King Con (9 page)

He let some more time run off the clock. At nine-ten, Victoria Hart started glancing at her watch. Then she pulled her case files out of her briefcase and started going through them again. Angel poured the New Jersey Prosecutor a second cup of coffee. By nine-twenty she was tapping her fingers on the linoleum table top. Beano watched her carefully with a con man’s practiced eye. She was going to be a tough mark. She was definitely Type A, direct, no bullshit … the hardest kind. Type
A’s were generally fastidious, so Beano decided on a plan. He wanted to wait until she was just about to leave. If this was a trap, and she had somebody else in the restaurant, they would communicate before she got up. She would wave the back-up over and they’d do some whispering …
Whatta you think? Is he gonna show? Did he stand us up?
Beano continued to observe her; she was important to the layout of his con. As the Prosecutor on the case, she had spent almost a year trying to convict Joseph Rina. That meant she was the greatest living expert on that Mafia Prince outside of his own family. She would have already deposed all of his friends and business associates. She would know about all of his legal and illegal activities, his known associates, his girlfriends, his enemies. She would have the background information Beano would need. Most attorneys at trial keep a copy of the complete case files with them, so if something comes up, they can have it at their fingertips. He hoped she had the bulk of this information in her oversized briefcase.

Beano had very little knowledge of Joseph Rina beyond the fact that he was an avid card player and was viciously effective with a nine-iron at close range. His brother, Tommy, was reputed to be something of a loose cannon. He was fiercely loyal to his younger brother and had protected him all his life. In fact, at the age of fifteen, Tommy had attacked an Irish thug named Sean Morrisey, who had threatened Joe. Tommy had beaten him to death outside a bar with a ballpeen hammer. Then a miracle occurred: The thug sat up on the Coroner’s table just before the autopsy. They rushed Morrisey to the hospital and he had been saved. The way the story went, two months later the resurrected boy had been walking down the street where the beating first happened and was shot in the back from a passing car. Because he’d killed him twice, Tommy Rina had been Tommy
“Two Times” ever since. Other than that distressing piece of information, Beano knew next to nothing about Tommy.

Beano waited until the Prosecutor pulled up her huge briefcase and started digging around for her wallet to pay the bill; then he got out of his seat and crossed the restaurant toward her.

“Miss Hart?” he said, slightly out of breath.

She jerked her head up from her wallet and looked at him. “Cedric O’Neal?” Her expression said he wasn’t what she expected.

“Actually, no. I work with Ced O’Neal. He got stuck in New York on a pre-trial motion that got expedited at seven this morning. He called me and I got here as quick as I could. I hope you weren’t waiting long. I’m Martin Cushbury.” He handed her a card that said he was Martin Cushbury, Attorney at Law. The card was embossed in gold with the firm name of Lincoln, Forbes, O’Neal, and Ross. “I’m with our New Jersey office in Newark. I got his call at eight-thirty. I was in the damn shower. He tried to reach you but I guess you’d already left. … I got here quick as I could.”

“I have a ten o’clock court date, so we don’t have much time,” Victoria said, looking at her watch again.

“Okay, right. Well, uh … despite our lack of time, would it be all right if maybe I sat down?” he asked, grinning.

She motioned for him to sit and smiled apologetically, but didn’t speak. Beano thought her smile was stunning, but he pushed thoughts of her beauty away and went right to work. …

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” he said.

“Nine o’clock means
nine o’clock,
Mr. Cushbury,” Victoria lectured.

Angel came over and Beano ordered another big glass of orange juice. He smiled at her and let his face redden.
“Uh … well, let’s get started then. … I don’t quite know what Ced told you, but we represent an African-American male named Anthony Heywood, who has some information which, I guess, Cedric thinks could be of some use to you on this Carol Sesnick matter. However, Mr. Heywood will need some protection against future prosecution. He’s afraid he is about to be implicated in a grand larceny case.” He looked down at some prop notes he had in his hand. “Scribbled this stuff down pretty hastily this morning,” he alibied lamely. “Didn’t quite get it all.”

“After Mr. O’Neal called, I checked with the police.” Victoria interrupted. “Tony Heywood’s name hasn’t entered into any of our ongoing investigations. However, I ran him through N.C.I.C. Your client served time in Raiford Prison for second-degree murder.”

