Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (14 page)

He doesn’t want to blush. Really doesn’t want to blush. Tries to keep his breath even. “No,” he says. Wants to embellish, wants to lie, but he can’t. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I—yeah, yeah, I—I mean, I would have tried out for the team, but … you know, I’ve got other commitments.”

Angela nods her head knowingly. “Shame,” she says, reaching out, touching the boy’s arm. Stroking his biceps. “Arms like these … Well, their loss, right?”

“Right. Sure.” Can’t breathe all that well.

The pretty girl who walked into his store shoots him a final smile and waves good-bye. Starts to leave, heading for the double doors. He wants to call out, to get her name, her phone number, but he can’t work his vocal cords. But suddenly she stops, spins around, comes back to the counter. He’s wondering if she’s going to ask him out. If she’s going to make the first move.

“I found fifty cents,” she says, plopping two quarters on the table.

He doesn’t understand for a second. What does fifty cents have to do with a date? It kicks in: the gum. The gum. “Oh,” he says. “Great.” He slides her change into the cash register.

“Can I get my twenty back?” she asks, blinking those big blue eyes.

He nods and pulls her bill back into the open. Hands it to her, watches her pocket it. Stares down at the floor. Easier to talk if he’s not looking at her. “Listen,” he says, words sticking in his throat, “maybe sometime … we could go out or something?”

There’s no answer. He’s scared to look up. What if she’s laughing at him?

But there’s no laughter, and there won’t be an answer. By the time he finally works up the courage to raise his head, the bell on the front door is ringing and the girl is gone.

Once outside, Angela slows down her pace. Roy, stepping out from an alley behind the store, catches up with her. “You got the twenty back?”

“Yep.”

“And the nineteen-fifty he gave you in change?”

“You got it.” She laughs.

“That’s the twenties,” says Roy. “Oldest game on the books. Well, maybe not the oldest, but—”

“God, that was easy. I didn’t know it was that easy.”

“That’s basic stuff. Foundation. It should be easy. It’s not all like that.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that … it felt good. Like I was doing something right for a change.”

Roy shrugs. He’s glad it went well for her. “It’s not right. It’s just a way of doing things.”

“Whatever,” she says. “Let’s do it again. There’s a 7-Eleven down the block.”

“No more. We said one trick.”

“C’mon, one measly 7-Eleven won’t hurt anyone. How’m I supposed to get better if I don’t practice?”

“You’re not supposed to get better, and you’re not going to practice. You’re done.” This was what he’d worried about. The lure of easy money. First time he ever pulled a game, it was the twenties, and it was all a spiral since then. Hank taught him the ins and the outs of the system, but it was that first game of the twenties that hooked him, dragged him in.

“You want lunch?” he asks Angela. Hoping she won’t throw another tantrum.

“Sure,” she says. Disappointed, he can see, but not at silent treatment levels. She’s a rational girl. She knows the score.

Buzzing, from Roy’s back pocket. Like something nipping his ass. Again. He reaches back, feels the hard square of plastic. The beeper. Must be set on vibrate. He hates that thing.

Roy pulls the pager from his pocket and takes a look at the number. It’s unknown to him, but there are four extra digits at the end: 2420. That’s Frankie’s code.

“Ah, crap.”

“What?”

“I gotta make a phone call.”

Angela cocks her head, smiling. “Urgent antique sale?”

“Knock it off. I gotta find a pay phone.”

Angela holds out her cell, but Roy waves it off. “C’mon,” she says, “I’ve got like twenty million free minutes.”

“Pay phone,” he insists. “That’s how we do things.” They pick up the pace, Roy scanning the street for a phone booth. There, across the way, by the deli. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a second.”

By the time Roy’s got himself wedged into the small phone booth, he realizes Angela’s crossed the street with him. She waves at him through the glass. Roy calls the number on his pager, waits for Frankie to answer.

“Hello?” A voice, unsure. Not familiar.

“Frankie?”

“No, this is Bob.”

“Bob.”

“Yeah.”

Roy is confused. “Bob, did you call me?”

“No. No, you called me. You called this number.”

