King Con (20 page)

From the back seat she pulled a can of paint that they had mixed that morning with their two-to-one formula. The paint was now a rusty, coppery-reddish color.

“This here is called Ferrous Oxide Paint,” Beano began, “and what it’s supposed to do is protect exposed metal, for in the neighborhood of fifty years. The deal here is once it’s on, you don’t have to repaint for half a century, if you can imagine that. NASA and the Army came to us over at D.O.A. and said maybe we could get some farmers around here to allow us to put it on their pipes and water cisterns, sorta give it a test.”

Harper wiped his nose with a big red handkerchief, then stuffed it back into his back pocket. “Kinda bright,” he said, looking at the paint, already trying to imagine it on all his exposed metal. “What you say’s in it, again?”

“Well, I admit I ain’t a chemist,” Beano said, “and I ain’t quite sure. Jill, what’s in this stuff? You got them specs?”

Victoria looked on her prop clipboard. “It’s basically an aluminum-phosphate-based paint with sulfur and cilineum
nitrate,” she said, cursing herself because her voice was shaking.

“There ya go,” Beano said, smiling. “I think the cilineum nitrate is yer magic ingredient.”

“What’s the deal again?” Harper said, looking at them closer.

“Well, sir, I’ve been driving around all morning looking for a farm that looks like the pipes and cisterns’re about due for a paint job. What we’d like to do is paint your exposed metal out there with this stuff and see if NASA and the Army are right. You probably won’t have to paint again for fifty years. Cost to you is not one red cent. We’ll wanna put some white letters, FCP&G, on the cisterns to identify your farm from the air,” he said, reading off the Fentress County Petroleum and Gas initials.

“FCP&G? What’s that stand for?” Harper asked.

“It’s the paint. Ferrous-oxide Cilineum Phosphate.
G
stands for government,” he smiled. “Also, they wanna see if the normal letter paint affects the base coat. If ya say yes, you’re gonna be helping your government. Can you imagine the tax savings if all the tanks and jeeps and such don’t have to be painted but once every half-century?”

“I don’t gotta pay nothin’? And you all’re gonna paint all my pipes and cisterns for me and this stuff is gonna last fifty years? What’s the catch?” he grinned.

“Kinda strange, ain’t it?” Beano grinned. “Your government’s finally givin’ ya something back.”

“Son of a gun,” Carl Harper said, figuring this was indeed his lucky day. “When y’all need to start?”

“First thing tomorrow,” Beano said. “Just need you t’sign this official release. …” He had typed up a release on the motel office typewriter that morning. It didn’t look very official, but Beano said once they got that far in the scam, it wouldn’t matter. The farmer
would already be a laydown. And since they were really going to paint his pipes for him, he was the only mark in this scam who would actually be coming out ahead.

Mr. Harper signed the paper without a second glance, then shook hands with both of them, grinning the whole time.

As they drove away, Victoria couldn’t stop smiling.

“We’re gonna have to get you a tattoo under your watch,” Beano said, and suddenly they were both laughing.

P
APER COLLAR JOHN WALKED THEM THROUGH THE BIG
Store, which was on the top two floors of the Perm Mutual Building on Market Street. The offices had once belonged to State Mutual Insurance, and had housed the Account Supervisors, Vice-Presidents, and the company’s Regional Director. The spare-no-expense, taste-conscious executives had put in matched blond cypresswood paneling and white plush-pile carpet. When S.M.I, had closed this office two months ago, they had removed everything of interest except for some built-in lighting and one brass chandelier in the main conference room. The two floors were now empty, but very promising. Beano, Victoria, and Roger followed Paper Collar John around the floor, over parqueted wood where Roger’s toenails tapped musically, then across plush white carpets where everybody’s shoe leather squeaked. They walked in and out of sumptuous office suites and secretarial areas with their matching wood walls and paneled filing cabinets. Beano had already filled John in on the moose pasture at Cal Oaks Farm, and had given him Steven Bates’s name and number, and the number of the real-estate agent who handled the deserted construction company across from
the farm. Now, John was giving Beano the terms of the lease deal:

“I got both floors on a short lease, first and last month in advance. It was more than I planned to spend, ate up half the front money, but it’s as good a setup as I ever saw, so I went five grand over budget.” John stopped in front of a picture window that looked out over the city. Cable cars climbed the steep hills like brightly painted Chinese beetles. “I called the museum and told them I was the President of Fentress County Petroleum and Gas. By the way, I’m calling myself Linwood ‘Chip’ Lacy. I said I was a big art lover and that I’d like to sponsor some young local artists … but that I need to live with the art for a month before buying. I said we’d be interested in donating some of our wall and pedestal space to promising San Francisco artists and sculptors to be reviewed by major art critics at our grand opening in January. They’re ecstatic. It should get some pricey stuff in here for no money,” he said, surveying the acre of paneling.

