A Shared Confidence (18 page)

“How'd things work out for your brother?” he asked.

“Everything's jake. Talked to the lawyer you hired the other day and he says it's all squared away at the precinct. Like it never happened.”

“Didn't figure it would be much of a problem. How's the rest of it going?”

“It's working up till now, but damned if the situation doesn't keep getting more complicated all the time.”

“Situations tend to do that,” Townsend observed. “From what you've told me, it doesn't sound as if you have enough elbow room to flap your arms.”

“There's not as much I'm used to having,” I admitted. “Feds have promised to give me some, though.”

“Feds promise a lot of things,” Townsend observed.

“That they do.”

We settled on a rate for the use of the wire recorder and some extra spools, then Townsend closed the lid on the case and stood the whole thing on its end.

“I know you haven't told me everything,” he said. “I don't so much have a problem with that. You're a square G, Caine, but you rope me into something illegal, I'll throw your name to the cops like it was confetti.”

“No beef with that,” I assured him. “If things go south, I'll blow town so fast you'll feel the breeze here in your office.”

“I'll still throw your name.”

“You're a square G yourself, Townsend. Let's get a drink when this is over.”

I picked up the case and left his office with it.

At eleven
o'clock I was walking into Beldham & Morrissey to see Mr. Nathan Caine about finalizing a business loan. Nathan greeted me with a smile and a businessman's handshake, stating how pleased he was I had decided on his bank's services before escorting me back to his office. No, Mr. Shaw, it wasn't any trouble at all handling this on a Saturday. Nathan had had to fudge his way through a presentation at a staff meeting a few days ago, throw out a few bogus details about the flower shop Kelly Shaw was planning to help open up for his nephew, a recent college graduate. Nathan assured his superiors that Mr. Shaw's credit was good for much more than the forty thousand dollars he was asking, and that he was hopeful of doing more substantial business with Mr. Shaw in the future if the man liked how the bank treated him on this matter. The loan was okayed quickly and the men moved onto other business.

It hadn't been easy getting Nathan to go along with this, especially as he still didn't know the exact nature of my plan. If the worst happened, Kelly Shaw would walk out on a fairly minor loan. It'd be Nathan's first bad call and he could still go to them about the larger sum missing. Not that I told Nathan any of that, of course. You don't tell Nathan the worst. A hypothetical negative is always, to him, a concrete certainty.

Kelly Shaw had wanted the money in cash, and Nathan had the valise on his desk as I signed the papers he'd drawn up as illegibly as I could.

“I'm trusting you with this,” he said quietly, being so careful he didn't even use my name.

“I know. Don't worry, this money's only for show. It'll never be out of my sight.” What was one more lie in the middle of all this?

I left his office still wearing clothes I couldn't really afford and carrying more money than I'd ever held in my life. Certainly more money than Nathan or I could replace on our own if something happened.

It was
just past noon when I met up with Penny at the hotel lounge we'd been to twice already. Seemed like it was becoming “our place”. The waitress must have thought so, too, because she walked right up and asked: “One Campari and soda and one rum over ice?”

I took a cool sip and decided I was starting to take a shine to Shaw's sissy-boy drink.

“So fill me in,” I said to Penny.

“Oh, I'm doing just fine, Dev. It's just grand of you to ask like that.”

I sighed and took another drink.

“How are you, Penny?”

“Oh, you know,” she shrugged. “Same old same old. Can't complain.”

“Glad to hear it. Now fill me in.”

Penny was getting in pretty tight with Stanton and his bunch. She'd fed them a line about how O'Shea, her regular boss, was thinking of roping Shaw in on The Wire.

“That's basically the same thing as the stock swindle Stanton plays, only it's with horse racing.”

“I know what it is. Keep going.”

Stanton had got a little hot at hearing this, explaining that he was already working Shaw, had put some real time in, and he wouldn't stand for some other con butting in while the mark was still in play somewhere else. There was such a thing as common etiquette, after all. And if O'Shea needed a little reminder in this area…(I wondered how Stanton talked when he wasn't playing the elegant and avuncular investment guru) but Penny calmed him down, saying that O'Shea hadn't even met Shaw yet, had only heard about him, and that she could make sure he didn't get a chance to do so any time soon. If nothing else, she could convince O'Shea that there was enough Kelly Shaw to go around. Hell, a high roller like Shaw would probably be eager to make up a recent loss in the stock market if he knew of a sure thing with the ponies. In actuality, O'Shea didn't even know of Kelly Shaw's existence; Penny was just pouring all this into Stanton's ear to keep him distracted for me.

