which it was, Vicki thought, in a way. The death of a family. Two little kids Doug adored. She liked that about him, that it meant something, the recognized end of what had been the focus of his life.
Doug not much of a gambler, either. Told her once he’d made the obligatory trip to the casino when it opened, lost five dollars in a slot machine, didn’t make another appearance until table games came in last spring. Liked blackjack because it was quick and didn’t require a lot of concentration like poker or craps. Left him free to bust stones with the other players, like he was now, Vicki and Mary on stools near the table, drinking beer and watching and listening.
“What’s that on your hand, man?” Doug talking to the guy at the next stool, early thirties, hair, beard, and waist all in need of a trim.
“Steelers logo.”
“My ass. Let me see that thing.” To the dealer: “Hit me.”
Bust. The guy held out his hand. Doug took hold of it for a better look. “That is the sorriest Steelers logo I have ever seen. What’d they soak you for?”
The guy passed the other hand over his cards, sticking on eighteen. “To be fair, they didn’t have much to work with.”
“What, your hand the wrong shape for tattoos or something?”
“There was another tattoo there already.” Dealer hit on fifteen, drew a six. Bastard. “They were covering it up.”
“What was the old one?”
“Girl’s name.” Bets were made.
“Really?” Doug pulled the hand for a closer look.
“Can I have that back?”
“I’m just looking.”
“How bad’s your eyesight?”
Doug released the hand, checked his cards. “I’m good.”
They played a couple of hands. Doug tried to start a conversation with the dealer, a real sourpuss more interested in checking out Vicki and Mary than blackjack.
Doug won a hand, turned to the other player. “What was it?”
“What was what?”
“The girl’s name.”
“What girl?”
“The one with her name on your hand.”
“You should know. She’s your mother.”
“Ohhhh. That’s cold.” Doug acted upset, putting it on, not mad for real. Stared at the hand. Squinted. “Can’t be my mother. Her name’s Samantha. No way that’s big enough to use to be Samantha.” Another close look. “Don’t see how they could even make a Steelers logo out of Samantha. Gotta be your sister.” The other player gave Doug a look. “Okay, okay, sorry. Cousin, maybe?”
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