21 Tales Read online

  “I’ve been calling around -” He stopped to let a large, busty woman pass by. “And found you a job.” Pete felt something hard and cold being forced into his hand. He looked down and saw that Langely was giving him a gun. “Take it,” Langely ordered. Pete obeyed, hiding the gun in his army jacket.

  “You’re going to hit a local bookie tomorrow,” Langely explained. “The mark should be carrying ten grand. You’re going to stick the gun in his ribs and free him of his burden. Time and place are written on this paper.” He shoved something into Pete’s jacket pocket.

  “No.” Pete shook his head. “I don’t do that type of job.”

  “Is that so? I guess, buddy boy, you’re going to have to start learning.”

  “You don’t understand -”

  “Listen,” the small man’s tone was murderous. “You’re going to make it up to Mr. Carbone. You’re going to show him respect.”

  “I can’t -”

  Langely moved within an inch of Pete and poked him hard in the chest. “You can and you will,” he forced through compressed lips. “Mr. Carbone’s got connections all up and down the east coast. If you ever want to set foot in your beloved New York again, you will show the man the proper respect. You’re going to do what you can to pay him back.”

  “There was thirty grand in the briefcase.”

  “You broke into it, huh?” Langely smiled, his lean face as deadly as a razor. “So you know Mr. Carbone’s not going to be happy only getting back ten grand. But it’s the only chance you got.”

  Pete looked away from Langely, his eyes seeming to focus on some distant point. Slowly, he nodded.

  “So you see how it is,” Langely said gravely. “Tomorrow night at nine you meet us at the same Italian restaurant.” He started to walk away but turned back. “And don’t try anything stupid,” he warned. “Even if you run to freaking Afghanistan, don’t bet Mr. Carbone won’t be able to reach you.”

  It was minutes after Langely had left before Pete moved. Slowly, a smile stretched across his face and he laughed out loud, startling a tired-looking blond a few feet away.

  While Langely had been poking him in the chest, he realized how deep the setup was. If Langely had been watching him carefully enough, he might have detected a slight glimmer in his eyes. That was the only indication, though, that Pete gave of his revelation.

  He found himself admiring the scam Langely and Carbone were running on him. It was cute. First hand him thirty grand, then take it away, and finally, scare him hard enough to commit an armed robbery.

  Of course, they had to soften him up first. It was more than a coincidence that his luck turned sour after he had met up with Langely. He had to be made desperate enough to accept their delivery job.

  Pete left the bar and started walking towards the Charles River. The cold night air blew against his face. He felt restless.

  The scam had to be an ongoing concern. A game they played on drifters. Find some witless sap and make him dance. They were probably right now having a good, long laugh at his expense. More than anything, Pete wanted to rip them off, and he was willing to bet they still had the thirty grand on them. If it was the last thing he did he was going to take it away.

  He had come up to the Charles River. He walked halfway across one of the connecting bridges to Cambridge before dropping Langely’s gun into the water. In order to play along with the scam he would have to come up with ten grand, but he wasn’t going to do it with a holdup. His angle was the confidence game, the scam, the rip-off – not guns and robberies. Even though he carried a switchblade, he did it more for show than anything else. If he could flee he would flee. If not, he would show the knife for effect, hoping to scare the son of a bitch away.

  As he walked back to his motel, he thought about how he was going to come up with ten grand, and his thoughts kept centering around Toni.

  # #

  “You must think I’m stupid, don’t you?” Toni demanded, her voice hot with anger. When Pete first called her, her attitude was icy cold, but that quickly melted into a passionate outburst in which she called him every name in the book. Inwardly, Pete felt a great sense of relief. He had fully expected her to hang up on him with frigid indifference. The fact that she was so angry showed he still had her hooked.

  Pete was stretched out on the bed. The first thing he did when he got back to his room was dump his soiled clothes into the trash and scrub himself clean. Now, wrapped in a cloth robe, he explained to Toni that of course he didn’t think she was stupid. “I think thirty thousand would be a good start for a marriage,” he said matter-of-factly.

  There was a long hesitation. Then Toni asked him if he meant it.

