Long White Con: The Biggest Score of His Life (9 page)

He reached to stroke her hair but she recoiled. He sighed, “Baby, Saul and I sell real estate. That’s the guaranteed truth. We . . . uh, well, unethically resell the same property again and again. But, sweetheart, the saving grace is that we only . . . uh, well, cheat only greedy white buyers, thieves at heart who are out to cheat us—crooks, I swear, who are wealthy and can afford to be cheated, that need to be taught a lesson. I promise to get out of the business, maybe within a year. We’ll have enough money then to open that fabulous day care center for pre-schoolers that you dream about. Trust me, baby!”

He stared at her flabbergasted as she burst into tears, tumbled to the carpet and rolled herself into an agonized fetal ball. Shaken, he leapt from the bed to her side on his haunches. He tried to take her into his arms.

She gouged a red line with fingernails across his hand and blubbered savagely. “Don’t touch me! I’ll tear out your eyes! Liar!”

He sat on the side of the bed and watched her roll pitifully in her tantrum. His face was deformed with aggravation and angry frustration. He said, “Pearl, I told you the truth, as much as you’re going to get for now. Now pull yourself together and act like a woman!”

She clapped her palms over her ears and babbled in her misery. “You bastard! You lied! I know about title insurance and real estate abstracts. The police would bury you and Saul in prison and lose the key the first time you tried a deal. Wealthy people aren’t that stupid. Be fair, Johnny. Why hurt me? You said you wanted me with you always in Canada. I was doing all right until you came along with your lies. I had a man, a kind man who loved me, trusted me. I broke his heart for you. Oh, God! Don’t I deserve the simple truth for that, Johnny? Liar! Liar!” She rolled and sobbed piteously on the carpet.

He decided he couldn’t take any more. He couldn’t run down how the cunning structure of the long con made the real estate swindle work. He regretted that he had told her anything. So, he eased away to spend the night across the hall with Speedy.

She finally got to her feet and went toward the bathroom to wash her face. She stopped, did a double take at his blue silk suit jacket draped across a chair in a lance of bathroom light. She plucked a glittery Christina Buckmeister strand of golden hair from the jacket, studied it, held it to the light between her fingertips. Then she flung it away as if it were a cobra. She cried out like a scalded infant and renewed her wild weeping.

At that moment, at the airport, Captain Ellis and Stilwell stood in a crowd of passengers waiting at an embarkation entrance to a mid-west flight. A con mob tailer stood behind them eavesdropping. The captain and Stilwell locked hands in a warm handshake.

Stilwell said, “Thank you again, Captain Ellis, for your sympathy and counsel. I was in a bad way about all that money.”

The captain embraced his shoulders. “Mister Stilwell, it has been an extraordinary pleasure to meet you and serve you. I vow to catch those crooked dogs that bit you!”

Stilwell said, “Captain, you keep your promise and I’ll keep mine to fly back to witness against them.”

The captain rippled his jaw muscles. “Cecil, in the name of the Lord, I’ll keep my vow!”

They embraced. Stilwell turned and went into the embarkation tunnel with the crowd. Kid’s tailer hurried to a phone to give Kid the good blow-off news.

T
he Vicksburg Kid called Folks and Speedy the next morning, Saturday, to a meeting. Folks drove his Eldorado. Rita let Folks and Speedy into the Kid’s posh high-rise apartment, led them into the den, then returned to a stool and her glass at the redwood bar. Aristocratic looking High Pockets Kate and High Ass Marvel, the full-blooded Indian, bloody-eyed with a hangover, were in chairs grouped in a close semi-circle around the wire thin, silver-thatched Kid seated on the sofa.

Kid said, “Sit down here on the sofa, laddies.”

They sat down, flanking Kid.

Kid glanced at his wristwatch. “Trevor is late as usual, so I won’t delay the fabulous good news.” Kid paused to light a Pantella. “On a scale of ten, friends, I’ve gotten a line on a ten-plus mark. He’s sweet!
Nouveau riche
ex-cowboy, rodeo slob. Married a kooky sucker fan of the manure-and-bruises circuit. Her millions have made Marvin Bates, the bum, a cattle ranch baron. I received the research report on them just this morning. Bates satisfies all the criteria for the perfect mark played against The Unhappy Virgin. His personality priority is greed. He’s a cutthroat savage with a hard-on for “The Best of It.” In addition, he’s an immoral buffoon with a wild eye for fancy fluffs. Rita is
making her debut with us as the requisite sexpot distraction for Bates. He has a commercial hang-up for sunken, ancient ships which the treasure lure of the Virgin presents irresistibly.”

