Stephen Cannell - King Con

The car was now out on Interstate 295 heading south.

"My uncle John Bates is there," he said. "He's got my mobile home with all my tricks of the trade aboard."

Beano reached into the back seat and pulled the canvas bag onto his lap. He opened it and pulled out a large glass pickle jar full of cash.

"Here's some of the front money," he said. "Bet you thought I was gonna try and use your maxed-out Visa card."

"You'll never get your hands on it."

"Already did: 596 4376 72 976," he said from memory, then grinned. "The moral of that story is: Never give your purse to a friendly dog."

She looked at him with disgust.

"Don't worry, your balance couldn't buy Roger here a nice dinner." He tapped the pickle jar. "This is everything I have left in the world. Comes to fifty-two thousand dollars and change. When I took the jolt in Raiford, the Feds used their asset seizure law to clean me out, but they missed this. This is seed money, but it's not enough. We need to triple it."

"We need one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to run this con?" Victoria was shocked at the size of that figure.

"It's going to be a Big Store. We're gonna set up a trap. I'm gonna run a moose pasture con on Tommy. That means we gotta buy a thousand gallons of paint and set up a phony international conglomerate with secretaries, asset trading, computers, and original art. It's gotta look so legit that Tommy and his accountant won't question it for a minute. That's gonna take some serious seed money."

"Where are we gonna get another hundred thousand?" she asked, letting her confusion about the moose pasture go for a minute.

"I thought it would be nice if Tommy and Joey funded this thing. They're pricks. They killed Carol. Pisses me off. So I think they should put up the money."

"How are we gonna do that?"

"Okay, Vicky, that's where you come in."

"I really prefer 'Victoria.'"

"Of course you do. 'Victoria' suits you. 'Vicky' doesn't have enough cobwebs on it."

She shot him a cold look.

"Okay, smart guy, so how do I come in?" She put on her turn signal and got into the fast lane.

"Tommy and Joe Rina are Atlantic City based. These two goombas make lotsa money on drugs, loan sharking, prostitution, whatever. Their problem is they can't spend it because they can't show the Feds where it came from. That means they gotta have some kinda money laundry nearby to wash their illegitimate funds. I want to get the front money by hitting their laundry, 'cause they can't squeal to the law afterward for fear they'll give up the operation. It'll be some kinda business that runs on cash. A casino is a perfect laundry, but the gambling commissions in Nevada, Jersey, and Louisiana won't license these two clowns because of their alleged criminal backgrounds. That means it'll probably be a chain of video arcades or parking garages… someplace where they can rig up bigger profits than they really have, then pay taxes on the phantom cash and get the money out so they can use it. Otherwise, Uncle Sam will build a tax case against 'em… That's a case where the government proves they spend more than they make."

"I know how upside-down tax prosecutions work, Beano. I'm not from Cowlick, Kansas."

Beano closed his eyes at that, then went on. "Okay, so then you know what I'm looking for. Anything like that in the file?"

"Yeah," she said, and looked over at him, determined to make him ask. She didn't like his loose, breezy manner; he was way too cocky for her taste, and if she was going to have to spend any time with him, she would need to bring him down a few notches.

"So let's go. Let's hear it… or do I gotta get on my knees here?"

"I thought con men were supposed to be charming," she sneered. "You're just rude."

"You do want me to beg."

"I want you to stop coming on like you own the show. I'm not going to just blindly follow you around. If I ask you a question, I expect a straight answer. I'm not some table-dancer you picked up in a bar; I'm a prosecutor with a pretty good analytical mind."

"Ex-prosecutor. And here's a dp, it's never very effective to do your own commercials. Always get a singer to do them for you… works much better," he said.

She continued on, "If I like what I hear, then I'll cut loose some information."

"Turn around," he said dully.

"Huh?"

"This isn't gonna work. This is nuts. I musta been smoking something. Just take me back to Trenton. I'll find out what I need somewhere else."

"You can't just dump me."

"Turn the car around. This was the worst idea I've had since I tried to cheat Joe Rina at cards."

"You cut me loose, I'll turn you in to the cops. Tell 'em you're getting set to scam the Rinas."

"I thought you cared about Carol. I'm doing this for her."

"I do care about Carol. I just don't trust you." She kept driving and he sat there, sulking like a child. Roger-the-Dodger was looking back and forth at them like a spectator at a tennis match.

It had been close, but Victoria felt she had won that point.

She let him cool down before finally giving him what he'd asked for. "Tommy and Joseph Rina are the silent owners of a chain of retail jewelry stores called Rings 'n' Things." That brought Beano's head around. "Rings 'n' Things is owned by a parent company called Precious Metals, Inc., also owned by the Rinas. Precious Metals is a company that buys silver, gold, and platinum and sells them to jewelry manufacturers. When I found that out, I figured it might be a laundry because Precious Metals sends gold and silver shipments all over the world, and Rings 'n' Things has a store in Geneva, Switzerland, which, as you probably know, is the end of the line for cash in a well-conceived laundry. Rings 'n' Things also has stores in hot-ticket towns like Vegas, Reno, and Atlantic City. All big gambling centers."

"Finally, you give me something other than attitude."

"How are we gonna hit his jewelry stores… buy ski masks and come in waving guns?"

"You think I'm a cowboy, but I'm not. When I hit, if they know it in less than twelve hours, then I've screwed up."

"So whatta you gonna do?" she asked.

"I'll figure something out, Vicky. I just heard about it. Give me a minute or two, will you?" He slumped down into the seat. They rode in silence as Beano was lost in thought. She made the turnoff onto the Atlantic City Expressway and it started to drizzle. The wipers metronomed, slapping the mist off the windshield.

"Okay," he said fifteen minutes later, "got it." Then he put his head back on the seat and closed his eyes.

"So what are we going to do?" she insisted.

"Gonna sell Joe and Tommy a pearl," Beano said without opening his eyes, and that was all he would tell her.

The Shady Rest Trailer Park on the outskirts of Atlantic City was about as run-down as the Health Department would allow. There was a pile of garbage rotting by the road out front. Black and green flies performed aerial combat over the reeking mess. The office was under a bare deciduous elm tree. Victoria pulled her Nissan in and Beano found his '95 blue and white Winnebago parked under a dying cherry tree, next to a power and water hookup. There was a canvas tarp lashed over the top of the rig to hold down roofing equipment stored up there. Beano didn't do roofing scams anymore, but there was something about the tradition that was ingrained deep inside him. To him, the Winnebago was home, and that's what had drawn him to the vehicle when he'd seen it marked down for sale last summer. He had loaned it to Paper Collar John to live in because John and his wife, Cora Bates, had come on hard times after John's bust for running a block hustle in the Hamptons last year. In an unfortunate act of piling on, Cora got sick right after John's fifteen-month conviction. She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It was growing like river moss inside of her. John didn't talk much about it, but there was a deep pain that never left his gray eyes. The cops had John's number and were watching him pretty close. Beano had loaned his aunt and uncle the motor home so they could move around and steer clear of police scrutiny. Two weeks ago, Cora had been hospitalized and had gone into a coma. When Beano had called, John jumped at the chance to get back into action… He needed money to pay Cora's hospital bills. Beano figured if the con went off the way he planned, there'd be plenty to spread around after it was over.