"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…?
They talked through the scam until Beano was sure they all had it down. He said he was pretty sure Texaco would have a gun, probably a plastic Glock automatic, which was in style because it didn't set off airport metal detectors. Beano assigned them all roles. The game was called "The Most Valuable Dog in the World." Victoria was the shill who would also rope the mark. Paper Collar John was the singer and would tell the tale. Beano was the capper and would lure the mark and do the sting. Roger-the-Dodger was the inside man. They gave Victoria the keys to the green Escort, which was in the parking lot with the decals now peeled off the doors. Beano and John would follow in a cab.
Victoria had the plane tickets in her hand as she walked out of the building to the car. She got in and drove toward the airport. Her heart was beating wildly.
"This is crazy," she said under her breath, as she got on the Bayshore Freeway heading to San Francisco Airport. Texaco Phillips was following her two cars behind.
Chapter Fifteen.
VICTORIA COULD SEE TEXACO PHILLIPS IN HIS RENTAL car two lanes over, one car back, as she made the tumoff to the airport. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she returned the car to Hertz and walked into the large glass-front terminal. With his muscle shirt and huge size, he was easy to spot in the crowded airport. Her pulse was racing, but it calmed her slightly that he seemed to be trying to tail her and not be seen. That probably meant that he wasn't going to grab her and drag her, kicking and screaming, into the parking lot.
She went to the American Airlines counter and stepped up when it was her turn. She told the lady that she wanted to buy three tickets to Cleveland. Beano had said if the Rinas were tracking them through airline computers, this Cleveland buy would throw them off. She could see across the airport lobby, where Texaco Phillips had moved to a telephone and was dialing a number from a card he had in his hand.
"She's at the fucking American Airlines counter right now," Texaco said to Peter Rina, who was at his computer in the New Jersey travel office. Peter hit the AMA symbol for American Airlines on his keyboard and then SFO, and up on the screen came the current reservations table. He began to scroll it, looking for their names.
"You find it yet?" Texaco brayed. "Where the fuck's she going?"
"Wait a minute. I gotta go through thirty flights," Peter said, thinking Texaco sounded as intelligent as prime-cut beef. Then he saw their names being added to the computer listing on a flight to Cleveland.
"Three tickets on Flight Three-seventeen. It's for the nine P.M. flight to Cleveland."
"Shit, that's five hours from now," Texaco said, looking at his watch, thinking that at least he wouldn't have to haunt the gate all night. He could buy a ticket and wait to see who her two traveling companions were. Better still, he could get a drink and some dinner and relax for a while. He hung up on Peter without saying another word.
Texaco was sitting in the flight lounge across from the American lobby, nursing a beer and watching Victoria Hart, who was in a leather chair in the waiting area, reading a paperback. He thought she was beautiful. Texaco decided to make a date to give Miss Hart some flute lessons. All he needed was ten minutes and a quiet spot. He'd screw a gun in her ear and have her buff his pink helmet. She needed to have some of the starch taken out of her the hard way. And then he heard a commotion outside the bar… A red-haired man was arguing with a cop:
"Whatta you mean, I can't? But she's coming in right now! Okay, okay, you don't have to be an asshole."
The red-haired man turned and moved into the bar with a little terrier on a leash. He walked directly up to the bartender, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.
"Listen, pal, I hate to be a problem, but would you keep an eye on my dog?"
"This ain't a kennel," the bartender said.
"He's a very rare Baunchatrain Terrier," Beano said, earnestly handing the bill to the bartender, who took it and looked at it critically. "They won't let me take him down to meet the Hawaiian flight because they got some quarantine regulation, or some damn thing. I gotta go meet my daughter. She's on that flight, sick in a wheelchair, but she's coming home. Don't let him out of your sight. Like I said, he's very rare."
"Okay," the bartender said, and he put the crisp new hundred in his pocket. Beano hurried out of the bar, right past Texaco, who still didn't recognize him.
Texaco looked at the dog for a long moment, then went back to his drink. "Don't look too fuckin' rare to me," he mumbled under his breath, making his first and only shrewd observation of the day.
Ten minutes later, a very distinguished looking man with gray hair came into the bar carrying a briefcase and sat at one of the tables. After a minute he got up, crossed the bar, and looked carefully at the dog… "Son-of-a-gun," he said softly, in an English accent. Then he lifted Roger-the-Dodger expertly and checked his privates.
"Don't touch the dog," the bartender said.