Joe Gores: Cons, Scams, and Grifts

“This is your life line. See, it is long and strong. That is good. But here...” He indicated the place where another line crossed it at an angle. “See that... intersection?” He bent closer. “There is almost a break there. It could mean an illness, or...” His eyes widened. He swayed back slightly, casting a sharp glance at his companion. “Or... or danger.”

“Danger?”

“A psychic disturbance, a...” He paused again, then said, carefully, “Back in Matroushya, were you ever exposed to... influences that might have been connected with... evil?”

“No. I had a very important job with the government.”

Ramon took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. He shook his head. “Then it is better that I stop here.”

“You cannot stop,” said the man with emotion. “Not now.”

“But this is too... too heavy for me. I am of but limited skills, perhaps I misread...” He looked up into the disks of light-reflecting glass that hid the man’s eyes. “I wish you... no, I beg you, come with me and see my sister. She has the second sight, she is nearby...”

Suddenly Ramon felt a most dreadful agony. It was the Russian’s hand. The bastard had grabbed his testicles in an iron grip! Ramon’s hands scrabbled ineffectually at the bartop.

The Russian’s voice was low. “Yes, I had an important job with the government. I was with the KGB. We knew what to do with lying, cheating, conniving Gypsy scum like you. We would rip their balls off.” He twisted viciously before letting go. “A pity we two did not meet up in Matroushya before the fall.”

Ramon staggered outside to the laughter of the Troika’s other patrons, almost throwing up with the waves of nausea passing through him.

Tough, those Russians. Very tough.

He turned quickly up the nearest of the Avenues and thus away from Clement Street: the Russian might quit chortling with his buddies too soon and glance at the bar in front of him. It had taken all of Ramon’s fortitude, while the Russian was twisting his balls, to lift that $500 bill off the bartop.

The great classic car grab by Daniel Kearny Associates (Head Office in San Francisco, Branch Offices throughout California, Affiliates Nationwide) was over. Wiley’s UpScale Motors was out of business. Or was it? Kearny and his people met in the empty second-floor reception area of DKA’s converted red-brick laundry building at 340 Eleventh Street, in the City’s SOMA District.

Kearny sat on the scarred edge of the old desk, clipboard in hand. Behind him was the old-fashioned waist-high partition and gate that led to the head of the back stairs. Faintly from below came the clack of computers, the shrill of phones, a waft of exhaust fumes from the storage area behind the building.

Larry Ballard was tipped back in a straight chair against the wall, blue eyes sleepy, surfer-blond hair looking windblown. Far from chasing a woman last night, as Kearny had thought, he had been at a karate dojo on Ninth Avenue until midnight, working with the yawara stick the medieval Buddhist priests had called, rather fancifully, the lightning bolt of Siva. O’B and Bart Heslip were sitting on chairs under the windows.

“Eight to go,” O’B said.

“Seven,” Ballard objected. “We got twenty cars.”

Giselle was sitting in what had been the receptionist’s swivel chair, facing Kearny. Beyond the wall behind her were the row of small, neat cubicles, facing the street, in which the field operatives did their paperwork. She brushed a long strand of golden hair back from her forehead.

“Nineteen until we know how Ken made out with that 280Z.”

“Ken doesn’t miss,” said Ballard.

“Where’s Morales?” asked Bart Heslip.

“He went home,” said Kearny.

“He felt sick from—”

“Aw, poor guy,” said Ballard.

“Give him a break,” said Giselle.

“Forget about Morales,” rumbled Kearny. “We’ve got to find those missing cars and drop a rock on them.”

Giselle was handing out the list she had printed up.

“These are the ones that are still out there.”

1962 Corvette roadster, white/red interior, $28,500.

1995 Panoz kit car, dark green/black interior, $39,995.

1982 Ferrari 400I convertible, gold/black interior, $34,900.

1970 Aston Martin Volante, black/leather interior, $95,000.

1990 Jaguar XJS convertible, champagne/black interior, $17,995.

1966 Mustang convertible, red/parchment interior, $12,500.

1995 Acura NSX, black/black interior, $62,000

The Datsun 280Z Ken had gone after was not on the list. Keep the faith, baby. Kearny did the math in his head.

“I make it $290,890 out of sight and out of trust. I have to go back east for the national convention in Chicago this week. Giselle will coordinate from the office, Jane Goldson will assign your current files to the other field men. Get those cars! ”

Larry read from the list, “1970 Aston Martin Volante, black with a leather interior. Not many of those tooling around—”

“Not the point, Reverend,” said O’B. He hadn’t had a drink of anything except nonalcoholic beer for almost two months, so his blue eyes were clear in his leathery freckled Irish face. “You know the salesmen are trying to keep those demos for themselves. We gotta get into the UpScale personnel files for their names and addresses and hangouts.”

Ballard gave a skeptical laugh. “Big John would love to catch us trying a little B and E so he could yell for the cops.”

Heavy shoes tramped up the uncarpeted back stairs. Ken Warren’s tough face and big shoulders appeared above the landing.

“The 280Z?” Giselle asked him.

“Hnit’n hnin na mbahn.”

In the barn — meaning, in the bank’s storage lot.

“That’s one guy we won’t have to check out,” said Bart.

“What if they hide another one in his garage just to finesse us?” asked O’B. “We need that salesman list—”

Ken Warren’s big hand slapped a sheet of creased, greasy, lined yellow paper down on the desktop, half a dozen names and addresses scrawled on it. “Hne odtha hnthnailsmn,” he said.

Backward on the storefront window in the lower-rent fringe of San Francisco’s sunny Noe Valley was

Sitting with Lulu in the little apartment behind the shop, Staley Zlachi, King of the Muchwaya, looked anything but the stereotyped Gypsy. No brilliantined locks here, no swarthy skin, no golden earrings or twirled mustachios. Late in his seventh decade, Staley was white of hair, benevolent of belly, ruddy of face, everyone’s ideal Santa Claus. Lulu looked like Mrs. Claus, a jolly round-faced hausfrau up to her elbows in flour.

Together they could have conned the stripes off a tiger.

Almost. Last month in Tennessee they sued a clan of Tsurana Gypsies over a farm equipment deal that had gone sour. Each group had been conning the other, as usual using the gadjo legal system to settle their intertribal differences. But the Tsurana whispered in the judge’s ear that Staley was a Gypsy — and the case was thrown out. Staley paid all costs. A disaster!

Now here they were in Baghdad by the Bay, one of the best places in the country to score big bucks in a hurry because here minorities ruled. By Gypsy law, San Francisco belonged to the Kalderasha. The least that dominant tribe’s Baro Rom — Big Man — might expect was a courtesy call, gifts, some quid pro quo. Staley had been left unable to offer any of those things. But Rudolph Marino, his heir apparent, was on his way across the Bay from Richmond. He would know how to raise money.