Лоуренс Блок: One Night Stands and Lost Weekends

The oil man now thought he was the owner of several hundred acres in Canada loaded with uranium. As it happened, the oil man now owned a few hundred totally worthless stock certificates. By the time he found out he had been taken, he wouldn’t even remember what Baron looked like.

The oil man had put up a little over $75,000. Baron’s end of the deal was twenty grand, and it would take awhile to spend it. Not as long as it might take most people, because Baron liked to live somewhat better than most people did. The better restaurants, the better nightclubs, and the better women all helped lift his life to a higher plane. He drank nothing but Jack Daniels and ate nothing but blood-rare steak.

Actually, expensive living was essential in his occupation. It seems as though marks would only permit themselves to be swindled by men who appeared to be rich. A threadbare pinstripe might do for a sneak thief, but a confidence man had to come on strong if he wanted to score.

Now he could bide his time. Tulsa wasn’t exactly the place he would choose for a vacation, but the telegram from Lou Farmer had indicated that Lou had a mark hanging fire in Denver that might be ripe any day. A trip to Miami or New York was out until the mark fell one way or the other.

Baron hauled himself up from the bed and stripped for a shower. He was thirty-five but in better physical shape than when he’d been twenty and working the short con in railway stations, grifting hard for ten bucks here and twenty bucks there.

He’d come a long way in fifteen years. A grifter’s money went quickly, but Baron had a growing bank account in New York and a healthy stack of dough in the stock market. Not in the kind of wild moose pasture that he sold to the marks, but a solid mutual fund that grew steadily and paid a nice dividend. A few more heavy scores and he’d be able to lay off for the rest of his life.

He toweled himself dry after the shower and shaved with a straight razor, applying a few drops of aftershave lotion and a few more of an expensive cologne that he liked. He dressed again, changing to a pair of charcoal slacks and a light brown cashmere sport jacket.

He locked the suitcase and left it in the closet, not really worried that the lock would be broken. It didn’t matter if it was; the money was snug in the case’s false bottom.

It was too early for dinner and he walked leisurely through downtown Tulsa. It was amazing, he thought to himself, the way the average guy never noticed what was happening. He spotted a cannon mob grifting the other side of the street, working their way through the pockets of passing shoppers. Baron picked out the hook easily and watched him work, dipping easily into a mark’s back pocket and passing the wallet to one of the other members of the mob in a second. Smooth.

Just for the hell of it he crossed the street at the end of the block and doubled back the other way. The cannons were moving toward him and he let one of the prat men bump him gently while he pretended to study the display in a shoe store. Only because he was concentrating was he able to feel the wire’s hand dip into his pocket, reaching for his wallet.

Baron said: “Nix.”

He half-whispered the word so that nobody but the wire would hear it. But the wire got the message. Instantly the hand was withdrawn and the wallet remained where it was.

Baron smiled to himself and moved on. Again the prat man jostled him, this time mumbling “sorry” under his breath. Baron’s smile widened. The thief was indicating he was sorry he had made Baron for a mark.

It was always a source of pleasure to him the way a thief could communicate to another thief without a mark ever catching on. He and Farmer and the others in his outfit could talk over the head of a mark forever. And just the one word, “nix,” had put the cannon mob wise to who he was.

Baron glanced at his watch. It was 6:30 now and he was hungry. He walked to the curb and caught a cab.

“Take me to the best steakhouse in town,” he told the driver.

At the restaurant he had a double shot of Jack Daniels on the rocks and a rare sirloin an inch and a half thick. He finished off with a pony of drambuie, inhaling the rich vapor of the cordial and enjoying the warm feeling as it trailed down his throat to his stomach. He paid the check and tipped the waiter generously.

He bought a paper at a corner newsstand and glanced at the entertainment page. There were only a few nightclubs in Tulsa and none of them seemed particularly appealing. How would he spend the evening?

A woman would be pleasant. He considered taking the bellhop up on his offer but gave up the idea. Later, perhaps, but not tonight.

Instead he caught a cab back to his hotel and wandered into the bar. He’d just have a few drinks and then catch a full night’s sleep. If there was a woman to be picked up he would pick her up, and if there wasn’t he wouldn’t be too disappointed.

At the bar he took the furthest stool from the door and ordered a shot of Jack Daniels with a water chaser. He tossed off the shot and was lifting the glass of water to his lips when he spotted the blonde.

He saw her before she saw him. She was tall, just a few inches shorter than he was. And her hair was long and golden. The plain black cocktail dress emphasized her high, full breasts and her long, tapered legs.

Her face was good, too, except for a slightly hard look about it. Looks, he decided. Plenty of looks, but not a hell of a lot of class.

Automatically he wondered what angle she was working. She didn’t come on like a hustler, but it was a cinch she was pushing her looks in one way or another. He sipped the chaser and waited for her to make her play.

He didn’t have long to wait. Her eyes surveyed the room rapidly and she walked directly to him, taking the seat beside him. She ordered a grasshopper and the bartender mixed the drink in a hurry and brought it to her.

Baron paid for her drink.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling at him. “Are you with the convention?”

He shook his head. “I’m working the C out of Philly,” he said, deciding to fill her in right away so she could save her time. If she was a pro she’d know enough to make her pitch straight instead of playing games; if she was in the rackets she would leave him alone.

She didn’t seem to have heard him. “I came down with my husband for the convention,” she said. “You know, the auto merchants are having this convention. It started yesterday.”

He nodded briefly.

“My husband had this meeting tonight,” she said. “He won’t be back until one or two in the morning. It gets boring for a girl, just sitting alone in a room.”

He smiled; she didn’t waste her time. He made her grift at once — it had to be the badger game the way she was planting her story. She would take him to her room and then her husband would come on with a gun, pretending to be furious. The hubby would threaten to kill him and settle for a cash settlement, and that would be that.

But she wasn’t being very smooth about it. She should pretend to be more reluctant and make him do a little more of the work. Otherwise the mark wouldn’t swallow the bait whole.

“What’s your name?”

“Dick Baron,” he said. “I just got finished working the rag in Dallas.” Now she would have to realize he was in the know.

But she seemed totally oblivious to what he had said.

“I’m lonely,” she said. “And I’ve got a bottle up in my room. Would you like to come up with me?”

He almost broke out laughing. Now he had the whole picture. She was working the badger game, all right, but she wasn’t a professional at it. That’s why her approach was so lousy and why she was missing the lines he was throwing at her. She was a crook, but an amateur crook.