Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (16 page)

The weeks move faster with Angela around. She comes and goes, mostly on the weekends. Sometimes during the week. Roy doesn’t mind. He wants to get on her about school, wants to make sure she goes. Does well. But he can’t force her. If her mother doesn’t argue, he won’t. He hears about their arguments through Angela. Heather hasn’t changed, hasn’t changed a wink. If Angela doesn’t leave on her own, she’s thrown from the house until her mother calms down. He doesn’t mind.

She’s even taken to sprucing up his house a little. Brought in a few plants, taught him how to water them. How not to kill them. They name the plants together. Angela and Roy. One’s a fern. One’s a cactus.

And, despite his initial efforts to keep her out of the game, Roy finds himself teaching Angela some of what he knows. A few more games, here and there. During the downtime. He lets her run the twenties at 7-Elevens, her favorite target. She loves to play up to the clerks. Kids, adults, it doesn’t matter. When Angela turns it on, Angela turns it on. Roy can’t stand to watch. Roy can’t stand not to watch. She’s a natural.

Frankie doesn’t come around as much as he used to. They still run games together, and they’re still pulling the art deal. But he doesn’t call for casual dinner. For drinks, whatever. At the diner, after business, they eat, they talk about the day, they go home. Roy doesn’t tell Frankie about Angela, and Frankie doesn’t ask about her. Two more times, they’ve played the Jamaican
switch, and each time, Roy’s left her at home. She pouted, of course, complained. No use.

Roy lets Angela keep whatever she earns on the C. Not fair to take the kid’s money away. But he makes her promise to keep it secret from her mother. Wouldn’t do good to have Heather on his ass again. She’d probably want in on it. Better to keep everything separate. Clean.

One night, a weeknight, when Angela has skipped her mother’s house for the comforts of Roy’s den once again, he helps her tidy up the room before heading out to meet Frankie. The watercolors have been taken off the walls. Most of them. In their place, more forgeries of forgeries: Mirós, Kandinskys, Wilders. Angela can’t get enough of them. She loves the colors. The composition.

“Art’s kinda a cool field,” she tells him as they straighten out the bedsheets.

“You like that?” says Roy. “You should take some classes, some art classes.”

Angela nods, thinking it over. “Might be cool. I could learn how to do that.”

“Paint my portrait?”

“Only if I can sell it to you,” she says. Roy laughs. Angela stands on the bed, running her fingers across the frame of a faux Rothko. “You got nice stuff in here now, Roy.”

“Glad Her Majesty approves.” It’s easy talking to Angela these days. They get each other. She likes to tease, she’s comfortable with that. He’s comfortable with that, too.

“And as soon as you get rid of this ugly thing,” she says, jumping off the bed and next to the ceramic horse, “we’ll be set.”

Roy freezes. “Don’t mess with that. Forget it.”

“It’s ugly. Admit it.”

“It was a gift.”

“It’s still ugly.”

Her hands are all over the horse. Roy keeps himself even. He needs to make that Caymans trip. If he can make that trip, he’ll never put money in that horse again. For now, it’s hands off.

“Maybe it thinks you’re ugly,” he teases. “Maybe it wants to get rid of you.”

Angela bites. “It’s a statue, knucklehead.”

“A statue that thinks you’re ugly. Now get in bed, I gotta run out.”

She hops back into the fold-out and pulls up the covers. “Deal with Frankie?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d take you, but …”

“But he still doesn’t like me. It’s okay. Tell him I say hi.”

“I will.”

She flips on the black-and-white, the sound blasting into the room. “I’m sure there’s something on the TV that can rot my brain.”

“No doubt.” Roy straightens his tie, tries to pull it up. Not having much success. Angela, exasperated, huffs theatrically and jumps to her knees, grabbing his tie with one hand and pulling it into place with the other. Leaps back down into the bed. Roy chuckles. “You want me to bring back ice cream or something?”

“Um … Rocky Road?”

“Rocky Road. Three hours, tops.”

She turns the TV volume higher. “So go, already,” she says. “Go on your date.”

Roy closes the door behind him as he goes. Lets Angela have her privacy. She knows where to find things in the kitchen. Knows how to get around the house. He doesn’t worry about leaving her at home anymore when he goes out. She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.