Penny explained to Stanton that she'd cut into Shaw for a solo score, but after finding out how loaded he really was, she wondered if O'Shea might be interested in a bigger play. When she found out Stanton was already working Shaw, however, she figured maybe Stanton could use an extra pair of eyes in return for a cut of the action.

“Do cons do this a lot?” I asked. “Flit back and forth between mobs depending on the deal at hand?”

“Well,” she frowned for a moment, “you really have to be kind of careful not to–” and then she broke off laughing at herself. “Oh hell, yeah, honey. They do it all the time!”

“What will O'Shea do if he finds out you're shilling for Stanton on the side?”

“Probably call me a dirty name. And then kick himself for not giving me better play if he's got any brains.”

I was
relaxing in my suite at the Lord Baltimore that afternoon, reading the newspaper and waiting for Stanton to arrive. Penny had told him I was hoping to see him again soon. Since I wasn't supposed to know the two of them were talking, Stanton left a message for me at the front desk, stating that he would be in the neighborhood that afternoon and might drop by to pay a friendly call.

The telephone rang. Being the gentleman he was, Stanton had had the desk call up to announce him rather than just barging in.

“Just the man I've been wanting to talk to,” I said delightedly. “Please send him right up.”

I pictured the clerk giving Stanton a polite “Room 402, sir,” telling him the way to the elevator, then Stanton heading that way in his measured, stately gait. A polite request to the elevator operator, the boy closing the gate and throwing the lever, the car's steady ascent up four floors, then the boy opening the gate and Stanton stepping out into the hall. When I had him outside my suite I turned and pointed at the closed door.

The knock came six seconds later. Well, not too bad, really.

I opened the door and greeted Stanton warmly, shaking his hand and offering him a little hospitality. He accepted, but reminded me that it was still daylight and he was getting on in years. I brushed that away but was polite enough to make him a fairly weak drink.

We seated ourselves, chatted about the weather for a bit and the history Stanton knew of The Lord Baltimore. It's only the amateurs who rush right to the matter at hand every time they see you, in genuine business as well as confidence games. Seasoned professionals rarely appear to be in a hurry; they know how much time they have. Stanton asked after my lady friend and I told him she was out looking at new hats. You know how women are.

“Sorry to bring up business on a Saturday, Mr. Stanton, but I would like to run my plan by you.”

“By all means, my boy. Let's hear the details.”

“I'd like to make the first investment with you Monday morning. I'll buy the shares in my own name, at least for this transaction. I'm thinking forty thousand for this first one. We'll keep increasing them over the course of next week. But I wanted to give you time to pick the right stock for me, give you a chance to figure how many shares I'll need to buy.”

“How thoughtful of you, Mr. Shaw.” He stroked his chin and thought for a moment. “Possibly ChemChron Amalgamated, or even Paraguay Wire and Electric. I'll have to check the figures that morning to be sure, of course.”

“Oh, I understand. I just wanted to give you as much advance notice as I could. I'm thinking forty on Monday, eighty on Tuesday, another eighty on Wednesday, then straight hundreds for the following three days.”

“That should work out well. And you're wanting to keep these funds invested for approximately how long?”

“At least a month. Could be up to three.”

Stanton rubbed his chin again.

“I don't see any problem.” Stanton must have thought he'd hit the jackpot. A willing mark who was asking him to take a pile of money off his hands and who may not even come looking for it for months. In that time, Stanton could disassemble his store brick by brick and rebuild it in another state if he wanted.

We'd gone back to the weather when the door opened. Not even a knock. I looked up frowning and saw Casper Giarelli filling the door frame, his two torpedoes in the hallway behind him. They walked into the room uninvited and I immediately thought of Ethan Ryland, the connection between Giarelli and Stanton. That would be the only way to explain–

“Which one of you is Shaw?” Giarelli's voice was as flat as sheet metal.

“I'm Kelly Shaw,” I said, getting to my feet slowly.

Giarelli turned his cool gaze to Clay Stanton.