“He did?” Beano stammered, “Oh … well, I guess … I didn’t … But that doesn’t really change anything … or does it?” Beano looked nervously at his notes.

“A convicted murderer isn’t usually a credible witness,” Victoria negotiated.

“I suppose it’s better than nothing though, isn’t it?” Beano said, sounding confused. “I’m, ah … If I seem a little lost, it’s because I don’t do criminal. I’m in our real-estate department. Do leases and build-to-suit deals for corporate customers,” he explained. Beano sensed this news warmed her, as Angel set the juice down in front of him.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think you can contribute to my case?” Victoria said. “Then we’ll see what kind of deal, if any, we can make.”

Beano consulted his notes. “Let’s see. … Okay, Heywood was at a table at the Striped Zebra Club in Trenton. It’s a gentlemen’s club. I use the term loosely.” Beano smiled his boyish rainmaker smile. It brought rain, but only a few drops. She smiled back thinly. “Our
client heard somebody named Texaco Phillips offer Demo Williams five hundred dollars to help out with some wet work. … ‘Wet work,’ I presume, is like killing,” he explained, and she smiled patiently. “Later that night, Demo didn’t reappear at his house. He was found the next morning inside that stolen Econoline van in Hoboken.” Most of this, including Texaco’s name, Beano had gotten out of old newspaper articles about the Rina Crime Family and the killing in Hoboken. The rest was pure imagination. He knew it would intrigue Victoria and it did.

She leaned forward. “So, it wasn’t Joe Rina who solicited your client’s friend to commit murder … it was Texaco Phillips?” she said, taking out a yellow pad and beginning to make notes. “Exactly when did this conversation take place?” she asked.

Beano gave the story a little more gas. He wanted Victoria to think she could pick his pocket. “To be honest, I’m really ill equipped. I don’t have enough background to conduct a negotiation. Maybe you could see Ced sometime later this week.”

“Look, Mr. Cushbury, I’ve got to go into court this morning at ten
A.M.
and shut down a high-profile case I’ve been working for a year. Once I do that, I can never try Joe Rina for this crime again. Texaco might turn State’s evidence if I could roll him. So if you have anything I can use, I need it
now
or not at all.”

“I don’t know why Ced called me to do this. It’s nuts.” Beano could see the tightness around her eyes. … He had her going.

“Mr. Cushbury, Tommy and Joe Rina killed my only witness, who was also my friend. They killed two wonderful young police officers as well. I want those murderers in jail. You’ve got to tell me what you have.”

Beano looked again at the prop notes in his hand, as if they might somehow hold the answer to his manufactured
dilemma. He saw she was about to pounce, so he helped build her confidence with more manufactured confusion. “This stuff mystifies me. …” He looked at his notes for a long time. “Oh boy … here’s something I forgot, wait a minute.”

“Mr. Cushbury, your client’s friend, Demo Williams, apparently was contacted by Joe Rina’s bodyguard and solicited to commit a murder. If you have something, then damn it, give it to me.”

“Oh dear,” Beano said weakly, and looked down at his notes again.

“You won’t find the answer on that paper. You tell me now, or when Amp Heywood is eventually indicted for that grand larceny, I’ll see to it he gets the full jolt. I’ll sharpen his heels and drive him into the ground,” she said, leaning in toward Beano.

“You’ll what?”

“You heard me. If you have information regarding a triple murder, do you really think you can sit there and plead out your two-bit larceny? … This isn’t a real-estate lend-lease deal, it’s felony hard-ball.”

“You … you can’t …” Beano started to sputter. “I … represent this man. …”

“Watch me.” She took out a cellphone and dialed in a number. Then, before hitting
SEND,
she looked up at him and scowled. “What’s it gonna be?” she bluffed angrily.

Beano thought she was even more beautiful mad. “I … I … okay, but at least let me see the case file. If I’m going to do this, I need to look it over first.”

He had placed the almost-full glass of orange juice directly in front of him. He reached his right hand abruptly across the table to grab her folders. She started to grab them back and, in the process, he back-handed his orange juice glass over.

“Jesus, how stupid!” she cried, as the full glass of
juice filled the lap of her green business suit and began dripping slowly down her legs. She exploded out of the seat and looked down at the mess he had made of her outfit.