Kid picked up an edition of the
Wall Street Journal
from the coffee table, slapped it against his palm. “A
Journal
article reports that Bates, for months, has had difficulty getting his price for sale of a ranch outside the city. He has taken up temporary residence in a downtown hotel suite. He has also set up an office in town. He’s there six days a week.”

Kid beamed a knowing smile at Folks as he gave Folks the
Journal.

Folks took the cue. He said, “Kid, I love it! I cut into Bates as a buyer for the ranch, then rope him for the play. Kid, what kind of score do you see?”

Kid said, “Wonder, with Bates’ level of liquid capital and the quality play we can give him now with our mansion-museum set-up, so beautifully ready, I see a mil score . . . if, of course, you hook and reel in Bates in your usual air tight fashion.”

Kid stood to signal the end of the meeting. He eye signaled Folks and Speedy to remain as he followed the mob to the front door. Kid shut the door and led Folks and Speedy back to the den sofa, then frowned as he leaned toward a tape recorder on the coffee table.

He said, “Laddies, this is a bit of taped conversation from Speedy’s bug in Victoria Buckmeister’s bedroom between herself and Trevor.” Kid turned on the machine.

Victoria spoke.
“Why, oh why, Trevor, did you not attend the affair given by the MacDills for Catherine?”

Trevor said,
“Mother, you’re very ill and I don’t really want to argue with you again about your compulsion to play Cupid. I refuse to romance that utter bore, Catherine MacDill.”

Victoria said,
“You prefer the trollops and tramps in the gutter . . . your father was like that! Trevor, you’ll debauch yourself out of the possibility of an advantaged marriage with a peer. I no longer have the expectation that you can become the ideal Buckmeister man.”

The sound of Trevor’s fingers snapping was heard as he replied,
“Mother, I know how to please you!”

Victoria said,
“Yes, Trevor.”

With heavy sarcasm, Trevor said,
“I’ll marry Chris. That way no outsider can take pot shots at Buckmeister money. That is your major concern, isn’t it, Mother?”

Victoria’s voice shook with anger.
“I’ll cane you!”

There was the sound of it cracking against a hard surface and a scrambling noise.

Apparently the invalid Victoria said from her bed,
“Come here, Trevor!”

Trevor said,
“I will not let you brain me. You’ve forgotten, Mother, whom you must depend on as head of our business interests. “

Victoria said,
“Did depend on, Trevor. As of this moment, I am putting Christina in charge.”

Victoria, the heart patient, was heard gasping for air.

“You worthless gutter snipe! You’ve given me an attack! Millie! Millie!”
Victoria choked out.

The sounds of the nurse’s voice and urgent footsteps were heard.

Then Trevor’s voice.
“Mother, I’m sorry, deeply sorry you’ve forced me to upset you again.”

Kid cut off the machine. He said. “I hope the old lady cools off and forgets that crack about kicking Trevor off the top spot. Our fix for our setup could curdle fast with his sister calling the shots at the bank. And Trevor’s clout with the police brass downtown could fizzle if he’s demoted. What a lousy fall of cards with Bates, the perfect mark, on the turn.”

Folks said, “Should I cut into Bates and rope him anyway?”

Kid sighed, “Why the hell not? This afternoon is not too soon. We’ve got to play for that mil! Maybe I can give Trevor an angle or two to ease him into Victoria’s good graces. Officially he’s still in charge.”

Folks said, “Kid, I can’t say that it’s worth much at this point, but Christina appears to have the hots for me.”

Kid said, “It could be an angle to keep our operation fixed.” He shrugged elaborately, “But with a nitro fluff like that, there’s no bedrock stability. Be careful. Don’t shake her up! She could blow us into the pen!”

Folks and Speedy left the apartment to pick up a rented limo. They waved at Trevor, in his white Continental, driving toward the Kid’s apartment house. After renting the limo, they drove to their apartment building, while Folks and Speedy went into Speedy’s apartment across the hall from Folks’ own. Speedy costumed himself in dove gray chauffeur’s attire.

