Con Academy (22 page)

“I didn't . . .” Rhonda manages, and the words seem to trail off into silence. The air around us smells like gunpowder. With a blankness of expression, Rhonda looks down at the gun in her hand and forces the next few syllables out. “Frank, I thought . . . you said . . .”

“You stupid cow. What the hell were you thinking?” Dad's face has now gone white with alarm, and he stares at me. Sirens are rising in the distance, getting closer, and I can see him trying to remember every exit. “This isn't happening.”

Meanwhile, all I can see is Andrea.

She's sprawled out below me, pale and motionless, staring up at the ceiling, and I think of the way that Mr. Bodkins described her to me after my first day at Connaughton.
Looks like she sleeps in a coffin.
There's a thread of blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, and her hair is over her eyes. Looking at her, I feel like somebody's kicked me in the chest.

Somewhere off to my right, Brandt is making weird, high-pitched, asthmatic noises, and I can feel him trying to process what's happening, the facts sinking in, and how he can't possibly be here in the middle of this room. I know exactly how he feels. This isn't part of the script. Dad and I were supposed to have Brandt's cash and be out the door by now. Instead there's a seventeen-year-old girl on the floor in front of me with a bullet in her chest, dying.

I think about how this all got started, with a wild, misdirected flight of optimism that I realize now was just a delusion.

It's all gone wrong.

The sirens are right outside now, car doors slamming, and I can hear footsteps, authoritative cop shoes, coming up the stairs.

“Will . . .” Dad looks at me and moves his mouth, but instead of talking, he just turns and bolts for the back office. There's a window in there that is connected to a fire escape, and when he's gone, I notice that Brandt is also backing away.

“I can't . . .” he starts, and turns to go, but it's too late.

Two men in suits are stepping through the doorway. They immediately put Uncle Roy in handcuffs.

And that's how I know it's really over.

“FBI,” the tall, bald one says, flashing his badge as he pushes Roy into the corner, while the other agent, a distinguished, middle-aged guy with a well-trimmed goatee, slaps some cuffs onto Rhonda. The bald one rushes over to where Andrea's lying and looks at his partner. “Call an ambulance.”

“They're on their way.” The second agent turns and scans the room, his gaze settling on Brandt. “Brandt Rush?” he asks, as if to confirm his identity.

Brandt takes a step backwards. The sight of their badges seems to have done something to him, snapped him out of the paralysis of the moment. He blinks at them, hands in the air. “Wait, hold on—”

“Mr. Rush, you need to get out of here right now.” The bald agent is moving toward Brandt. “The Bureau has been surveilling this operation for a week, and your father sent us to get you out.” He casts another glance down at Andrea. “There's a car waiting downstairs. Come on.”

“But—” Brandt looks at the briefcase across the room. “What about my money?”

“There's a dead girl on the floor, Mr. Rush. You can't be mixed up in this right now.”

Brandt's eyes widen. “That's two million dollars in there!”

“It's evidence now,” the bald agent tells him, grabbing his arm. “Right now you have to go.”

As he hustles Brandt out the door, I finally feel whatever was left of my strength draining away, pulling the hinges on my knees, and I manage to descend to the floor so slowly that it doesn't hurt. It feels vaguely reassuring to know that at this moment, I literally can't sink any lower.

The bearded FBI agent walks right past me to where Andrea's lying on the floor. Watching him in action as he squats down to look at her, I realize that there's something familiar about the way he moves. Turning her head to one side, the agent leans down and taps her on the shoulder.

“They're gone.”

Andrea opens her eyes and smiles. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

The agent helps her to her feet. That's when I remember where I've seen him before. He's Donnie, and the first time I saw him, he was dressed in a bathrobe and standing in my dorm room, claiming to be Dr. Melville while he ordered me to pack my things and leave Connaughton. And the other agent is Chuck, his tall build and bald head helping him pass, apparently, for any kind of authority figure.