  “Of course I do. It’s about time, isn’t it? As soon as we get the money we’ll stop off at the first chapel we see.”

  Another long hesitation. “Pete, I don’t have ten thousand,” she said at last.

  “Well, bring what you can. And try to get here by noon. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” He gave her his hotel address and phone number, and hung up.

  He didn’t believe her about the money. Toni worked as a hostess at a club near Times Square, and Pete knew guys were always tipping her fives, tens, twenties, and sometimes even more to take off her clothes and join the other strippers on stage. She never did, but that didn’t stop the club’s patrons from trying. And they had good reason to try. Toni was a knockout. Barely five feet tall and at most ninety pounds, she had a shape that would make any man fantasize. And with big, brown eyes that could melt butter and a smile that could stop a heart, she was the club’s biggest draw. Even though she left her clothes on – as tight fitting as they were – she took home more in tips than any of the strippers. Charlie, the club’s owner, liked to brag that Toni added an element of class to the joint.

  Pete slowly drifted into sleep with thoughts of thirty thousand dollars dancing in his head.

  He woke up the next morning refreshed. Strong sunlight streamed into the room, warming him. It felt nice. He lazily reached for his watch and saw it was ten o’clock. After taking a long, hot shower, he dressed in jeans and a sweater. He would’ve preferred to put on a suit, but the redhead had taken the only one he brought to Boston. Lying on the bed, he closed his eyes and waited for Toni.

  A few minutes before noon there was a knock on the door. Pete opened it and Toni stood in the hallway, eyeing him suspiciously. “If this is a trick,” she threatened, “it’s all over between us.”

  He scooped her up in his arms and twirled her around in circles. He felt her body slowly loosening. “It’s great to see you,” he said, giving her a hard kiss on the mouth and at the same time slipping her pocketbook from her shoulder. “Don’t worry, baby,” he said, smiling, “I’m on the level with this.”

  Toni wasn’t a morning person. Pete knew she probably got up at six in order to arrange for the money and drive to Boston. She looked worn-out around the eyes and mouth, and it made her look so fragile that it brought a lump to Pete’s throat. He gave her hand a squeeze and then took a stack of bills from her pocketbook. When he counted only seven thousand dollars, he glared at her.

  “I only had five thousand saved up,” she explained weakly. “I had to borrow two thousand from Charlie. He expects fifty percent return.” She met Pete’s glare. “I had some bad days at the track,” she said defiantly.

  “Did you drive the Caddy up?” he asked. Toni nodded. “All right.” He held out his hand. “Give me the keys. I got some errands to run.”

  She shook her head. “No. If I give them to you, you’re going to sell the car. Forget it.”

  He turned away, furious that she knew him as well as she did. “Okay, then,” he announced in an aggrieved, bitter tone. “If that’s how much you trust me, I’ll just have to take a cab and waste our money. I hope you’re satisfied.” As he stormed from the room, shoving the money into his pant’s pocket, he heard the light twinkle of Toni’s laughter and then her hands clapping in applause. “Bravo!” she called
out after him as he stomped down the hotel hallway, infuriated.

  By the time he got to the lobby, he had calmed down. He considered trying to convince Langely and Carbone that the robbery only netted seven thousand, but he was afraid that might tip them off. No, he was going to have to come up with the whole ten grand. He bought a newspaper and thumbed through it quickly before settling on a plan.

  # #

  The pawnbroker wouldn’t budge. “Three hundred,” he stated stubbornly. The leather briefcase on the counter was a rich, expensive one, but Pete pointed out it had the initials RT monogrammed on it. “So change your name,” the pawnbroker offered in a flat tone.

  Pete studied him. A short, stocky man with sagging basset hound eyes. “Two hundred,” Pete growled. The man started to remove the briefcase from the counter, and Pete turned towards the door. Before he got there, he heard the man offer two-fifty. Pete turned back and agreed. “You got any overcoats you can show me?” he asked.

  The pawnbroker squeezed his way into a corner of the shop and rummaged through a pile of clothes before holding up a full length black leather coat. “It’s a size forty-six,” he grunted, his bloodshot eyes unblinking as he studied Pete. “It should fit you.”