“Oh, my goodness,” Beano flustered, “how clumsy … how awful …” He grabbed his napkin and began to spread it around on her suit, making it worse.

“Stop it! Just stop it!” she said, then grabbed two napkins off the next table and looked desperately at Angel, the waitress. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” Angel pointed to a door in the back of the deli. “Stay here,” Victoria ordered Beano, then hurried off to repair the damage, leaving her briefcase behind in the confusion.

When she returned, five minutes later, Beano Bates and the Rina files were gone. “Dammit to hell!” she cursed at herself. Her dress was drenched with cold water and pulp shreds and hung on her like a wet saddle blanket. She felt like a fool as she looked down at the empty table. All that was left was the overturned glass of orange juice. Victoria Hart carefully picked it up and wrapped it in a fresh paper napkin. Then she put it into her briefcase and left the delicatessen. She had five minutes to make it to court.

A
FTER NINE MONTHS AND THREE MURDERS, VICTORIA
Hart voluntarily withdrew the State’s case against Joe “Dancer” Rina. The whole process took less than ten minutes. When Judge Goldstone dismissed the case, the little mobster nodded his head as if it had been God’s will and slowly got to his feet.

Gerald Cohen was closing up case folders and filing them in his briefcase as the Princeton Glee Club cleared the battlefield, gathering up pens, pencils, case reports, and unused arguments from the long, wooden table. The handsome mobster timed it so that he and Victoria met in the doorway of the courtroom. He graciously stepped aside to let her pass. When they were in the hall, he turned to her. …

“It’s gratifying when justice finally prevails, isn’t it, counselor?”’

“Are you talking to me?” she said, stunned by his arrogance.

“I believe I was.” He smiled.

“Then tell your blond flunky who stole my case folders this morning to send them back. There’s nothing in there I can use against you. This case is done … but I have to turn over my files for review. I’m sure you want my sorry performance evaluated.”

“Of course, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But let me give you a tip, Vicky … I’ve been very patient with you. I’ve endured your subpoenas of my friends and business associates. For almost a year, I’ve put up with your brash, unsubstantiated allegations. There’s a part of me that keeps asking why I’ve been so charitable. I don’t have an adequate answer. Perhaps it’s because you’re an attractive young woman and I was raised to be courteous to women. However, you’ve used up all my patience. In the future, you might do well to give me lots and lots of room.”

“The room I’m planning to give you is about ten feet square and has a view of the rock quarry. Get used to seeing me around, Joe, ‘cause I’m just getting started on you.”

She turned and walked away from him, squaring her shoulders, feeling his glare on her back all the way to the elevators. When she turned to push the
DOWN
button, she saw him still staring. He hadn’t moved, but the look on his face transformed him. He no longer looked like a movie star. In that brief glance, she could see inside him as if some mystic chisel had stripped away his beauty and revealed his inner core. In that second, before he turned and walked away, she saw the deadly glare of pure evil. She wondered if she could deal with such a virulent enemy.

Victoria had given the orange juice glass to David Frankfurter before court and he had run it across the courtyard to the police lab. By the time she got back to her office, she had forgotten all about it, but David came through the door with a police printout in his hand.

“You ain’t gonna believe this,” he said, holding the crime lab report. “We got three good prints off that glass. Index, middle, and thumb, along with a partial palm. This guy you had breakfast with is quite a catch.”

“Works for Joe Rina, right?”

“Not that I can tell.” He handed her the yellow sheet.

“Beano Bates?” she said, perplexed. “A confidence man?”

“Not just a con man,
the
con man. This guy is reputed to be the best long grifter operating in America. He actually
has
sold the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Come on, that’s a joke.”

“No joke … It’s a scrap iron scam. The way he worked it, Beano pretended to be a Brooklyn metal stress tester who was fired by the city. He had metal stress fracture X-rays and a buncha official-looking time line analyses. They convinced the mark, who was the greedy owner of a scrap metal company, that the bridge had serious metal fatigue and had been judged unsafe by the civil engineers and was going to be torn down. They said it was all being hushed up because the public outcry would be enormous. They set up a fake auction and this dummy paid a half-a-million dollars to Beano’s phony inside man to rig the bids. The same scam was done once by some French sharpers on the Eiffel Tower. Beano Bates is the only white-collar criminal on the current FBI Ten Most Wanted List.”