King Con (21 page)

They talked through the scam until Beano was sure they all had it down. He said he was pretty sure Texaco would have a gun, probably a plastic Glock automatic, which was in style because it didn’t set off airport metal detectors. Beano assigned them all roles. The game was called “The Most Valuable Dog in the World.” Victoria was the shill who would also rope the mark. Paper Collar
John was the singer and would tell the tale. Beano was the capper and would lure the mark and do the sting. Roger-the-Dodger was the inside man. They gave Victoria the keys to the green Escort, which was in the parking lot with the decals now peeled off the doors. Beano and John would follow in a cab.

Victoria had the plane tickets in her hand as she walked out of the building to the car. She got in and drove toward the airport. Her heart was beating wildly.

“This is crazy,” she said under her breath, as she got on the Bayshore Freeway heading to San Francisco Airport. Texaco Phillips was following her two cars behind.

V
ICTORIA COULD SEE TEXACO PHILLIPS IN HIS RENTAL
car two lanes over, one car back, as she made the tumoff to the airport. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she returned the car to Hertz and walked into the large glass-front terminal. With his muscle shirt and huge size, he was easy to spot in the crowded airport. Her pulse was racing, but it calmed her slightly that he seemed to be trying to tail her and not be seen. That probably meant that he wasn’t going to grab her and drag her, kicking and screaming, into the parking lot.

She went to the American Airlines counter and stepped up when it was her turn. She told the lady that she wanted to buy three tickets to Cleveland. Beano had said if the Rinas were tracking them through airline computers, this Cleveland buy would throw them off. She could see across the airport lobby, where Texaco Phillips had moved to a telephone and was dialing a number from a card he had in his hand.

“She’s at the fucking American Airlines counter right now,” Texaco said to Peter Rina, who was at his computer in the New Jersey travel office. Peter hit the AMA symbol for American Airlines on his keyboard and then SFO, and up on the screen came the current reservations table. He began to scroll it, looking for their names.

“You find it yet?” Texaco brayed. “Where the fuck’s she going?”

“Wait a minute. I gotta go through thirty flights,” Peter said, thinking Texaco sounded as intelligent as prime-cut beef. Then he saw their names being added to the computer listing on a flight to Cleveland.

“Three tickets on Flight Three-seventeen. It’s for the nine
P.M.
flight to Cleveland.”

“Shit, that’s five hours from now,” Texaco said, looking at his watch, thinking that at least he wouldn’t have to haunt the gate all night. He could buy a ticket and wait to see who her two traveling companions were. Better still, he could get a drink and some dinner and relax for a while. He hung up on Peter without saying another word.

Texaco was sitting in the flight lounge across from the American lobby, nursing a beer and watching Victoria Hart, who was in a leather chair in the waiting area, reading a paperback. He thought she was beautiful. Texaco decided to make a date to give Miss Hart some flute lessons. All he needed was ten minutes and a quiet spot. He’d screw a gun in her ear and have her buff his pink helmet. She needed to have some of the starch taken out of her the hard way. And then he heard a commotion outside the bar. … A red-haired man was arguing with a cop:

“Whatta you mean, I can’t? But she’s coming in right now! Okay, okay, you don’t have to be an asshole.”

The red-haired man turned and moved into the bar with a little terrier on a leash. He walked directly up to the bartender, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.

“Listen, pal, I hate to be a problem, but would you keep an eye on my dog?”

“This ain’t a kennel,” the bartender said.

“He’s a very rare Baunchatrain Terrier,” Beano said, earnestly handing the bill to the bartender, who took it and looked at it critically. “They won’t let me take him down to meet the Hawaiian flight because they got some quarantine regulation, or some damn thing. I gotta go meet my daughter. She’s on that flight, sick in a wheelchair, but she’s coming home. Don’t let him out of your sight. Like I said, he’s very rare.”

“Okay,” the bartender said, and he put the crisp new hundred in his pocket. Beano hurried out of the bar, right past Texaco, who still didn’t recognize him.

Texaco looked at the dog for a long moment, then went back to his drink. “Don’t look too fuckin’ rare to me,” he mumbled under his breath, making his first and only shrewd observation of the day.

