F. Paul Wilson - Infernal

"Shit. Too bad. They were close, I bet. Not like us."

Jack gave him a long look. Was that regret in his eyes?

"No. Not like us."

Tom didn't want to get onto that subject.

"So what were these brothers into?"

"Their father, Frank Senior, used to run one of the original telephone booth scams out of Florida."

Florida…

Tom shivered as they started up 29th Street. A lessening of the wind here between the avenues made the air seem warmer, but not a whole hell of a lot. He could use a little Florida himself right now.

"Connected?"

"Yes and no. He wasn't in the outfit, but he paid them a piece of the action to, you know, avoid trouble."

"Telephone booths… I've had a lot of scams come through my court, but that's a new one."

"No, it's an old one. It's passe now. But back in the day Big Frank would take out ads in small town papers all over the South and in the Midwest offering to sell people phone booths."

"Phone booths? What would anyone want—?"

"Just hear me out and you'll know. The pitch was you could buy as many as you wanted; you could install them yourself or, for a small percentage, Big Frank's company would handle installation, maintenance, and collect all those coins. Once you were set up you'd have a steady stream of cash without lifting a finger. All you'd have to do was sit back and start counting your money. Everybody's dream, right?"

"And people fell for that?"

"Enough to make Frank Castellano rich."

"You mean people would see this ad, write out a check, and just send it to him?"

"Not with the price Frank was asking. No, the really interested ones would call the toll-free number, and if they sounded like live ones, Frank would buy them a plane ticket, fly them down, and show them around his telephone booth plant."

Tom was nodding. "I'm getting the picture. A Big Store."

He'd always found scams fascinating—the more elaborate, the better.

"Right." Jack gave him an appraising look. "So you know a Big Store when you hear it. Interesting."

"Everybody who's ever seen The Sting knows that."

"But they don't know it's called a Big Store. Anyway, Big Frank's first Big Store was a rented warehouse outside Fort Myers. He'd tour the people through, pass them by lab-coated technicians working on circuit boards, show them a sample booth and dozens of big wooden crates ready to be shipped, tell them how he's swamped with orders and having trouble keeping up with demand. He'd set the hook by telling them how the first people to place booths get the best locations; the johnny-come-latelys would have to take the leftovers."

"And so they started writing checks."

"Big ones. Thousands and thousands."

Tom had the picture now: "But the booths never showed up."

"Never. When folks started to complain, Frank put them off as long as he could. When they finally came looking for him, Frank was gone. He'd moved his operation to the other side of the state."

Tom shook his head. "Never ceases to amaze me how people never learn: If it sounds too good to be true, it almost certainly is."

"Yeah, well, so Joey and Frank Junior are—were carrying on the family tradition with an Internet booth variation. And they're cleaning up, though not as much as they did with cell phone licenses."

"There's another new one."

"Worked with the same come-on as the phone booth: Get a cell phone license for a given area and you can collect roaming fees from anyone making calls from your turf. Frankie and Joey charged folks eight, nine, ten thousand bucks for a mobile phone license."

"Which were worthless, right?"

"Nope. They delivered the real deal."

"The real thing?" Then Tom smiled. "Oh, I see. The victims could have got them on their own from the government for something like a hundred bucks, right?"

"Seven hundred, actually. All the marks would have had to do was fill out a form. They never needed Joey and Frankie."

Tom smiled. "Who says you can't cheat an honest man?" Then he shrugged. "At least those folks got something for their money. Better than a phone booth that never arrives."

"But not much. Seems the guys neglected to tell the marks that they'd have to spend well into six figures to build the cell tower that would allow them to collect. But how'd you guess about the government selling them for so much less?"

Tom shrugged again. "Not a guess really. A fair number of attorneys are doing very well with a variation on that."

Back when he was in private practice he used to work that sort of thing. Those were the days…

Tom sighed. Sometimes—many times, lately—he regretted leaving private practice. He'd wheeled and dealed and wheedled and angled for a judgeship. He'd heeded the siren song of the prestige, the opportunities it would afford him. But he'd have been better off now— lots better—if he'd stayed in the lawsuit game. Torts, wrongful deaths, and personal injuries had turned into such a gravy train. Guys he knew were making fortunes off plane crashes and even the 9/11 thing. Those kinds of claims almost never went to trial except maybe over the amount of money owed. Guys were collecting a third of the recovery for doing next to nothing.

"Why am I not surprised?" Jack said in a flat tone.

Tom waved his hands. "All perfectly legal."

"I can't wait to hear this."

"Here's how it works. All you need is a mass tort or a disaster that results in the creation of a fund. The breast implant settlement, for example. Or the Ramsey IUD settlement. Guys made tons by putting out ads indicating their 'expertise' in the Ramsey IUD case, then getting claimants to sign on to percentage agreements—some got pushed to as high as forty percent. But all the attorney had to do to earn it was show the claimants how to document their use of the product and their injuries, and then fill out the forms. All of which they could have done themselves in a written application to the fund."

"So instead of getting a hundred percent of the settlement, they wind up with sixty because forty goes into some shyster's pocket."

"Like I said: perfectly legal. Lex scripta is all that matters. But you have to take into account that a lot of those people wouldn't have wound up with a dime if the ads hadn't spurred them to action."

"Swell system. You sleep okay at night?"

Tom felt his jaw clench. "You're not going to do your Mr. Sanctimonious impersonation again, are you? What about your pal Joey?"

"Not my pal."

"You ever inculpate him about his cell phone scam?"

"That's different."

"Really? How? He bilks thousands. I want to play around with a bogus twenty and you get on your high horse. How come he gets a pass but not me?"

"I don't like what Joey does but, because of the way he was raised, he doesn't know any better. He thinks that's how life is. But that's only a side issue. Joey's not my brother. You are. And you and I were raised with the crazy notion that doing the right thing mattered —mattered more than just about anything else. And the right thing is the right thing, even if the law says otherwise. Remember?"

Tom tried to remember. But his boyhood days growing up in the tiny town of Johnson, New Jersey, were a blur. Echoes of Dad's voice flitted through his head, but he couldn't hear what he was saying. Probably because he hadn't been paying attention at the time.

All he'd wanted was out. He'd seen Philadelphia and Manhattan and Baltimore and D.C. on class trips and had known immediately that Johnson was not the place for him.

And then he remembered the night he'd almost been killed, and Dad shouting at him. First, because he was scared that Tom had almost killed himself, and then because of how he'd almost done it.

He'd come across this Trans Am with the keys in the ignition. Sixteen, no license, but he knew how to drive. So he'd taken it for a spin. Everything was going fine until he went into a curve a little too fast and wound up wrapping the car around a tree.