Folks called Bates’ office to make an afternoon appointment, then prepared himself for the Bates cut-in before Speedy’s dresser mirror. He covered his blond hair with an undetectable curly black wig and a fake thick moustache, both with the sheen of a raven’s breast. He inserted brown contact lenses over his blue eyes. Then he costumed himself elegantly in a midnight blue Brooks Brother’s suit, gray hombrug hat, handmade black wing tip shoes, blue silk tie and snowy linen. Then he slipped on platinum-rimmed spectacles.

He was pleased as he studied himself in the mirror, confident that he looked the part of Lance Wellington, scion of a vast English fortune. He walked into the living room.

Speedy, seated on a couch, stared at him, whistled as he made an A-OK circle with his fingers. He said, “Folks, you’re perfect!”

Folks replied in a cultured, crisp British accent. “Thank you very much, my dear man. Shall we go to cut . . . uh, rather, I mean, to keep my appointment with Mister Bates?”

They laughed and went to the limo. Speedy drove it downtown, pulling it into Bates’ building parking lot. Folks went to the building elevators and got into one, stepped out on the fifth floor. He walked down a corridor to an office door stenciled
Lone Star Incorporated.
In lower case beneath that,
Marvin L. Bates and Associates.
Folks opened the door and stepped into a plush reception room.

He said, “Good afternoon. I’m Lance Wellington.”

A handsome, mature woman was behind a desk. A pair of big-eyed pre-teen twin girls, with a marked resemblance to the woman, stared at him from a leather couch.

The woman smiled and said, “Good afternoon, Mister Wellington. I’m Mrs. Bates.” She picked up an intercom phone and said, “Marvin, Mister Wellington is here.” She nodded toward a door across the room.

Folks said, “Thank you, Mrs. Bates.” He went across the carpet to the door, opened it and stepped into the large room.

Giant Bates rose to his feet behind his massive mahogany desk. He leaned across it with a huge paw extended and a broad smile on his bald-pated, seamed face. “Howdy do, Mister Wellington!” he exclaimed, in a heavy Texas accent, as Folks shook his hand.

“Very well, thank you, Mister Bates,” Folks said as he placed his business card on the desk top. He sat down in a chair facing the desk.

Bates picked up the card and studied it for a moment. Bates said, “European ski resorts, interesting Mr. Wei . . . aw heck, can’t we drop our last names, Lance?”

Folks smiled, “Why not, Marvin?” He fluttered the
Wall Street Journal
in his hand as he leaned toward Bates. “Marvin, I have plans to diversify my investments. I envision the largest dude ranch in the world here in the States. The description, the location of your property that you wish to sell, seems to fit my requirements. Marvin, I should like to tour it at your convenience.”

Bates said, “I would enjoy showing it to you, Lance, at your convenience. As you know it’s just over the state line in Nevada, a short, pleasant hour ride from here.”

Folks said, “Splendid, Marvin. I’ll call you early next week and arrange the trip.”

Bates said, “That will be just great, Lance.”

They stood and shook hands.

Mrs. Bates entered the room. She placed a sheaf of papers on the desk.

Bates said, “Georgia, this gentleman wants to be the head honcho of the largest dude ranch in the world.”

She looked at Folks wide-eyed.

Folks said, “I confess to that ambition, Mrs. Bates.”

She said, “I grew up on one, even managed one in later years. Do you have experience in the field?”

Folks said, “No, I don’t. I’ll need a competent manager.”

She said, “Management of such an enterprise has its peculiar problems. Should you acquire our property, I would be delighted to put you in touch with the proper people.”

Bates said, “Now, Georgia, let’s not give Mr. Wellington the idea that we are in some kind of hard sell cahoots.”

Mrs. Bates blushed in apparent embarrassment. She moved from behind the desk and went toward the door.

She said, “Mister Wellington, I hope I did not give you that impression.”

Folks said, “Certainly not, Mrs. Bates.”

She said, “Thank you, Mister Wellington!” She turned to Bates. “You see, Marvin, Mister Wellington didn’t misunderstand me in the least.” She triumphantly left the room.

Folks and Bates moved to the door and Bates opened it.

Bates said, “Lance, I always thought the British were stuffed shirts until I met you. In just an hour I enjoy your company like I would a close home boy.”

Folks smiled, “Thank you, Marvin. My maternal great grandmother was a homegirl from Dallas. That alone seals our friendship.”

They laughed.

Bates winked salaciously. He said, “Lance, my boy, you gotta be some kind of poontanger with the girls.” Bates darted a wary eye toward Mrs. Bates at her desk. Bates whispered, “Maybe we can drive into Vegas for a hot minute and lasso some he-man fun.”