“Right,” says Roy. “ ’Cause I got paged. I called the number on my pager—”

As he speaks, Roy can hear more voices in the background.
Now it sounds like Frankie. An upset Frankie. “… the fuck off the phone, ya fucking moron. Gimme that,
gimme
 …” There’s a scuffle, a few muted gasps. Then Frankie’s on the line, loud and clear. “Roy?”

“Yeah, it’s me. What’s going on there?”

“I’m at the airport. I page you, go to take a whiz, and I come back and some asshole’s answered the phone. Who the fuck answers pay phones at the airport?”

“Bob does. What’s the problem?”

“I got something cooking here I need you for. Jamaican switch, full-on, been working it for weeks. Guy’s ready to topple, set up like bottles on a fence.”

Angela’s pressing her face up against the pay-phone glass, mashing her cheeks into monstrous proportions. Roy turns away. “I’m in the middle of something here. Can it wait till tomorrow?”

“No can do. He’s a nervous nellie, he won’t last.”

“And he’s got the money?”

“On him, that’s what I’m saying.”

Angela’s back in front of him again, a tube of lipstick in her hand. She starts to draw on the glass, and it takes Roy a second to figure out what she’s writing: 7-11, 7-11, 7-11. Turns around again. Tangled in the phone cord now.

“What’s the pull?”

“ ’Round thirty grand,” says Frankie. “I told him we’d meet at the bar in the Delta lounge at three.”

Roy looks at his watch—it’s nearing two. Figuring for traffic and the stops he’ll have to make, he can just make it under the wire. “I can do it.”

“You grab the papers and setup dough?”

“ ’Course,” Roy says. “What in?”

“Pounds.”

“Am I supposed to be English or something? I can’t do that goddamned accent—last time you pulled that French bullshit—”

“American banker,” Frankie says, laughing. “Be as Midwest as you want.”

“Okay. Three o’clock, bar in the Delta terminal.” Angela has now marked up the other sides of the phone booth with bright red lipstick. The numbers 7 and 11 stare down at him from all angles. She dances and skips around the perimeter, laughing and smiling and waving at Roy inside. He knows he should think about what to do with Angela. He knows there’s no time to drop her off. He knows there’s no way she’ll go for it. “And I’ll bring the distraction.”

Frankie doesn’t understand. “You’ll bring the what?”

Roy hangs up. Exits the phone booth. “Who was it?” Angela asks.

“It was business.”

“Oooh,” Angela squeals. “Can I help?”

Roy picks up the pace, almost into a jog. Angela keeps up. “Yes.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’m not happy about it, but I got no choice. You do what I tell you to, and we’ll all come out of it fine. You want practice, you’re gonna get practice.”

“So what’s my job?” she asks. “What am I gonna do?”

“You’re gonna throw a temper tantrum. Think you can handle that?”

Angela laughs all the way to the car.

Frankie and the mark are already sitting at the short table inside the bar. Roy can see them through the frosted-glass window. A drink in front of each, nervous glances on the mark’s face. Eyes shifting around. Roy checks his watch; he’s five minutes late. They had to drop by the house, call a friend of a friend down at the bank’s exchange parlor. Five minutes isn’t so bad.

He’s got a briefcase in his right hand, a simple black briefcase with gold snaps. Nothing odd about it. Nothing special. There are thousands like it in the city, in any city. It’s the kind of briefcase Roy prefers for these jobs. Hank used Gucci knockoffs for the Jamaican switch, but Roy always thought it was ostentatious. Pointless. Waste a good fake like that.

He checks his hair in the mirror, adjusts his jacket. He’s wearing one of the new suits they bought yesterday. The kind of suit a banker would wear. Roy’s decided that he’s from Rhode Island, if the matter comes up. Doesn’t want to play Midwest.

“Good to see you,” he says as he enters the bar and sidles up to the table. He shakes Frankie’s hand, doesn’t want to say his name. Doesn’t know what name Frankie gave to this guy; easier not to use anything.

Frankie makes introductions. “Chuck,” he says, turning to the mark, “this is Arden Davis, the banker I told you about.”

They shake. “Pleased,” says Roy. “Chuck, is it?”

“Charles,” says the man. “Chuck, if you want. Look, I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this.”

Roy sits down, smooths out his jacket. He places the briefcase on the floor next to his feet. “You’re not comfortable?”