The art dealer is located in the middle of an outdoor promenade. A busy shopping district. A happening store, a trendy store. A well-lit store. Roy doesn’t like it. This is the kind of thing reserved for back-alley deals. The docks. The warehouse. And he doesn’t understand why they have to make the drop themselves.

“I told you,” Frankie says as they haul the crate out of the rented truck. “That guy, that friend of Jimmy’s, he’s sick tonight. He can’t make the drop.”

“It should wait,” says Roy. No point in arguing. They’re doing this thing already. “Next time, it can wait.”

“I’m agreeing with you. But Saif said there’s a flood coming his way from back East, and if we don’t get this stuff on the market now, we’ll lose out. Trust me, this guy wants to buy.”

“You spoke with him?”

“I spoke with someone who spoke with him.”

Always the intermediaries. It’s safer, but a hell of a way to do business. Like playing that kid’s game, Telephone. No way to know if what you’re hearing is what you’re supposed to be hearing. Roy’s had it blow up in his face before.

But Frankie’s right this time. The buyer is interested, and they unload four fakes on him at nine grand a pop, ten for the Corbett. The shop owner, who knows full well that these paintings
are not the real thing, wants to take them out to dinner, to treat them to a nice meal, but Roy begs off. Doesn’t want to make a thing of it. No need to socialize with the guy.

Afterward, he and Frankie walk the promenade. A slight chill comes down the street, whipping past the pedestrians. Roy likes it. It reminds him that winter’s coming. No more fish guts at the docks.

Street performers line the edges of the stores. Singers, magicians. A guy who plays guitar and has his kid sing along. It’s “Hotel California.” It’s always “Hotel California,” every time he comes down here. That kid’s been singing it since she was five. Roy shakes his head. To do that to a kid. To your own child. He drops a few coins in the guitar case.

“How’s things?” Frankie asks.

“Good. You?”

“Good.”

This isn’t the kind of conversation they used to have. It used to be bright. Sometimes witty. Peppered with profanity, at the very least. Roy liked that. Frankie cursed better than anyone he’d ever met.

They pass through the nicer section of the promenade, leaving the upscale stores and restaurants behind. Now it’s second-tier. Mom-and-pop operations, some empty storefronts. For Lease signs out in the window. Alleyways and dark corners. Roy’s world. This is the kind of place where they should have brought the art. Things change.

As they turn the corner, Roy’s surprised to see a throng of people gathered around. A three-quarter circle, those in back up on their toes. Roy knows that formation. That’s a three-card-monte
game. That’s a street con going down. “Wanna check it out?” he asks Frankie. Doesn’t need to wait for the response.

The young black man hustling the audience is making a good game of it. Letting the folks win when the bets are low, raking it back for himself when the money gets high. “Find the queen,” he’s saying, his hands moving over the cards. “Find the lady. The lucky lady is your friend.”

Roy watches a few marks get taken for eighty, ninety bucks. The losers belly up and swim away, but the fringe crowd remains. They’re not even in on it; they just want to see a skinning. Roy’s feeling impetuous. He’s feeling old school.

“I’ll take a stab at it,” he says, moving up to the table.

“Hey, hey, we got a player. What’s your name, sir?”

“I’m Roy. From Des Moines.” He’s laying it on thick, he knows. Playing the chump. But this kid’s too young to know any better.

“Roy from Des Moines, today could be your lucky day.” The young man flips over the three cards on his table. Two aces, one queen in the middle. “Your job,” he says, “is to find the queen. You find that beautiful, foxy lady, I double your money.”

“Sounds easy. How much?”

“Let’s call it twenty,” says the kid. He picks up each card and puts it down again in succession. Picks it up, puts it down. Ace, queen, ace, queen, ace … Suddenly, there’s a whirlwind of activity, the cards flying about the table. “Okay, where’s the lady?”

This one isn’t meant to be hard. Roy finds her easily. The kid pays out the money, and Roy slaps it back down. The cycle begins again. As he expected to, Roy wins the first few hands. Watches the cards, watches the kid’s machinations. He needs work. His fingers are too stiff, the palms too loose. Good natural
style, but he needs lessons. Roy’s up sixty bucks when the hustler suggests they up the bet.

