Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (22 page)

“What’s he do?”

“I don’t care. Forget about Joe.”

Roy picks at the vegetables they sandwiched between his meat. Waste of space. “So how often do you see your mom?” Hopes he’s not being too obvious.

“I dunno. I go to school, I come home, she’s working. She comes home, I go out … A little bit every day, I guess. Half hour, whatever.”

Half hour. That’s the kind of thing he needs to tell the attorney. That’s the kind of thing they can use in court.

“That’s not a lot.”

“Nope.”

Roy laughs. Tries to make it casual. “Probably see me more than you do her.”

“Yep.”

“Angela,” he says, putting his skewer on the plate. “We … we have fun, yeah?”

“We have a lotta fun. After lunch, I’m thinking we hit the spook houses. Most of ’em, they don’t scare me, but I think I saw a walk-through back by the tilt-a-whirl.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll try that.” He shifts gears again. “And I’m … you think I’m okay … as a dad? You know, as …”

“I think you’re great,” she says, smiling up at him with genuine affection.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was worried—you know, back at the beginning. ’Cause it was weird and all, and … and I didn’t know you and you didn’t know me. But now … now it’s perfect, right?”

“Right,” says Roy. “Right.”

Angela goes back to her fried dough. Roy can’t eat another bite. His stomach is all twisted. Heart pounding. After-effects from the rides. Must be. “Angela,” he says, fighting past his quickly closing throat, “how would you like it if maybe I filed for joint custody?”

She stops eating. Puts down the food. “Of me?”

“No, of my six other daughters. Yeah, of you.”

She thinks about it, just for a second. “So I could live with you?”

“Part-time.”

“More than I do now?”

“Yeah, if you want. We can maybe find you a school down here, if you want. I don’t know—I don’t have all the details worked out yet.”

“And mom couldn’t complain about it?”

“She could complain, sure, but … I wanted to ask you first, before I went through with this. It’s going to mean a lot of changes. Not between us, but … for me. For what I do, for how I work.”

“And you’d do that?”

“Yes,” says Roy. “I would. I will.”

Angela nods. Scoots closer to Roy on the bench. Their legs are touching. “Okay. I’d like that a lot.”

Five minutes later, they’re done with lunch. Five minutes after that, Roy is fighting gravity on his way through the Rainbow
Coaster. Stomach bottoming out, then slamming back into his throat. Legs tight against the restraints. Probably bruised. Somehow more nauseated than he already was. Angela grabbing his arm on the way down, screaming into his ear. Nearly deafening him, he thinks. Keeping up a steady shriek all throughout the ride. Eardrum close to shattered. He can’t remember ever having a better time.

He meets Frankie at a nice restaurant downtown because he doesn’t want a scene. If they meet up in the diner, Roy knows, his partner will have no reservations about trashing the place. About yelling. About yelling at Roy. And though he might deserve it, though he might be betraying the friendship, the partnership, he doesn’t want that. Can’t have it, not with everything else on his plate and his mind.

Frankie shows up ten minutes late, wandering through the restaurant. His suit is crisp, stylish. Roy’s surprised he knows what stylish is. Angela’s fashion sense is rubbing off on him. Frankie cranes his neck, searching around. Roy stands, waves. Frankie streams through the crowd, weaves through the tables.

“Thanks for coming down,” says Roy.

“No problem, man. It’s good to see you.” He puts out a tentative hand, and Roy grabs it. They shake, and pull each other into an awkward hug. It’s all the apology either one needs. Frankie’s shiner is fading, the black-and-blue streaks around his right eye turning pale once again.

“Sit, sit,” says Roy. “I ordered you a vodka already.”

Frankie pulls out a chair and spreads himself out. Shaking his head. “You’re looking good. You lost more weight.”

Roy shrugs. Knows he has. No fault of his own, but it’s happened. “Up one week, down another.” Eyes Frankie’s clothes. “You going out tonight?”

Frankie snaps his lapels. “Rhonda.”

“From the club?”

“The very same. You?”

Roy spreads his arms. “Dinner with you.”

“You swinger, you.” Frankie laughs. The waiter arrives with his vodka, and he throws back a gulp. “Nice place,” he says. “So why are we here?”

Roy grins. “ ’Cause we’re fancy guys?”

“Nah, we’re boondogs. You got another reason, partner. We gonna knock this place over together? Run some old-time con on them?”

Roy shakes his head, looks down at his bread plate. “That ain’t … that ain’t it, partner.”

“Too bad. Some real money in here.”

“Yeah. There probably is.” Roy doesn’t want to do this wrong. Doesn’t want to limp his way through it. He raises his head, forces himself to meet Frankie’s eyes. “I’m getting out.”

“We just got here.”

“I’m getting out of the life. I’m dropping the game.”

Frankie doesn’t say a word. Reaches for his drink, throws back the rest of it. Shakes the ice around, twirling it in the glass. Roy doesn’t want to press it. Wants Frankie to talk first.

“You teaming up with someone else?”

“No—”

“ ’Cause of what happened back at the station?”

“No, it’s—I’m not teaming up with anyone else,” says Roy. “I’m out. Gone. I’m gonna … hell, I don’t know what I’m gonna
do. Maybe I’ll really sell antiques, I don’t know. Work in a carpet store.”

“A carpet store?”

“Whatever, I don’t know. Point is, I’m getting out. I’m—I’m gonna try to get custody of Angela, and to do that, I’ve got to have some sort of normal life.”

“A mark’s life.”

“Yeah,” Roy says. “A mark’s life. I gotta be the chump who gets taken on the street.”

Frankie sits back, leaning against the stiff wooden chair. “And you’d do that for the girl? You’d switch sides like that?”

