"The fuck you doin' stayin' in that hotel in town?" was Tommy's first question, passing right over "Hi" and "How are you?"
"You said-"
"Hey, musclehead," Tommy charged on, "you gotta wait at the airport. If they show up and buy tickets at the counter, you gotta be there. What the fuck's wrong with you? I give you Peter's number and he tells me you only call him once."
"Jeez, Tommy," Texaco whined, "what'm I supposed t'do, call him every hour?"
"Fuckin' A right. He's checking every hour, you call him every hour. What're you doin' out there? Gettin' a Chevy parked up your asshole or something?"
"Come on, Tommy." Texaco Phillips was beginning to truly hate Tommy Rina, but the more he hated him, the more he was afraid of him. It was a strange formula. He promised he would call Peter Rina every hour on the hour and move to a hotel at the airport. When he hung up, he had completely lost his appetite.
There was a small Western combo and some pretty slick line dancing going on in the nightclub at the Red Barn in Keats. Steven Bates and his wife, Ellen, were dressed up, starched, and pleated. Twelve-year-old Lawrence had on a wide, frayed, striped tie that looked like it had been handed down through three generations. The music flowed through the open door of the nightclub into the dining room while they all ate delicious barbecued ribs and buttered corn.
"… 'course, since we settled down here in Keats, we ain't been doin' no roofing or driveway husdes. We go out on the road once, twice a year, fleece some mooches, come back, and use the money to build our legit contracting business," Steve said. He was talking as he ate, wiping barbecue sauce off his chin. They were a lean, raw-boned couple, weathered by exposure to the outdoors. Steve had a con man's kind blue eyes and a receding hairline. Ellen was a fading beauty with a short, no-nonsense hairstyle and intense black eyes that examined you with a laser focus. Victoria thought that little Lawrence was going to be quite a charmer. He was just twelve years old, and his voice had not changed yet, but he had the same dazzling con man's smile that seemed to run in this family, and he was not afraid to use it.
"How you gonna play the bubble?" Steven asked, leaning in closer.
"Gonna rope the mooch with a tat, steer him with a mack, probably put him on the country-send to his drop, and play him off against the wall."
Victoria wondered what the hell they were saying as Steve continued…
"A cold playoff is kinda dangerous."
"If I have to, I'm gonna bring in the Hog Creek families," Beano added.
'You ever worked with them before?" Steve asked.
"Nope."
"Watch out. Them Bateses been living up in that Arkansas valley for a hundred years, inbreedin' an' drinking sour mash. They come rollin' outta them hills in wide-tire trucks, kickin' ass and eatin' their victims. They ain't too delicate."
"I'll bear that in mind." Beano put down his fork. "Probably set up the farm tomorrow. I think I found one that looks good for the play. I want you t'run the paintin' crew and I'll pay you ten thousand dollars, plus one tenth of anything we can skim."
Steven Bates closed his eyes. He didn't say anything for a long time. Victoria almost thought he'd gone to sleep until he opened them and looked at his wife, Ellen, who seemed to read his mind, and nodded. He turned back to Beano.
"You mentioned you was doin' this on account'a your cousin Carol," Steven finally said.
"Yeah. She got killed by the two mooches we're gonna play this game on."
"Kinda pisses me off when one of our extended family gets screwed up. I don't take that kindly. Seems wrong fer us t'be makin' money off Carol's death."
"Look, I appreciate that, Steven, but she was very close to me-you don't have to work for nothing."
"Thing is, I never run a Big Store. You let me in on this… lemme play on the inside. That'd be enough payment for me."
"You sure?"
"You're somethin' of a legend; be an honor," Steve said, and Ellen nodded in agreement.
"We seen you on America's Most Wanted," Lawrence chipped in. "Only you had black hair an' no mustache."
"Okay," Beano smiled at the couple, "but if we end up with surplus cash, I'll cut you in for a tenth."
"Fair 'nuff."
The business having been completed, they switched to other subjects. Victoria said very little. There was one family detail that amazed her… All of them had a tattoo under their watches, including Beano. The tattoo was a script B with the date of each family member's first scam. Lawrence Bates had gotten his just last summer.
"Yep," Steven said, as his son removed his watch. "Dropped some leather over in Portsmouth at the fair. Worked the drag with his fifteen-year-old cousin Betsy." Lawrence showed his tattoo proudly. Under the capital B it said: 7/3/96.
Later that night, after they rented rooms in the motel in Keats, Beano invited Victoria to his room for a nightcap of vodka and Coke that he had picked up at the liquor store. Victoria was determined not to get giddy this time and sipped her drink cautiously as Beano pulled a small, electrically heated press-on steamer out of his bag.
"This is the same kind of thing they use to steam pictures and logos onto T-shirts," he said, as he filled it with water and plugged it into the wall socket to let it warm up. He pulled out the two jump-suits they had bought at Hobbs Ranch and Farm Supplies. He laid them out on the faded green motel bedspread. Beano took the small white decals, which were only a half-inch high, and placed them over the breast pocket so that they said U.S. AGR. DEPT. He looked at them critically.
"Whatta you think?" he said. "Would you buy into that?"
She looked for a minute, then rearranged them in a semi-circle above the pocket. "Better?" she asked.
"Much," he acknowledged. He tested his steam heat iron and, using the hard desk top for a base plate, he imprinted the decals onto the jump-suits.
After fixing both jump-suits they moved out into the motel parking lot and began to affix the same letters to both front doors of the Ford Escort, this time using the larger two-inch yellow decals. As they worked, she asked him what "dropping some leather" meant.
"It's the old pigeon drop," he explained. "Actually the con is almost a thousand years old. It was first played in China. It's been called a bunch a'different things over the years: 'Doping the Poke,' "The Drag,"The Spanish Handkerchief Switch.' Had a lotta names, but it's always the same game."
"How's it work?" she asked, fascinated.
"Two con men work together. They pretend to find a wallet stuffed with real money in the near vicinity of the mark. The mark needs to be chosen carefully. Usually a wealthy person, a matron or a business executive, well dressed, good shoes. Always check for quality shoes and purses. It's a dead giveaway on a wealthy mark. You position the wallet so that he also can be considered a legitimate finder. Next comes the big argument. What to do, should we turn it over to the cops? No way. Cops'll just keep it. Then the two grifters agree that the wealthy mark should hold the wallet with all the money for a week to see if anybody comes forward."
"Hold on by letting go," she said.