The Program (15 page)

"Must have been my privileged childhood."

"Must have been." His father pressed his lips together, making them disappear. "The main trick to conning, I'd say, is circumventing people's thinking. You want them to respond instinctively, to salivate at the bell."

"Give me an example."

"Okay. A mark comes in here, he wants a stereo and speakers. What do I sell him first?"

"The stereo."

"The stereo. Why?"

"Because in contrast to it, the speakers will seem cheaper."

He smiled, pleased. "That's right. We sell him a two-thousand-dollar head unit first. After that, what's eight hundred for speakers? Besides, you can't enjoy the two-thousand-dollar stereo without them. Then you load him up with even cheaper accessories he doesn't need. It's all chump change now, Constant Buyer, in comparison. Just you try running a mark up the ladder. If you start with a thirty-buck CD-cleaner kit, the sheep are already thinking, 'My goodness. That's a whole dinner at Claim Jumper.' You don't want to climb that ladder. No, sir." He ran a hand across his clean-shaven face. "Of course, this sales scheme's old hat now -- Christ, they teach it on Rodeo -- but I knew it back when. I knew it like I know how to smell people. Like I know how to get into their brains."

"Or their wallets."

"There's a difference?" He paused, his posture flawless, his hands clasped behind his back. "Where do you think you got it? Your school-teachers adored you. Your commander in the army took you under his wing. The marshal himself hung the Medal of Valor around your neck -- you'd think you won the biathlon at Lillehammer. Do you think you got by on natural smarts and talent?" A smile warmed his features; even approaching sixty, he was still more handsome than Tim. "You know the angles. The well-timed favor. The chuck on the shoulder. Dropping heat-seeking flattery. You know how to read the river, just like me." When Tim didn't rise to the bait, he arched a silver eyebrow. "Why all this interest? Considering a career switch?"

"Background information."

"Mugsy and I used to run a lucrative ruse out in La Canada that might be of interest. The mark can be anyone, really, but we had an easier go with elderly folk living alone. Widows are always good. I'd throw on a three-piece suit, and Mugsy would dress as a bank guard. I'd hit the mark around four o'clock, tell her I'm a professional bank examiner and her account has shown a few concerning irregularities. I have a culprit in mind, a crafty teller who's been doctoring transactions in certain accounts. I furnish him with a Jewish name. To be safe, would she mind going to the bank and withdrawing her savings so our team of highly qualified individuals can monitor the transaction as it crosses the culprit's desk?"

His tone, even now, exuded authority and reasonableness. "She pulls out her life savings and brings it home in a cab we furnish. I wait with her maybe a half hour, share some small talk over coffee. That's when Mugsy arrives. He tells her the culprit showed his hand and was arrested. Her account was straightened out, fortunately, and now it's safe from any future tampering. Our anxious widow is relieved beyond words. Since by now the bank is closed, I instruct Mugsy to return her money to the vault. We're back at the house splitting green before angina strikes." He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "What's that face? Do I disgust you?"

Tim looked away, unsettled as always when confronted with his father's talent.

"Well, before you get too swept away in moral indignation, let me remind you of this: Those schemes fed you every meal of your childhood." His tone, as always, remained conversational, as calm as a flatline. "They dressed you, paid for your school supplies, afforded you the bed in which you slept every night. There's a little piece of me in you -- in everyone, actually, but especially in you. It's in my DNA, packed into every one of your angry little cells."

Revulsion rose in the back of Tim's throat. A familiar flavor -- the same he'd grown up with.

"Beware pride, Timmy. It's the most dangerous trait. We are low creatures. If we're foolish, we hold self-illusions. If we're smart, we use others' self-illusions against them."

"Fortune-cookie insert?"

"Need I remind you pride landed you in your own little quagmire last year?"

"My daughter being murdered might have had something to do with it, too."

"True. Quite true. How is Andrea?"

"Fine."

"Send her my regards."

"I will. We finally cleaned out Ginny's room..." Tim paused, stupidly anticipating some response but drawing only a slightly bored gaze. His capacity for expecting change in his father staggered him in its imperviousness to data. No matter how much he'd toughened into adulthood, some hardwired hope still flickered, the glow of a pilot light. He remembered, too late, Dray's warning.

His father's face sharpened, as if Tim's words had just sunk in. "You know what might go well in there? Your mother's old drafting table."