“That make you Stanton?”

“Mr. Stanton is my guest this afternoon,” I said. “If that's any of your concern.”

Giarelli turned his eyes back to me again.

“Get lost for half an hour.”

“This is my suite!” I protested. The goon behind him put his hand inside his coat and stared at me hard, waiting for the order.

“Better make it an hour,” Giarelli said, walking over to where we were and settling himself into a chair. The wood creaked under his weight. The goon with one hand in his coat came and took me by the elbow, marching me to the door.

“Don't go to the cops, Shaw,” Giarelli told me. “Nothing bad's gonna happen here. We're just gonna have a talk.”

I looked at Stanton's concerned face, shrugging my shoulders as best I could. There didn't seem to be much else I could do but let myself be escorted out of my suite.

Giarelli turned over his shoulder to look at the goon who was holding my elbow, apparently having thought it over.

“You go with him,” he told the goon. “See he don't go to the cops.”

And I was hustled firmly out the door.

L
ess than twenty minutes had
gone by when Giarelli and his goon passed through the hotel lobby where the second goon had been keeping me company. Without breaking stride, Giarelli threw a nod to the large man next to me, who rose from his seat and fell in step behind his boss. I waited till they had exited the hotel, then walked quickly to the elevator.

The door to my suite was still unlocked. I went inside to find that Stanton was long gone (not that I blamed him). He must have taken the stairs and slipped out the back. I walked over to the bed, got down on my knees, reached under, and pulled out a small case with the lid off. Inside the case was the wire recorder I'd borrowed from Townsend. I'd set it up under the bed before Stanton arrived, planning to test it.

Turning a knob, I manipulated the spool of wire inside back to where it first started recording, then moved it forward at normal speed. From the tinny speaker I heard muffled footsteps on carpet, followed by a door opening and a strange voice bidding Clay Stanton to enter. It wasn't until I heard Stanton address the first man as Shaw that I realized I was listening to my own voice. I resisted the urge to move the recording ahead faster, fearful I'd damage something before I'd had a chance to listen to what was on it.

I sat on the floor next to the machine, grabbed an ash tray off the night table, and lit a cigarette. After several minutes, I heard myself being escorted out of the room. I turned the volume up on the speaker and listened intently. Giarelli had a slow, deliberate manner of speaking, but you listened because what he said was important.

GIARELLI: Do you know who I am?

STANTON: I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.

GIARELLI: Casper Giarelli out of Chicago. I'm a business partner of your friend Ryland.

STANTON: A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Giarelli.

I could imagine Stanton extending his hand and Giarelli ignoring it. It may have happened that way, but I needed to listen without adding my own embellishments. This wasn't a radio drama, after all.

GIARELLI: I loaned Ryland a sum of money a few months back. A business loan. We've done it before. He's always been good for it.

STANTON: Yes, I'm sure he has been. Mr. Ryland has always struck me as a most conscientious–

GIARELLI: Let me do the talking. We'll get there faster.

STANTON: As you say, sir.

GIARELLI: Like I said, Ryland's always been good for it before. Somebody's not good for it, I don't loan him money. I loan a guy money and he decides after I loan it to him that he's not good for it, well, he and I have a talk and he thinks on it again and he decides he is good for it after all. You understand what I'm saying?

STANTON: Yes, I believe I do. Through frankly, sir, why you and I are having this conversation–

GIARELLI: I just needed a yes, pal. Don't push it.

There was a pause of a few seconds, Giarelli asserting his authority, giving Stanton time to soak up the point.

GIARELLI: So here's the deal: Ryland tells me he got wiped out by a bad investment. One investment and he's out almost three hundred grand, which means he can't pay me the two hundred grand he owes me. Not even a big enough part of it to mean anything. He also tells me he made this investment with you.

STANTON: That was a very unexpected setback for all of us, Mr. Giarelli. We all lost a great deal of money. Unfortunately, it couldn't be helped. I'm afraid there's always that risk when playing the markets. I assure you, sir, even some of the most careful investors I know–

GIARELLI: So yes? He made that investment with you?

Another pause.

STANTON: Yes.