“Good going,” Beano said as they wandered in and out of the offices.

The west windows looked out at Exxon Plaza and the Golden Gate Bridge. The huge Exxon sign with the double locking
x
‘s glittered in red from the roof across the street.

“Damn, that’s sweet,” Beano said, as he admired the view. “Nice to be able to keep an eye on our competitors,” he grinned.

“I’ll rent furniture and do the decorating myself,” John said. “Fax machines, phones, all that stuff will be mostly rentals. We’ll put extra office noise and pages through this speaker system from a background tape,” he said, pointing to recessed speakers in the ceilings. “Still, I’m gonna need five to ten thousand more to do it right,” he said.

“Looks great. How long will it take?”

“Two, three days, if I hurry and don’t get messed up. Also, I need to staff this place. I need at least forty-five people, so I’ll have to see how many Bateses are in the area. I checked the book, it looks pretty thin.”

“That’s because they aren’t all in there,” Beano said. “The sharpers doing local cons aren’t listed ‘cause the cops are getting hip to the X. You’ll have to get one of our cousins from around here to help you make contact. We need to put the mark in play by Sunday. Once we run the tat, we don’t want to give him any time to think.”

They moved to the ornate elevator and went down to inspect the floor below.

“I’m gonna put the big conference room down here for when we run the fire sale,” Paper Collar John said grinning, and Beano nodded.

John handed him some airline tickets. “I had these messengered over from the hotel. You and Victoria are booked to Miami at six tonight. You gotta buy your tickets to the Bahamas from there. The Customs Shed at Sabre Bay closes at five and the last flight gets in at four-thirty, so you’ll have to go over to the island tomorrow afternoon. Duffy’s already there with Dakota. They took a peek at the casino, and they think the tat’s gonna work fine in the main room, ground level. There’s a High-roller room on ten, but they didn’t want to run the risk of staying in there too long, so they didn’t try to case it.”

“Okay, good,” Beano said, as they moved out of the twenty-fourth floor, got in the elevator, and descended to street level.

“I’ll be staying at the Stanford Court, so you can reach me there,” John continued as they rode down. “I’ll keep you up on how I’m doing. Don’t worry; even
though it’s short notice, one way or another, I’ll be dressed and ready when the ball drops.”

Because Beano always liked to have a second way out of any location, he checked the ground-level fire door on the east side of the building as a possible “blow-off” escape route. He disarmed the alarm with his pocket knife before he opened the door. Then he swung it wide … and found himself looking straight at Texaco Phillips! The big ex-linebacker was leaning against a pole, holding a newspaper, pretending to be reading while he watched the front entrance. He looked directly over at Beano, but no recognition registered on his huge, flat face.

“Hi,” Beano said, smiling.

“Hi,” Texaco said back.

“Just checking the fire doors.” Beano made a big show of carefully checking the latch. He worked the mechanism once. “That’s a big okey-dokey,” he said to the mechanism happily, then closed the door. He turned with panic on his face and looked at John and Victoria. “We’re fucked,” he said.

“We’re what?” Victoria said.

“That steroid jockey that Joe Rina keeps for a pet. He’s right out there.”

“Texaco Phillips?” Victoria asked, amazed.

Beano nodded. “He’s out there, watching the front entrance. This jerk-off is actually hiding behind a newspaper like some character from a Bogart movie.”

“Whatta we gonna do?” John asked, worried.

“Upstairs,” Beano said.