“With this. With this … This is all very fast.”

“What is it?” Frankie asks. “Is it the airport?”

“It’s the airport, it’s—”

“ ’Cause we can go somewhere else.” Frankie turns to Roy. “You’ve got a flight out, right? Where are you going?”

“Dallas. One of our corporate clients wants to set up a funding account that bridges the franc and the lira, so I’ve got to go down and explain the ins and outs of the thing.” He laughs, pulls a passing waitress to his side. “Hon, can I get a martini? Thanks.” Back to the conversation. “This is what I do all day, explain money to people.”

Roy’s speech hasn’t seemed to cool the mark out any. He’s still got those shifty eyes Roy doesn’t like. “You got concerns,” Frankie says. “I got that. Let’s talk ’em out.”

Chuck shakes his head. Pushes away from the table. “It’s not that. It’s—there’s a lot of money we’re talking about here, and—”

“And I’m trying to help you,” Frankie says. “Hell, I’m helping myself, too, let’s not bullshit here. But this is win-win across the board. If I’m wrong, lemme know.”

“No, no,” says Chuck, “I agree, but …”

Frankie nods to Roy, who reaches down by his feet and picks up the briefcase. He hauls it up and onto the table, where it lands with a dull thud. Roy checks to make sure there aren’t any onlookers, and pops the locks. Aims the opening toward Chuck, and slowly lifts the lid.

Pounds. Real British pounds, stacked up in hard bricks of bills. Filling the briefcase from end to end. Chuck swallows hard. “Is that … is it all there?”

“Thirty thousand pounds,” says Roy, closing the briefcase and locking it back up. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “This is one of the perks from working in the exchange program at the bank.”

“Arden is vice president,” Frankie explains. “Gets in on the high level. You have your end?”

Chuck pulls his own briefcase onto the table, pats the side. Frankie pulls it close and pops the lid. American bills, stacked in the same method as the pounds. “Thirty thousand,” says Chuck. “Like we said. But I don’t know if I’m … I just don’t know …”

“Christ, man,” says Frankie, sitting back. “We’re doing you a favor. You get thirty thousand British—what’s that going for, Arden?”

“On today’s rate …” Roy pretends to think for a second, as if he’s doing the math in his head. But he memorized that figure a half hour ago. “Around forty-nine thousand, eight hundred.”

“Forty-nine eight,” Frankie repeats. “We do the switch, that’s almost twenty grand American for you, for sitting on your ass and helping out a friend of mine. You know how many people’d jump at the chance …”

Frankie goes on, gently beating Chuck down. As he talks, Angela steps inside the bar. Roy raises his eyebrows. She starts to walk. In her right hand is a briefcase. Black, simple, plain. Gold snaps. Roy drops his hand, and she stops a few tables away.

“I know, I’m being paranoid,” says Chuck. “I know. But where’s it coming from? Whose money is it, you know?”

Frankie’s incredulous. “Whose … you gotta be kidding me.”

Roy ignores Frankie. This is the part where the roper is supposed to fade out of the picture. He brought the mark in, and now the closer takes over. But Frankie’s not good at fading out of anything; Roy always feels like he’s wresting control from his partner. Maybe next time they’ll switch roles. Doubtful.

“It was extra money,” Roy explains. “Unaccounted for. Floating on the top of the books, like a layer of cream.”

“And you just … scooped it off?” says Chuck. He’s coming onto the deal, getting excited.

“Exactly. Exactly.”

The waitress makes her way over to the table, martini balanced on her tray. Roy raises his right hand, scratches his nose. With perfect timing, Angela arrives behind their table at the same time as the waitress. As the server bends down to give Roy his drink, Angela uses her body as cover, dropping the briefcase next to Roy’s feet.

Once the waitress leaves, Chuck drops his volume. He’s wrapped up tight now. “So what you’re saying is, this is basically embezzlement, gone through a sifter.”

Roy loves it when they bring up the term. People shy away at your average garden-variety mugging, but when it comes to white-collar crime, they’re all up for a percentage. “If you want to call it that. Heck, I’d take the money for myself, but I can’t do a thing about it, ’cause I’m under tight watch at the bank. I got audits and security crawling around me. They’ll know if I change a single peso.”