Stephen Cannell - King Con

She looked at him and finally nodded.

On the way out of the restaurant, her cellphone rang. Her father had wheeled her mother over to get their coats when she answered it. It was David Frankfurter.

"You sure knocked the flies out of the garbage," he said.

"Lotta pissed-off people down there, I'll bet," she said softly.

"Yeah, listen, there's something else you oughta know. I got a kickback from the N.C.I.C. deep check on Beano Bates."

"Not that it matters anymore, but let's hear."

"His father was Jacob Bates. The Bates family is sort of well-known. There are three thousand of them. Most of the family is on the hustle. There's even an N.C.I.C. information number on them, with arrest records going back six years. If you want, I could order it up, but it's gonna be a phone book."

"Save it. Maybe later. Is that all?"

"That's not the main reason I called." He paused for effect. "Beano Bates's mother's maiden name is Sesnick."

"What?" she said; her voice was suddenly too loud in the restaurant entry. Her mother and father turned to look.

"Carol Sesnick was related to him," David finished.

"You think Bates stole the file because he's trying to get even with Joe Rina for killing Carol?"

"Well, he sure didn't steal it because he needed the practice," David answered. "The Sesnick family, by the way, is also in the computer. They're a family of American Gypsies. They work crowds in the Midwest, mostly pickpockets, some tarot card and palm-reading scams."

"Jeez" was about all she could think to say.

"I've got Beano Bates's mug shots and file pictures here. You want, I can fax 'em to your mom and dad's house."

"Yeah." She gave him the number, then stood there, looking out the front door of the restaurant. Her father rolled her mother up to her.

"Ready?" he said.

"Be right there, Dad," she replied, and he pushed the wheelchair out and gave the valet the parking ticket.

"Listen," David continued, "I've had a couple a'calls. It's kinda goofy around here. That Ted Calendar piece was courageous but maybe not too smart."

"I know… I'm sorry. I couldn't just do nothing. It was stupid, but it's done."

"Don't let these assholes run you off, Victoria. They want to sell justice by the pound down here. You're one of the ones who never let that happen."

"Thanks, David. Don't worry, I'm hanging tough," she lied. They both knew that Gil Green would never let her come back.

That same evening, Joe Rina had been having a celebration in the plush dining room at the Trenton House. At the table was his fiancee, Stacy DiMantia, and her father, Paul. Tommy and a hooker he had paid five hundred dollars to made up the rest of the party. The French dining room was named La Reserve. Their waiter was named Giraud Le Mousant; Tommy's hooker was named Calliope Love. She laughed loudly and called Tommy "the best little jockey who ever rode her." Joe was getting angry at her vulgarity and was about to say something when the maitre d' came over and whispered that Joe had a phone call. He took the call in the lobby. It was from Gerald Cohen.

"Just think you oughta know that you were accused of murdering the witness and two cops on Ted Calendar's TV program tonight."

"Come on, Gerry, they've got no evidence of that… You sure? Who's stupid enough to do that?"

"Tricky Vicky. I've got a copy of the segment. I'll send it over."

"She's not that stupid," Joe said. "What's she think she's doing?"

After dinner, Tommy and Joe watched the tape alone in the Trenton House manager's office. When it was over, Tommy was fuming. "This fucking bitch! Where's she get off? I'm gonna use this cunt up."

"You're going to calm down and watch your language," Joe said, without emotion. He put a tasseled loafer up on the side of the desk and looked at his tan silk socks, which came from Hong Kong and cost sixty dollars.

"We're not going to do anything right now. You got that, Tommy?"

"Joey, accidents happen," Tommy pleaded. "People get hit by falling safes… a car full a beaners runs a light and whammo, you got avocado salad."

"You will not do anything. Calm down, okay? I'll think of something… We'll take care of it at the appropriate time."

Tommy figured the appropriate time was now, but he didn't say anything. They got up; Joe removed the cassette, then turned to his older brother. "One other thing, Tommy. This sperm bank you brought with you… can you possibly get her to shut up?"

Tommy looked at his handsome brother. Sometimes Joe got on Tommy's nerves. With his good looks, manners, and Italian suits, Joe didn't have to work to get a good piece of ass… Since he was thirteen, all Joe had to do was crook a finger. Tommy choked back his anger over the criticism. He knew his little brother was the boss. That had been established when they were barely in their teens. Tommy wasn't about to change things now, but sometimes Joe could really piss him off.

It was only nine o'clock, but Victoria was exhausted. She guessed it was from the mental anguish of what had happened in the last two days. She was glad to be back home, in her own bedroom. She put on her old flannel nightgown that she had had since before college. She paused on the way to her bed and looked at her old cheerleading photos from ninth grade. She had been the team captain. She was kneeling in front of the rally squad, her pom-poms beside her, the big white W on her sweater. She was the only one in the picture who wasn't smiling. She let her eyes roam the room. Victoria had never allowed herself any leisure time here. She had studied hard, never wanting any seams to show. She had wanted to be perfect. She tried to recapture the countless hours spent in this room, to review them like favorite moments in a scrapbook… but there were none. This was not a room full of fun memories. It was a work space.

Her mother had picked the blue and white wallpaper. It had ballerinas on it; they were twirling, arms outstretched or over their heads, frozen in perfect plies and pirouettes. She could remember lying in bed as a girl, looking at the dancers on the wall, wondering what it would be like to dance like that, to be free, whirling with abandon, no cares, no fears, no finals. She could not imagine it. Her life was deadlines and due dates. She could never pull her eyes off the finish fine. Not then, not now. She wondered where that trait had come from and what it had cost. Her parents had tried to find outside interests for her, but no matter what the activity, Victoria always found the discipline in it. She had pushed her tennis lessons all the way to the Junior Semi-finals; her cheerleading team won the State Championship. Everything she did was planned out, plotted, and delivered on.

Law had been the perfect career for a beautiful over-achiever. She had been top of her class at Dartmouth and had turned down several prestigious law firms to go into combat training on the D.A.'s staff. She had been called Tricky there, but she knew "tricky" was hardly the word to define her. A better word was "relentless." She refused to give up on a case if she thought the perp was guilty. She would pursue new angles when a confession or evidence had been thrown out. She would research and study and dig till it hurt. She would often come up with unorthodox strategies that worked. Now, at age thirty-five, it had all come crashing down because of a small, wavy-haired mobster who walked on his toes. She couldn't understand how a road so carefully paved, so meticulously chosen, could end in such disaster.

She heard the door of the small elevator close downstairs. Her father had installed the lift two years ago, after her mother had the first stroke. The elevator hummed and Victoria heard it stop upstairs. Then she heard her mother's voice outside her door.

"'ictoria…?"