Stephen Cannell - King Con

"Yes," the narrow-shouldered attorney answered.

"Are the outstanding shares registered?"

"Yes, but that's not the point."

"Why don't we just let Dr. Sutton and his partners have it? Let the whole deal just slide away," Beano said, sarcastically. "Let's just waste time asking a million dumb questions and let the other guys have the oil and billions of dollars of profit."

"I've been hired by Mr. Rina to analyze this transaction. That's what I intend to do," Alex said hotly.

"'Cept I agree with him," Tommy said, pointing at Beano. "Attorneys fuck everything up." He filled his mouth with Scotch and bar ice. "I got you here to document the transaction… okay? Nothing else. You start asking all these dumb fucking questions about S.E.C.'s and Ten-K's or whatever, and I'm gonna jam all this paperwork so far up your ass you'll need fucking Roto-Rooter to take a shit."

Alex Cordosian looked at Tommy, shocked. What kind of talk is this? he wondered. He had done legal work for Joseph Rina in San Francisco and Las Vegas. Joe was a refined and astute businessman. Alex never had to deal with Tommy before. Tommy had already told him downstairs that if he let anyone know what he was doing, including Joe, he'd kill him. Kill him! It was absurd… like a bad movie. But Alex didn't like the look of Fentress County Petroleum and Gas. Something was strange about it, and he needed time to do the due diligence. Yet this little thug across the room from him was threatening his life for trying to do his job! Even so, he was determined to protect his client. He would do the best he could to dissuade the ugly mobster from making an expensive impulse buy.

They talked for almost an hour. Beano answered Alex Cordosian's questions slowly, claiming ignorance on most of them because, after all, he was just a geologist. He frequently interrupted the lawyer, repeating, "There's a huge pay-zone under the Oak Crest field. End of story." He insisted they buy Fentress County in the morning, before Dr. Sutton could make a competing move. Alex kept explaining it was going to be very hard, if not impossible, to get his due-diligence answers in such short order. Beano sure the hell hoped Alex was right. Luckily, during the hour or so of questioning, Tommy was getting more frustrated and angry.

"Are you fucking through yet?" he asked the harried little lawyer more than once.

At midnight, Tommy threw Alex out with instructions to meet him on the twenty-fifth floor of the Penn Mutual Building tomorrow at eight A.M.

Tommy had decided not to let Beano out of his sight. He told the geologist he would have to stay in the same room with him. He said he didn't want Dr. Clark to take a powder like Dr. Sutton. Tommy moved into the bedroom, kicked off his loafers, and turned on the TV. "Whatta you wanna watch?" he asked politely, "Goldilocks and the Three Chicago Bears, with Ashley Lynn, or Video Cum Shots, with Donna Dare and Toluca Lake?"

"Tough choice," Beano said dryly. "Maybe you oughta pick."

Tommy pushed in his selection and flopped down on the bed. Beano went into the other room and lay on the sofa. He looked up at the ceiling and tried to run through the sting one last time, while the sound of Donna Dare's moaning and sighing came in from the bedroom. When he glanced over at Tommy in the next room, the mobster had his zipper open and his hands down in his pants.

"Another opening, another show," Beano mused to himself. He closed his eyes to shut out the ghastly sight. He was stuck with Tommy till morning.

AT EIGHT A.M., THEY PARKED IN THE SIDE LOT NEXT TO the Perm Mutual Building. Tommy locked the two suitcases full of cash in the trunk and walked briskly from the car, not waiting for Beano. He headed directly to the front of the building.

Tommy hurried through the double glass doors as Beano followed.

"When's this stockholders' meeting?" Tommy demanded as they rode up in the elevator.

"It's supposed to be at eight-fifteen," Beano said.

The doors opened on twenty-five to a bustle of activity. A young man with an armful of folders dove into the elevator before they could get out. He was chased in by a young woman, who held the door but didn't enter. "Tell Mr. Munroe the stock just ticked down an eighth of a point to five and seven-eighths," he said desperately to the girl, who looked harried and confused.

"I can't bust in there with that kinda news," she said. "You go run the Eastern and Southeastern fields' B.P.D. reports for Miss Luna like she wanted. I'll see if I can get Mr. Hatcher to slip a note to Mr. Munroe."

"Barrels per day," Beano told Tommy, who looked angrily at him for a translation as they got out of the elevator. The doors closed, whisking the young man away.

Beano wondered who the hell Miss Luna was. He knew the sharpers were trying to send him a message, a warning. He was on full alert, but he didn't know what had happened yet as they moved into the main secretarial area of the executive floor.

There was bustling activity everywhere: Bates family sharpers, dressed conservatively, were working on their computers or running folders of oil reports back and forth. Phones were ringing; there were pages over the sound system. Beano heard his own name: "Beano Bates, line two." He looked at Tommy, who, he hoped, didn't know who Beano Bates was. Tommy was devoting his limited powers of concentration to all the frenzied activity. He seemed impressed by the expensive art and the multitudes of scurrying, well-dressed yuppies.

Beano stepped away from him, picked up the phone, and hit extension two. "Go," he said.

"We got problems," Steve Bates said. "We got a mess here. Victoria is trying to set-" Suddenly, a hand reached in and disconnected the phone. Beano looked up and saw Tommy standing there, glaring at him.

"The fuck you doing?" Tommy demanded.

"I was going to page Dr. Sutton, see if perhaps he was here. I thought it would be nice to know what he's up to, since he might scuttle the whole deal," Beano said, his voice dripping snotty sarcasm. He was taking a chance that Tommy wouldn't backhand him here, and though Tommy's eyes flashed crazy, Beano got away with it.

"Get the President a'this outfit, this Chip Lacy prick," Tommy said, flipping open the brochure and pointing to Paper Collar John's picture, under which was the name LINWOOD "CHIP" LACY. Let's go brace this motherfucker."

Tommy grabbed one of the sharpers who was flying past and spun him around roughly by the arm. "Wanna see Chip Lacy," he said.

"Mr. Lacy isn't here."

"Isn't here?" Beano asked, startled.

"No. He had… Mr. Lacy had a slight coronary last evening. He's in the hospital."

"Who the fuck's runnin' this show?" Tommy growled.

"That would be Miss Luna."

"Miss who?" Beano said, his mind reeling. He couldn't figure out what was going on.

"Miss Luna, the Chief Financial Officer from the Knoxville home office. She flew in for the stockholders' meeting. Excuse me, I've got to get these wildcat-well asset sheets for Mr. Stuart," and the grifter pulled away.

Beano called after him, "Where's Miss Luna?"

"In Mr. Lacy's office, getting ready for the stockholders' meeting," the yuppie said as he turned the corner down the hallway and disappeared.

Tommy looked at Beano and then at the flurry of activity, phones ringing, people running here and there…

"I've only been here once," Beano said, "but I think Mr. Lacy's office is in the corner, over there." He pointed and headed off.

"Wonder where the fuck Alex is?" Tommy growled, looking around for his attorney. "We don't need him," Beano said, moving off toward the corner office, glad the hairy Armenian hadn't shown.

Seated in the President's outer office was Ellen X. Bates, Steven's wife. Beano knew from the dinner they'd had in Oak Crest that before she married Steve, she'd been an experienced telephone yak and had worked bucket shops from New York to L.A. She had a good gift of gab and a breezy intelligence. He and John had picked her to be a point-out stockholder. It surprised him that she was playing the lesser role of the President's secretary. Something was definitely up.