Ten minutes later, a very distinguished looking man with gray hair came into the bar carrying a briefcase and sat at one of the tables. After a minute he got up, crossed the bar, and looked carefully at the dog. … “Son-of-a-gun,” he said softly, in an English accent. Then he lifted Roger-the-Dodger expertly and checked his privates.

“Don’t touch the dog,” the bartender said.

“I’ll be snookered,” Paper Collar John muttered softly, admiring the dog. “That’s the damnedest thing I ever saw.”

“What?” Texaco said, his interest vaguely piqued.

John ignored him and turned to the bartender. “Y’know what this little bloke here is?” he said.

“No, sir,” the bartender answered. “Guy said he was valuable, is all.”

“Valuable?” Paper Collar John started to laugh. When he finally got himself under control, he shook his head in lingering amusement. “Valuable, I daresay, barely captures it. Try
priceless.
”

“Really?” the bartender said.

Texaco had all of his attention on this conversation now, his pea brain cranked up to its full cerebral volume.

“I’ll give you nine thousand dollars for this animal, right now.” John put his briefcase up on the bar, snapped it open and started to drop crisp new hundred-dollar bills on the bar. “I just sold one of my racehorses for cash,” he said to Texaco, who nodded dumbly, eyeing the money like a timberwolf scoping a jackrabbit.

“Whatta you doing?” The bartender tried to stop John, who now had hundred-dollar bills all over the bar. It was some of the pearl money stolen yesterday from Texaco’s psychopathic boss.

“Look, put your money away, mister. The dog isn’t mine,” the bartender said. “Some guy just left him here for me to watch ‘cause the ramp guards wouldn’t let him go to the gate.”

Having shown the poke. Paper Collar John scooped up the bills and put them back into his briefcase, snapped it shut, and looked at the bartender. “That dog is a bloody rare Baunchatrain Scottish Terrier. I venture there are only a hundred of these animals in the world. Not only that, he’s a stud. Most of that breed has been neutered. They were originally for Turkish kings who had them bred in South Scotland. The Turkish prelates killed all of the males except for a few to protect their ownership of the line. Besides breeding racehorses, I sometimes write articles for the English Kennel Club,” he explained. “There are less than ten or twelve ungelded males in the world … and you’ve got one of the little buggers sitting right here in front of you. This little fellow is worth a fortune in stud fees.”

Roger was panting; he seemed happy to be ungelded and worth so much money.

“If the lucky gent who owns him wants t’sell the dog, my offer still goes. I’ll be over at Gate Sixteen. My flight
to Dallas leaves in an hour.” He finished his drink, threw a huge tip on the bar, and left.

Texaco watched him go, then slid off the stool and found Beano on a phone down the corridor.

“… I don’t know,” Beano was saying into the receiver. “We don’t have enough money for that. When did he say she had to have it done?” He listened for a moment and frowned. “I thought you said she’d be on this flight.”

Texaco tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, bud, I wanna talk to you about your dog,” he said.

Beano turned and looked at him for a long moment, listening intently to the receiver.

“I can’t talk to you,” Beano whispered and turned away from him. “But look,” he said into the receiver, “how the hell much could that possibly cost? I was just getting set to pick her up. I thought you said the tests came back negative.” There was a long pause while he pretended to listen. … “Is she gonna stay in the hospital over there?” And then he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Okay. But where the hell am I gonna get ten thousand dollars for a bone marrow transplant? You sure the insurance won’t handle it?” And then he nodded. “Okay, I’ll find a way. Okay … okay, kiss her for me. Tell her I love her and I’ll get the money somehow,” and he started to sob again, softly. When he hung up he had tears on his face. Beano turned and started to walk back toward the front of the airport. Texaco grabbed him by the arm.

“Hey, bud … maybe I can help ya,” he said.

“Huh?” Beano looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Who are you?” he said, distracted, looking down at his watch.

“I was in the bar back there where you left yer dog. My kid was with me and he was, well, he kinda fell in
love with that little mutt, and I promised him I’d look for you and see if you’d sell him.”

“I can’t sell him. He’s too valuable.” Beano started away.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you on the phone there. … You got problems, from what I heard. That’s rough. I could go maybe two thousand for the mutt, just ‘cause I never saw my kid go so goofy for a dog like that before.”