  Pete asked for a closer look. The coat was of cheap quality. A couple of months of wear and it would start coming apart at the seams. “How much?” he asked.

  “Two hundred,” the stocky man said with a straight face.

  Pete broke into an incredulous laugh. He took three hundred dollars from his wallet and laid it on the counter. “For the briefcase and coat. Take it or leave it.”

  The man looked at Pete and then the money. “Sure. Why not.” He shrugged, collecting the cash. With the coat and briefcase taken care of, the next step was to get a suit, and Pete didn’t spare any expense there. He went to an exclusive men’s clothes store on Newbury Street and picked out a twelve-hundred dollar gray pin-striped number. He asked the tailor if it could be ready in an hour. The tailor shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe in three days.” Pete showed him a fifty and got no reaction. He angrily added another fifty and the tailor told him the alterations would be completed in an hour.

  Pete spent part of the next hour picking out a dress shirt and tie, part of it consulting the phonebook, and all of it amazed at how quickly he could spend money. It was like water through his fingers. He started wondering if it was worth it. What was the point of always knocking himself out chasing after the big score? If he ever made it, he knew he’d be flat broke again a few months later.

  As soon as he put on his new suit and felt the precise cut of its material, all his doubts faded. The struggle was worth it. Maybe the money would go like there was no tomorrow, but he’d have a hell of a ride while it lasted.

  Pete next started out on a walking tour of Boston’s fancier restaurants. He visited almost a dozen before finding what he was looking for – an unattended coat rack. He hung his cheap leather coat next to a rich, expensive one, and then called Toni, asking her to call back the restaurant and have Dr. Robert Tucker paged. Before hanging up, she congratulated him on his recent professional achievement.

  A minute after he was seated his waiter came back, and noticing the RT monogrammed on his briefcase, asked if he was Dr. Robert Tucker. Pete nodded, and the waiter, handing him the restaurant’s cordless phone, informed him he had an emergency call.

  Pete picked up the handset and heard Toni giggling. “Oh, Doctor,” she exclaimed, “this jerk I know has been giving me a royal pain in the ass. What should I do?”

  “Sounds serious,” he murmured. “Take two aspirin and insert them where it aches.” He slammed down the phone, muttering out loud about a critical operation, and rushed from the restaurant grabbing the wrong leather coat.

  “An honest mistake,” he smirked to himself as he slipped it on, admiring how nice it felt. He walked briskly, waiting until he was a block away before hailing a cab. He had the cabbie make two stops before taking him to the dog track, one at Amalgamated Computers, where he picked up an annual report and other miscellaneous sales brochures, the second at a stationery store.

  The Club, a semi-posh restaurant within the track, was a hangout for the more serious gamblers. Pete pulled aside a busboy and showed him twenty dollars. “Who’s stupid and loaded?” he asked. The kid nodded towards a thick-necked man with a deep scowl. Pete took him in with a glance and liked what he saw. The man’s clothes were expensive and in bad taste. He had the pasty, surly look of someone who’d been losing badly and was too stubborn to know when to quit.

  Pete sat down next to the man and immediately opened his briefcase and started studying reports and jotting down random figures in a notebook. He caught the sap peering at him with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. “You figuring out some handicapping formulas?” the sap asked distrustfully.

  Pete laughed. “Unfortunately, no,” he said, a big friendly smile stretched across his face. “I have to finish a sales report for tomorrow morning.” He stretched out his hand and introduced himself as Robert Tucker. “Vice-President of Sales at Amalgamated Computers,” he added.

  “The track’s a funny place to do work,” the sap grunted as he halfheartedly took Pete’s hand. He chose not to introduce himself.

  “I guess so,” Pete shrugged. He took off his leather coat and draped it on the back of his chair. Outwardly he appeared oblivious to the man’s snub, his smile remaining warm and friendly. “A buddy from college gave me some tips,” he said with a wink.

  “Is that so?” the sap replied, his eyes growing vacant as he turned away from Pete.