Words fail me. I stare at Andrea, and I get a totally unreal feeling that the world is going sideways on its axis. I wonder if this is how a mark feels when he recognizes that he's been suckered, and I realize—however belatedly—how much I've really learned here after all.

Andrea spits out a squib of blood, wipes her mouth, and brushes her hair back out of her eyes, favoring me with a smile.

“Well played, Will,” she says. “Sorry we couldn't let you in on it earlier, but we figured it would be more realistic if you didn't know the whole setup.”

“We?”
And now I'm staring across the room at Rhonda, who's already pulled off her dishwater-blond wig and tossed it unceremoniously on the floor. She's actually quite young and pretty if she were to take off her makeup and not dress like a tramp.

The woman walks over and gives Andrea a hug. “We did it,” she says, and Andrea smiles.

“Are you going to call Moira?”

“Right now,” Rhonda says, and dials a number on her cell phone. “I'll put her on speaker.”

The room goes quiet as the phone rings, and a voice—Moira McDonald's, I guess—picks up. “Rhonda?”

“Hi, you,” Rhonda says, mock-casually. “Guess what?”

“You got him?”

Rhonda smiles at Andrea. “Nailed the bastard to the wall.”

Through the phone, Moira lets out a whoop of pure joy. “I can't believe it,” she says. “We finally got Brandt Rush!”

“And then some.” As Rhonda takes Moira off speakerphone and continues the conversation privately, I flick my eyes back over to Andrea.

“Who
is
that?”

“Moira's older sister,” Andrea says. “She's a junior at Mount Holyoke.”

I stare at her. “So you and my dad actually—”

“Yuck. No.” Rhonda makes a face. “Thankfully your dad's a black-out drunk. I just let him get plowed and in the morning I'd tell him what a great time he had.”

“How long have you two been planning this?” I ask. “From the beginning?”

“Moira and I were best friends when Brandt put up those pictures of her last year,” Andrea says. “I promised her we'd get payback. From the moment I realized that you were a con artist, I knew you'd pick him as a mark.”

“I'm seriously that predictable?”

“You're a guy,” she says with a shrug. “All you required was the proper motivation.”

“So our whole bet was just—”

“Me getting you to do what I wanted and needed.” Andrea blinks, the very picture of innocence incarnate. “I guess it worked.”

“What about the—”

Bang!

Jerking upright at the noise, I spin around to see Uncle Roy holding a bottle of champagne, bubbles spilling from the neck. It's the good stuff. He's already serving it to the rest of the crew, who have abandoned their computers and are holding up glasses to be filled.

“Were you in on this too?” I ask him.

“Only at the end,” Roy says. “Andrea came to me a few days ago with the perfect way to get your dad off your back, and I knew I had to do it.” He beams at her. “You're a pretty sharp grifter for a kid,” he says. “In ten years you'll be dangerous.”

Andrea gives him a crooked smile. “Thanks. I think.”

“You too, William.” Roy rests his hand on my shoulder, and I see a serious expression come over his face. “Good con. Even if you weren't in on the whole enchilada, your mother would be proud. You're going to be great at this, kid—maybe even better than me someday.” Then, before I can reply, he tosses back a glass and turns to the room. “Okay, everybody—have your drink, and start tearing this place down. I don't want to be here when the Rush family comes back with the real police.”

“Uncle Roy—” I begin.

“Later, William, all right? I'll meet up with you at the airport with your cut of the take.” Turning, he grabs one of the computer monitors and hands it off to Chuck. “Everybody lend a hand—let's get this
done.
”

The office bursts into a blur of activity. I look over at Andrea, but she and Rhonda are off in the corner with Moira still on the phone, the three of them laughing and talking about the score. Andrea glances down at the bloodstain on her blouse, and Rhonda points at the gun, reenacting what just happened. In the midst of all of it, Andrea looks up at me and starts walking back over.

“Hey, tough guy.” She comes in close, regarding me quizzically. “You all right?”

I nod. “I'll survive.”

“Kind of weird to find yourself on the other end of the con, isn't it?” she asks. “But we had fun while it lasted, didn't we?”