Beano thought Texaco was a terrible liar; the deceit was all over his face. “That dog is priceless. I wouldn’t sell him for twice that.”

“Okay. Twice that, then. Four thousand.” Now avarice and a low IQ were cooking the deal. Texaco’s eyes were lit with greed.

Beano let himself look torn for a moment.

“My little girl has leukemia. They need to do a bone marrow transplant.” He started to cry again and pulled out his handkerchief. He struggled to control himself. “I’m sorry, I gotta go,” he said. “My car’s double parked.”

“Okay, I’ll go forty-five. Top offer. That’s half what you said you need. Okay? You go sell your car or something, then you got the whole bone.”

Beano looked at him for a long moment. “How would you pay?” he said, readying Texaco for the sting.

“We take my Visa card over to that machine there and run it through, then I give you cash,” he said.

Texaco knew he could make a clean forty-five hundred when he sold the dog to the gray-haired asshole who wrote articles for a fucking kennel magazine. “If it was my kid dyin’,” he pressed, “I wouldn’t put no dog in line ahead a’her.”

“You’re right,” Beano sniffed. “You’re absolutely right.”

They went to the cash machine and got the money.
Texaco counted it out for Beano, but wouldn’t let him have it yet. As they went back into the bar to get Roger-the-Dodger, they could see Victoria still reading, and Paper Collar John sitting by Gate 16, waiting for the flight to Dallas. In the bar, Roger-the-Dodger had drawn quite a crowd. Three flight attendants were petting and scratching him under the ears. Beano opened his wallet and took one of his American Kennel Club certificates out. “This verifies his pedigree,” he said, handing the worthless Xerox over to Texaco, who now released the money. Beano handed the leash to Texaco, then he kissed Roger good-bye. “So long, old friend. I’m sorry, but you’re probably saving Cindy’s life.” Roger licked his face. “His name is Sir Anthony of Aquitaine,” Beano said sadly. “He likes Pedigree Dog Chow, the beef with liver and chicken. I get him the Doggie Cookie Treats from Alpo if he’s been good.”

“Whatever,” Texaco said and, in a hurry to complete the transaction, walked out of the bar holding the leash.

Roger-the-Dodger bounced right after him. The dog was well trained. Each time Texaco thought he would have to tug on the leash, he found Sir Anthony of Aquitaine right on his heels.

He went to find the man with the gray hair who had the crisp hundred-dollar bills in his briefcase. He went directly to Gate 16, the flight to Dallas. But the man wasn’t there, and Texaco started to panic.
The man had been there just seconds ago.
And then the flight to Miami was called. Victoria got up and walked to the gate, showed her original ticket, and put her purse through the Security check. Then she walked through and down the ramp. Beano followed her. Texaco turned and, with panic in his eyes, watched them go. Then, once they were through Security, Beano turned, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled for Roger-the-Dodger. The dog took off running.

“No, you don’t,” Texaco said and yanked back on the leash, now discovering why Roger had heeled so precisely … the dog was wearing a tear-away Velcro collar. Roger zipped out and away, leaving Texaco dumbfounded, holding a leash and an empty collar.

Roger ran right through the Security check area and jumped up into Beano’s arms. Beano and Victoria took off running down the ramp. Texaco Phillips went after them. He tried to crash the gate at Security, but two airport cops grabbed him and tried to hold him down. What happened next was not pretty. The ex-Patriot linebacker threw a meaty left hook and knocked one of the cops out. … He hit the ground unconscious. All that was missing was the Tweety Birds over his head. Texaco Phillips was now loping down the corridor, a team of angry airport cops trailing behind him like determined wake sewage. Finally he was tackled by four at once, then wrestled to the floor. He put up a horrendous struggle.

“My dog,” he yelled, “my dog! He stole my fucking dog!”

But the cops were not about to listen. They were too busy playing catch-up. They hammered his already flat face with metal billy clubs, and took fungo shots at his puckered balls. They Maced him until their cans spit air. When they were done he was on the floor, doing a reasonable imitation of a beached flounder.

Beano and Victoria stopped before boarding, and opened the folding kennel case that read
CANINE DRUG ENFORCEMENT,
U.S.
CUSTOMS.
They put Roger inside and then went aboard and settled into their first-class seats to Miami.