They moved quickly back to the elevators and punched the button. Victoria was holding Roger. Sweat was forming on Beano’s face and neck, as he waited for the elevator. The panic he often felt about Joseph Rina now enveloped him. When he’d seen Texaco Phillips, adrenaline hit his heart like a shot of cold piss. He could
barely catch his breath. When the elevator arrived, he pushed twenty-five and they rode up in the plush antique-mirrored car. Nobody said anything. Beano tried to get his unreasonable panic under control. How could he possibly run a complex game against Joe Rina if the mere sight of his dumb, ugly bodyguard threw him into such distress?

When the elevator door opened on twenty-five they got out and moved into the office and locked the lobby door. Beano was badly shaken.

“Are you okay?” John finally asked, noticing the trembling.

“I’m fine,” Beano lied.

“How could he be here?” Victoria asked. “We didn’t tell anybody but Dakota we were coming out here.”

“Dakota didn’t finger us,” Beano said immediately.

“How do you know? Just because you’ve still got a thing for her? Maybe she’s mad at you.”

“It’s not Dakota,” he said again, and this time his voice was angry, exacerbated by the adrenaline coursing through his body. His tone said that the subject was closed. “It’s something else.”

“You don’t know that,” Victoria pressed. “Somebody had to tell him. That moron isn’t telepathic; I deposed him. He needs instructions to get his pants on.”

“Dakota and Duffy don’t even know about this building,” John said softly. “I didn’t tell them about it yet, so Texaco didn’t get it from them.” It was unassailable logic and Beano was grateful that it shut her up.

He turned to John. “Maybe he just spotted you. Have you been out of here, walking around on the streets?”

“No, never left since the real-estate deal was closed. I even had a guy from the hotel bring the airline tickets over. I booked them through the Concierge Desk.”

“The fucking tickets!” Beano said and he yanked them out of his back pocket and stared at them like disloyal
culprits. “Joe could have scammed an airline computer. They have cross-checks on reservations now from the city of origin. You bought them at the Stanford Court Concierge Desk; he could find that out and send Texaco over. You’re registered under Bates; he followed you here.”

“But how did they even know we were in Atlantic City?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Beano studied the tickets some more. “Maybe Tommy finally figured out who he ran into coming out of the can in the casino. Or maybe somebody recognized me. … I’ve been the star of that fucking
Most Wanted
program.”

“We gotta find a way to lose this guy,” John said. “He’ll come back here. I haven’t got time to screw with him. I got a lot to do, and no time to do it. We gotta lose him so he stays lost.”

“I could call the Hog Creek Bateses, and they could sit on his chest till this is over,” Beano suggested.

“Those hillbillies won’t fly. They’re strictly a Ram truck posse. ‘Sides, they couldn’t get out here till day after tomorrow.”

“We gotta call ‘em and then find a way to get Texaco off the road till they get here.”

They were pacing around in the office. Beano was chewing on the side of the tickets, running the catalogue of usable scams in his mind. No hustle seemed quite right, except for one. Then he turned and looked at Roger.

“I gotta pick this guy’s pocket, Roger. We need to kick him to the curb. I gotta sell you again, buddy. I know you hate it, but we’ve got no other choice.”

Roger, being the good sport and team player that he was, just barked at Beano and wagged his tail.

*  *  *  *

Beano thought that Victoria was the only one that Texaco would definitely recognize. But Beano had looked the big steroid jockey directly in the eye and, dumb as he was, Texaco might still remember him, so Beano decided to go to a drugstore and buy a new hair color.

He found another side door in the building and slipped out, located a drugstore, and bought a bottle of Lady Clairol Summer Sunset and a razor, ‘cause he needed to sacrifice the mustache.

He arrived back at the building ten minutes later. Before he entered by the side door, he crept around and found Texaco sitting on a bus bench across the street from the entrance. He was still hiding behind the paper like fucking Sydney Greenstreet. Beano ducked back inside, went into the ground-floor bathroom, and did the dye job. He shaved off his mustache and rinsed the excess color out of his hair. He surveyed his work in the mirror. He hated Summer Sunset ‘cause it turned him into a redhead, but he was running out of Lady Clairol shades. He had added just enough red to kill the blond surfer look. He combed it quickly with his fingers and moved out of the bathroom and back up to the twenty-fifth floor.

When she saw him, Victoria thought she liked Beano much better without the mustache. Even the reddish-blond hair looked good on him. He was, she thought, one of the most handsome men she had ever known, or perhaps Beano was somehow growing on her …?