  During the first two races Pete gave the appearance of being absorbed in his report. He noticed the sap’s scowl had deepened and his betting slips had been ripped to pieces. After the sap made his bets for the third race, Pete asked him if he could watch his coat and briefcase. The sap reluctantly agreed, making a face as if he smelled bad cheese.

  Pete placed fifty-dollars bets to win on every dog in the third. The cashier was going to say something but held his tongue. As he sat back down, he saw the sap staring at him. “My buddy’s about ninety-percent sure on this one,” he said with a big grin. The sap grunted and again wrinkled his face as if his olfactory senses were being offended.

  At the end of the third race the sap crumpled his betting slips and tossed them down in disgust. Pete deftly removed the winning slip from his wallet. To the untrained eye it appeared he had only a single slip in his wallet instead of nine. He made sure the sap got a good look at it. “I would’ve bet more,” Pete confided, “but my buddy is only positive about the ninth race.”

  The sap studied Pete with a newfound interest. “What other tips did he give you?” he asked, showing off a good pound of denture work as he forced a smile.

  “Well,” Pete hesitated. “Other than the ninth, he gave me a probable winner for the sixth.”

  “Is that so?” the sap edged forward. “What dogs does he pick?”

  Pete frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said, as if he really were sorry. “But I promised my buddy I wouldn’t give his tips to anyone else. It could get him in trouble. I hope you understand.”

  “Sure, sure.” A tic caused the sap’s right eye to flutter uncontrollably. Pete knew the sap was dying to tell him to go to hell, but the sap fought it back and forced a brotherly smile. “You can’t let a buddy down, right?”

  The sap won in the fourth and then lost big in the fifth. Before the sixth, Pete again asked him to watch his coat and briefcase, and then he placed bets on every dog in the race. After the race, Pete made sure the sap caught a glance of his winning ticket.

  During the next two races the sap was squirming in his seat. Every few seconds he’d look over at Pete, trying to make up his mind about something. He’d open his mouth and then shut it tight. After the eighth race, he grabbed Pete by the arm. “Come on,” he pleaded. “Be a pal. Who does your friend like for the ninth?”

  “I can’t – “

  “I
need this one.” His eyes were dead serious. “If I can have one big winner I’ll make up for the past month. You got to help me out.”

  Pete let his face show a pained grimace. “How much do you want to bet?” he asked at last.

  “Five thousand.” The sap wet his lips.

  Pete nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s how we do it so I don’t break my promise to my buddy. You give me five thousand and I’ll add three thousand, and we split the winnings even.” Before the sap had a chance to say anything, Pete counted out three thousand dollars from his wallet. The sap handed over his five thousand.

  When Pete got up, it appeared as if the sap was going to follow him. He turned to the sap and politely asked him to watch his coat and briefcase. Any argument the sap was going to propose died when he looked at the coat and briefcase. Any sap could see the coat was worth two grand and the briefcase at least another. And the briefcase contained an invaluable sales report. The sap sat down quietly, his pasty face looking slightly flustered.

  Pete whistled happily as he walked past all of the betting lines. He kept walking until he was out of the track. Subtracting his expenses, he had over ten grand and a new suit left. More important, though, he had run his first successful con since coming to Boston. To be good at the con game you had to have confidence, and Pete had been afraid he’d lost his. Now, he could feel it surging through his blood. And nothing could beat the exhilaration of leaving a sap high and dry. As he walked, he jumped up and clicked his heels.

  # #

  Pete showed up at the Italian restaurant on time. Langely was there waiting for him, a sour look on his face. When he saw Pete, he approached him and asked if things went as planned. Pete nodded and held up a paper bag he was carrying. “Had to crack his skull,” Pete whispered indifferently. “But I got ten grand.”

  The two men sat down, Langely with a hard sneer frozen on his face, Pete looking like a man heading to the gallows. A signal was given for them to head to the back room.

  Carbone was sitting alone, his large face impassive as he watched Pete enter the room. Pete sat across from him. He purposely avoided the large man’s eyes. To himself, he started counting down from ten. When he got to zero, the large man exploded. “You lost my money!” he bellowed. “You stupid piece of garbage!”