GIARELLI: Let me tell you how this ends, Stanton. I get my money. All of it. Now maybe I get it from Ryland. Maybe I get it from you. Maybe you make another big investment only you do it right this time. Or maybe you and Ryland together, you two shine shoes or open up a nightclub or rob a bank. I really don't much care. So long as this has the right ending, you and I are fine. And what's the right ending, Stanton? Show me you been listening.

STANTON: You get your two hundred thousand dollar loan repaid in full.

GIARELLI: You got it.

STANTON: But honestly, sir, I don't see how you can expect me to be legally responsible for Mr. Ryland's business debt with you.

GIARELLI: I didn't ask you to be legally responsible. I'm telling you you are responsible. Legal don't mean much to a guy like me. Now I'm a business man, which means I can be reasonable. I'm not asking you to pull the money out of your hat this minute. I'll give you both the rest of the week. We'll all meet right here at this hotel next Saturday. And if you have at least half and you can convince me the other half is coming soon, I'm okay with that. Like I said, I'm reasonable.

STANTON: A week is not so great a span of time, sir. In the event that Mr. Ryland or I are unable to secure one hundred thousand dollars cash–

GIARELLI: Well, there's a bright side.

STANTON: Yes?

GIARELLI: I never ask a guy for something twice. I figure if he doesn't hear me the first time, he must not be using his ears, so he won't miss 'em.

There was a creaking of wood as Giarelli raised his bulk out of the chair, then footsteps as he and his goon headed to the door. The footsteps stopped for a moment.

GIARELLI: Stanton? You should know I'm the kind of guy checks things out first. I know where you live, I know where you make your investments, I know where you eat dinner. I know people in this town, people like me who care more about not getting welshed on than they care about the law. What I'm saying is, don't make me come looking for you. And damn sure don't try to blow town. I know people everywhere. You clear on that?

STANTON: Yes.

The remainder of the recording was the door opening and closing, once for Giarelli and his goon and once more as Stanton made his escape a moment later. When I was sure there was nothing more to hear, I moved the recording backward again at high speed and listened to Giarelli's conversation with Stanton three more times.

I took
a stroll around the block, had myself a think. This new development could throw a very heavy wrench into a lot of very delicate machinery. So far, Giarelli didn't seem to have much interest in Kelly Shaw. But he sure had some in Stanton. How shaken would Stanton be from this interview? Would he already be trying to flee town, have his bag packed and be at the train station this very minute? Could he resist the easiest half mil he'd ever made in his life coming this week, most of it well before Giarelli's Saturday deadline? Would he have taken Giarelli's warning seriously, that the man knew people and not to cross him over this?

Was it conceivable, I wondered, that Giarelli showing up might make Stanton even more anxious to do business with Kelly Shaw? If for nothing else than to get his hands on some ready cash and a mobster off his back?

I reached for a cigarette and kept ambling, looking at the passersby and into the occasional shop window. You'd think a man like Stanton had to be a millionaire by now, having conned so many people over so many years, and that two hundred grand would be easy if not painless for him to pay out. But you have to understand a little about confidence men, not only how they operate but how they live. In the first place, con games are expensive to set up. You have to lease the store, pay the shills and the ropers, wine and dine the marks and sometimes pick up their hotel bills. There are sizable payoffs that must be made regularly if you want to keep in business. The police (not only the chief but every cop who walks a beat on your turf) and at least a few local civic leaders. And not every con works. Plenty of marks get cold feet at the last minute (especially those few wise ones who finally start listening to the tiny voice inside their heads) or something else happens and the mark just can't come up with the money like he thought he could. Like most criminal enterprises, over the long run you really don't make any more money than if you were working as hard in legitimate trade. Unlike most criminals, however, con men do it mostly because they truly enjoy the work. The prolonged high tension of keeping a mark in play for several days or weeks, your full faculties engaged because one wrong move could blow the whole deal, maybe even get the wrong guy sore as hell at you. The thrill of the big payoff, money earned in an afternoon that could otherwise cost you twenty years' sweat in some factory. I had to admit, over the past week or so I was beginning to understand the appeal.