“Who knows?” I say. “Maybe I'll bump into you down the road.”

She gives me a peck on the cheek and turns away.

And that's okay, because now that I know how it's going to end, I realize that I still have one last thing to take care of.

“W
ILLIAM?
” I
T'S
U
NCLE
R
OY'S VOICE ON THE OTHER
end of the cell phone, and he's bellowing loudly enough that I have to hold the device a good six inches from my ear. “Are you even listening to a single word that I'm saying to you?”

“I can hear you just fine.” Looking down at the backpack lying open on my bed, I shove the last of my clothes inside, just jeans and T-shirts, and stuff the laptop in before zipping it up. “I'm just not sure why you're freaking out like this.”

“You're not sure? You're
not sure?
”

“Well,” I say, “I guess . . .”

“The money's gone, kid! Nobody saw where it went! One second we're tearing down the office, clearing out, and the next second . . .” He pauses.
“It's just not there.”

“Yeah, well.” I glance out the window of my room, mentally saying goodbye to the view. “I guess you're right. The money's gone.”

“You guess?” Roy roars and coughs his incredulity. “William, I'm asking you this once, and it's not a rhetorical question: Who are you, and what did you do with my favorite nephew?”

“Come on, Uncle Roy, face it. It was never about the money.”

“Are you nuts? Of course it was!” Roy is coughing louder now, like he just swallowed his cigarette. “And what about those other guys, the ones that came up here from Boston for the job—”

“And they got to work with the most legendary con man in America,” I say, “at the very top of his game. They should be paying you.”

“Well, yeah,” Uncle Roy grumbles reluctantly, “you're right about that. But still . . .” He sighs. “She took off with it, didn't she?”

“Who?” Although I know exactly whom he's talking about. “Andrea?”

“Who else?” Roy growls. “Come on, we both saw the way she and Rhonda were sizing up that briefcase. I don't care what they said about revenge being enough.”

“She already took the hundred and twenty-five thousand that she raised for those orphans,” I say. “You'd think that would be enough.”

“Nuts.” Roy grunts. “I don't care who you are—nobody in their right mind walks away from two million bucks.”

“I guess you'll be going after her, then?”

“You bet I will. As soon as . . .” There's a long silence, and Roy finally lets out a breath. “Nah.”

“Seriously?”

“You know, William, guys like us, we're always looking for the angle, some way to cheat fate,” he says. “But in life, as in the big con, sometimes there is no angle. Sometimes you just have to play it as it lays.” He pauses and I realize we're reaching the end of our conversation. I stop and take one last look around my room to make sure I didn't miss anything. I've left my Connaughton school uniform neatly folded at the foot of the bed. I don't belong here, and at this point I don't plan on lingering around any longer than I absolutely have to.

I hear the sound of a motor getting louder, and I look outside my window again. A hundred yards away, an airport shuttle bus is pulling up in front of the statue of Lancelot Connaughton.

“Roy,” I say, “I need to go. Call me when you get back to Vegas, okay?”

“I'm not going to Vegas, kid. Not right now, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“I got a tip on some hot action, a little stock swindle going down in Fort Lauderdale. Florida's where most of us geezers end up anyway, this time of year. After that . . . who knows. Europe, maybe. The French Riviera.” He chuckles. “Lots of rich widows there.”

I smile, imagining him walking down the café-lined boulevards of Nice, hand in hand with a wealthy socialite from Minneapolis. “Thanks, Uncle Roy. I really appreciate everything you've done for me. This was . . . really great.”

“Don't thank me yet, kid,” he says. “You hear anything more from the Rush kid?”

“Not really. Word around campus is that his parents pulled him out of school, flew him to Davos for a week on the slopes.” I can only shake my head at the absurdity of it. Only in this particular stratum of American wealth would someone get punished for losing two million dollars by being sent on a ski trip. “I think he's probably just glad it wasn't worse.”

“Well, do me a favor—see what you can find out about that two million, huh? For an old man's peace of mind?”