“How ’bout a hundred?” asks Roy, playing the cocky winner. The crowd oohs and aahs.

“A hundred it is,” says the kid. Here’s where Roy really pays attention. He knows he won’t find the queen on the felt when the cards are all down. There won’t be a queen. The kid will pocket the card, or palm it, or shove it up his sleeve, substituting a third ace. That’s the trick to three-card-monte. There’s no way to win.

Unless you’re Roy. The kid throws down the cards, and Roy points to the middle one. Barely touches it. “You sure?” the kid asks.

“Sure enough to bet another hundred on it,” says Roy. He lays down a second bill, and the kid, eager to suck in the country mouse, matches it. “Shake on the deal?” Roy asks, and before the kid can argue, Roy grabs his arm and pumps his hand hard.

The kid plays it off cool, smiling to the crowd. “So you want the lady in the middle?”

“Uh-huh. Can I flip it over?” Roy asks innocently.

“You can kiss it if you want.”

Roy smiles and turns the card over. It’s a queen. Roy wants a camera to capture the look on the kid’s face. The crowd bursts into applause. Frankie snatches the money off the table and tucks it into Roy’s jacket pocket. They quickly make their exit. No need to stick around. Hustlers like that don’t like to lose. Hustlers like that don’t like to be tricked at their own game.

“Nice switch,” says Frankie. “I didn’t even see it, and I knew it was coming.”

“The kid’s mechanics were lousy. He slipped that queen up
his sleeve, hell, I could see the white poking through. He didn’t even notice I pulled it back out when we shook hands.”

Frankie laughs. “Games on the hoof,” he mutters. “Those were the old days, huh?”

“Bit takes, shaky payoffs, looking over your shoulder every two seconds, folding up if you caught a whiff of blue. Oh, yeah, real fun. Days of wine and roses.”

“I dunno, I liked it. Easy, you know?” Roy doesn’t want to admit it, but there are things about those days that he liked, too. Frankie’s right—it was easier back then. No one suspecting you. No newsmagazines warning the public about the newest grift to hit the streets. These days it’s all about shifty eyes. These days, some days, it’s too much.

They turn the corner again, heading back to the car. The wind picks up. A couple sprints by in matching jogging shorts, huffing away. “How they walk around without jackets?” Frankie says. “It’s fucking freezing out here.”

“Reminds me. I gotta pick up some ice cream.”

“I say it’s freezing, he wants ice cream.”

“Angela—she wanted some Rocky Road. There’s a place back by the car, my treat.”

They walk, huddling against the wind. Frankie pulls his jacket tight around his shoulders. Minutes pass in silence, Frankie glancing at Roy ever so often, as if waiting for the right moment to leap on his back or wrestle him playfully to the floor.

Eventually, he speaks. “So I had a little time on my hands. Thought up a new C.”

“There are no new C’s,” says Roy. “It’s all been done.”

“I thought up a new
variation
then.”

“Yeah?” Roy doesn’t particularly care. The ones they’ve got
work well enough, and new material can be dangerous. But he doesn’t want to upset his partner. Frankie’s been testy enough recently. “Lay it out.”

“Now, it’s long con,” he starts, “and I know that’s not your bag—”

“Let’s hear it. Go.”

Frankie takes his hands from his pockets. Always talks with his fingers when he gets excited. “First of all, I’m talking a clean take from this. No wire hassles, nothing. Maybe fifty grand.”

“Each?”

“Each.”

A buzz in Roy’s back pocket. The beeper. He pulls it out, checks the number. Unfamiliar. “Who is it?” Frankie asks.

“Dunno. Don’t recognize it. Go on.”

“Okay, easy setup. You seen these places, they buy out insurance policies from people who got AIDS?”

“I guess, yeah. Saw something on one of the news shows … They pay off a lump sum?”

“Right, right, that’s it. Guy’s dying from AIDS, he’s got a million-dollar life insurance policy. These folks, they buy it out from him, give the guy a lump settlement like two hundred grand, then they get the million when he croaks.”