Apart from the business side of it, most con men have a tendency to live high when they can. They like, as they say, the best of it. They like to travel, take cruises, stay in the nicest places and eat the best food. What's the point of making all that money if you're not going to enjoy it? A lot of them gamble, and when they bet, they bet big. Really big, unwinding from weeks of tension in their own peculiar style: with hours of a different kind of tension. With their share of a score burning a hole in their pockets, they'll even go to gaming houses they know to be rigged if there's no other action in town. And often as not, even an experienced con will be cleaned out within hours of receiving his cut, angry and down on himself for a bit before shrugging it off and signing up for a piece of the next big play. Sure, they'll talk over dreams of a summer home in Florida or going legitimate once they've made the big score, living on Easy Street from then on, but very few of them do it, and very few of them really want to. They've become addicted to the life itself, and they'll stay with it as long as their eyes can spot a mark and their hands can hide a red queen.

Of course, Stanton was expecting half a million gift-wrapped dollars from Mr. Shaw this week. He could easily take care of Giarelli and have a small fortune to spare. I didn't think he would, though. There's something especially galling about handing over money you've worked hard for. Risking it on a turn of the roulette wheel is one thing, but just handing it over to someone who claims a debt against you? In some ways, I reflected, confidence men aren't really all that different from most businessmen.

One other thing occurred to me during my stroll, and not for the first time: Mobsters like Giarelli don't usually follow a trail like this. If someone can't pay, they deal with that someone – permanently if necessary – and pretty much leave it at that. They're often loathe to show themselves to the next link and risk bringing themselves closer into the light of the law. A man like Giarelli wouldn't normally come to see Stanton in this situation, not unless Giarelli was sure Stanton was a crook like himself, a man who also couldn't go to the law. I was sure that Giarelli knew Stanton was no investment guru. I wondered, was Stanton savvy enough to know this, too?

I was making my second pass in front of the hotel entrance and noticed that the two men loitering at the bus stop across the street were still there. Both men were dressed in suits and wearing straw boaters, and at least one bus had been by while I was circling the block. They looked like government to me. Unfortunately, that didn't narrow the field down a whole hell of a lot these days. On an impulse, I crossed the street and walked right up to them.

“You fellows didn't happen to see if Stanton came this way earlier?”

The two men looked at one another for a moment, unsure of whether they had the authority to interact with me directly. They were spared the agonizing effort of making a decision when a voice called out behind them.

“It's okay, boys. He's with me.”

They both turned and I looked past them as well. Straker was leaning out a doorway, motioning for me to come inside. I sauntered on past the two lookouts, hands in my pockets, and followed Straker into a small diner. Agent Mattling sat at a booth in the far corner, two cups of coffee on the table. He called the waitress to bring a third as Straker resumed his seat and I slid in next to him. I didn't enjoy being this close to the man, but I wanted a straight-on look at Mattling' face while we talked. I'd seen enough of Straker's, lately.

“Casper Giarelli's in town,” Mattling said flatly. “He arrived yesterday.”

I nodded, putting my coffee back down.

“He checked into my hotel yesterday evening.” Mattling and the rest of the feds had their eyes out, so it wouldn't cut ice for me to play too dumb. I decided to throw out anything I figured they already had to know, keeping what cards I could face down and my ears open.

“We know,” Mattling replied. “Do you know if he's looking for Stanton?”

“Not anymore,” I said. “He found him. An hour or so ago, at my hotel suite.”

Mattling raised his eyebrows, so I went on to explain that Stanton had dropped by my room for a chat and after a few minutes, Giarelli had shown up at the door.

“He was looking for you?” asked Mattling.

“No, he was looking for Stanton.”

“How'd he know Stanton was in your suite?”

“No idea, but I'm guessing a man like Giarelli knows how to find things out when he needs to.”

“What did Giarelli and Stanton talk about?”

“I don't know. I wasn't invited to stay for the conversation.” I explained how I was escorted out of my own suite, only allowed to re-enter about twenty minutes later, after everyone had gone.

“My money,” Straker broke in, “says Giarelli is trying to get back the dough he loaned Ryland, the dough Stanton cleaned Ryland out of.” Mattling and I looked at each other, the same thought clearly in both our minds: God, you're a sharp one, Straker.

“You think Giarelli put a scare into Stanton?” Mattling asked.

“It'd put a scare into me,” I admitted. “A Chicago mobster showing up in a hotel room that wasn't mine and wanting to have a chat with me. But do you mean did he scare Stanton so bad he'll try to blow town?” I mulled it over for a few seconds. “I seriously doubt it. Stanton has too much in play right now. He stands to lose too much by panicking.”