“That’s what I’m doing.” Roy looks around the restaurant. Gauges the distance to the other tables. If Frankie starts yelling, starts in on him, he’s got to shut him up quickly. Keep it down, keep it calm.

“Well, then,” says Frankie, leaning back in, “I wish you good luck.”

Roy’s forehead contracts. This doesn’t sound right. “Serious?”

“Serious. What, I’m gonna stop you from having a family? I think you’re a fucking moron, but that ain’t nothing new.” Frankie cracks a grin. It’s infectious. “Hey, Roy—you been good to me for a lotta years. You taught me shit … man, I never woulda thought that stuff up myself. And if now you wanna get out, then I’m not gonna throw down and scream and yell.”

“Good,” says Roy, a bit stunned. “Good. I—I didn’t know how you were gonna take it.”

“Now you know.”

“Right. Now I know.”

They pick at the bread. Roy spreads a pat of butter along the side. “I do gotta ask you one favor, though,” says Frankie.

“Anything.” Roy’s glad to oblige, relieved at what has been the easiest discussion he could have imagined.

“One more game to put me over the top.”

“Frankie—”

“One more, just so I go out on my own with a little nest egg.”

“I don’t know.…”

Frankie puts down his bread, pulls his chair closer to Roy’s. “If I gotta go out on my own, or—or if I gotta find myself a new partner—I’m gonna need a stash to hold me for a while. I can’t pull it in by myself the way I pulled it in with you.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Eventually, sure. But it’s gonna take me a while to get up to speed. We do one final game together, a good one, then I’ll be set. I’ll be set, and you won’t have to worry about Frankie lying in the street somewhere.”

Roy rubs his eyes, his forehead. This is a new feeling, one that’s settling on him like a cloud. No pressure, no blurred vision. A vague uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. A sense that he should be helping, though he doesn’t want to. Roy wonders if this is guilt. He wonders if this is what it feels like.

“I’m in a bad spot here, Frankie,” he begins. “I gotta get myself turned around. I’m thinking cold turkey—”

“And I can help you. I can set you up with a legit job if you want. My cousin’s got that furniture plant across town—maybe he can get you a supervisor’s job or something, I dunno. All I’m asking for is one last score. We’ll split it, like always. Go out on top, you and me.”

“Go out on top …”

“That’s what I’m saying. One last score. To close it out. A big ol’ feather in your cap, Roy. That’s what I’m talking about.”

Roy doesn’t want to commit, but knows that he will, eventually. “I gotta think this over.”

Frankie nods and picks up his menu. “If you owe me anything, Roy, it’s this one small thing.”

I
n the three weeks it takes for Roy to set up the final game of his life, Angela comes and goes twice. Stays for five days at a stretch, bringing over some of her things each time. A bedspread here, a makeup kit there. The kind of things that make up a home. Roy doesn’t say anything. Watches and smiles, that’s all.

He knows he should call Heather, discuss the situation with her. Explain his motives. Reintroduce himself after all this time. But Angela says she’s out most of the time, and when she’s in, still isn’t interested in talking to her ex-husband. Resentment. Anger. Inertia. He knows he’ll be talking to her soon enough. Or her lawyer. In a few months, once all this is over, once this last game is played out straight, he’ll have a real job. A real life he can point to. An employer, a salary. Maybe volunteer at the local shelter. Something, the lawyer said, to help his standing. To get him some good character witnesses. Then he’ll file for joint custody, and the real game will start. He’s sure Heather will speak to him then. He hopes she won’t.

Saif was overjoyed when Roy and Frankie showed up at the warehouse. They’d come over late, after a scheduled art delivery. In anticipation of his new life, Roy had voluntarily cut himself out of the art deal, handing the future proceeds over to Frankie. “You are back,” Saif crooned, hugging them both tight. “But our shipment has not come in yet.”

“We’re not here for the art,” Roy said. He knew he needed to play this right. Didn’t want to spook the Turk. “Frankie here … he’s finally got me thinking you might be good with us. In our game.”

“Your game. As … partners?”

Roy sighed. “Once. Partners once. Then, maybe later, you team up with Frankie here. If it goes well.”

“And you?”

“I drop out. It’s getting too much for me.” He had no need to tell this guy about Angela. Not before he needed to know.

Saif was interested. Drooling, practically. “How do we do this?”

“The thing is,” Frankie interrupted, “we need to know that you can make a score and play it right. And the only way to do that is to front yourself for the first game.”

“I don’t understand,” said Saif. “Perhaps my English—”

“Your English is fine,” Roy said. “What Frankie’s saying is this: If you want in, you have to put up the advance dough for the first game. Way back, you told me you wanted to run long con—”

“Yes, yes—”

“—and long con requires capital. You want in with us—with Frankie—you gotta show that capital up top.”

He took no time thinking it over. “I can do this,” he said excitedly.
“I can do this, certainly. And you two will provide the … game, yes?”

Frankie and Roy grinned at one another inside that warehouse. Big, toothy smiles. “Oh, we got a game,” said Frankie. “We got a game, and we’ve got a beautiful mark waiting for the score.”

That was a week ago. Since then, Roy’s been trying to put himself together. Operating two lives. Talking to lawyers, to Klein, to real estate agents during the day. Setting up the grift at night. Speaking with the right people. Procuring the right goods. Roy’s come up with a fun little twist, and Frankie put his own spin on the deal. It’s a good one. Old school. Not quite long-con, not quite short-con, but it’s the kind of thing that he’ll miss.

“Mr. Arbeiter will see you now.” Roy looks up, startled at the voice. The receptionist is talking to him. He puts down the magazine he wasn’t reading and stands. Smooths out his slacks. Straightens his tie. He’s never been on a job interview before.