"You still have it?"

"Yes, but it's up in the rafters. A hassle to get down."

"I could take care of that."

"It's worth some money."

Tim took a moment to respond, his face burning. "I could pay you for it."

A pristine Lexus screeching into the lot drew his father's attention -- more pressing matters at hand. The plate frames broadcast a Beverly Hills dealership. A tanned man in a crisp suit popped out and headed for them, a mascara-heavy girlfriend trailing in his wake.

To Tim's surprise, his father turned away from the approaching customer, absorbed in some paperwork. He slid a pair of eyeglasses from a drawer, an odd move given his 20/15 vision.

"Excuse me. Excuse me."

Tim's father glanced up over the rims of the lenses. "Yes?"

The man stood with his legs slightly spread, suit fabric pulling tight at the biceps. The girlfriend arrived, a bit winded, and took up what appeared to be her customary post behind his shoulder.

"I'm looking for an Alpine ALD 900. The guy my dealer outsources to can't get his hands on one. Can you?"

Tim's father's eyes returned to the folder before him. "Pardon me for saying so, sir, but that's an extremely exclusive line. Perhaps I could recommend something a bit more...reasonably priced?"

Head bowed, Tim took his leave, heading out into the morning blaze. Behind him he heard the customer's raised voice. "Why don't you get it for me and let me worry about what I can afford?"

And his father, setting the hook with newly realized chagrin -- "Right away, sir."

Chapter
fourteen

Tim asked Dray to join him for his six o'clock drive to Hidden Hills. They tangled in traffic at Thousand Oaks, lurching along beside a glossy red Ferrari with an Angels flag snapping from the rear window. Tim worked his lip between his front teeth, and Dray watched the scenery inch by, letting him muse. Between Top 40 hits on 98.7, Ryan Seacrest bemoaned his dating life.

Though growing up with a despotic father, an expended mother, and four older brothers hadn't been a breeze through the express lane, Dray had a perception about family matters that far exceeded his own -- one of the reasons he wanted her with him at the Hennings'. Plus, as a sheriff's deputy, she had a stronger handle on state law.

The Hennings' house, an enormous Spanish colonial with pantile roofing, abutted an equestrian arena. The solid-core oak door, buttressed by strips of hammered iron, opened to a vaulting foyer and a displeased man with the size and bearing of a WWF grappler.

"Help you?" His nose, flattened and asymmetrical, suggested a history guarding club doors or encountering hockey boards. Black hair shorn in a buzz cut didn't widen his casting options. The Mickey Mouse voice, so discordant given his build, tipped Tim that this was the spirited caller he'd hung up on earlier in the day. One of Will's men.

"Yes, Tim and Andrea Rackley here to see Will." Tim's proffered hand hung in the air for a moment before he withdrew it.

The man stepped back, letting them enter. He walked with a slight limp, a cocker spaniel materializing to scurry alongside him. His body language suggested he was not a dog person. Tim and Dray followed him across a wide stretch of ceramic tiles into an expansive kitchen area. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked an unrestrained lawn. Perched on two barstools pulled up to a granite-topped island, Will and Emma were finishing an early dinner. Though the meal seemed casual enough, Emma wore a conservative dress, stockings, and slingbacks. Perusing the Hollywood Reporter, Will foiled her in a velour jogging suit, royal blue with an embroidered F prominently displayed.

"Rooch Banner," Will said proudly, his game-show-host sweep of the arm acknowledging the low-grade butler. "Maybe you recognize him. He had a half season with the Rams."

Tim's apologetic shrug probably didn't help him with Rooch in the rapport department. Dray admired the photos adhered to the Sub-Zero -- Will lying on his back flying the baby above him, the baby dressed as a sunflower for her first Halloween, a weary postpartum Emma snuggling the baby in a loaf of pink blanket.

Will drained a glass of vivid green liquid. To Dray's bemused stare, he said, "Blue-green algae. Antioxidants," then threw down his napkin and rose. Rooch set about clearing the plates as Will gestured them down a hall. They passed a palatial Pilates room and a home theater with rows of cushioned seats, finally descending into a sunken living room rimmed with couches and adorned with energetic one-sheets of films Will had produced.

Will sank down and patted the cushion. "C'mere, pooch."

The dog leapt up and curled under his arm. It yapped a few times, tail wagging. Emma snapped her fingers at it irritably.