Long White Con: The Biggest Score of His Life (5 page)

Trevor exclaimed, “She’s the Virgin! I’ve seen her! I’ve verified five points of her authenticity and I tell you, Mister Remington, she’s real!”

Folks shook his head dubiously. The mark, between them, swiveled his head in the crossfire con, like a tennis buff at the Forest Hills championships.

Folks said, “Five points verification isn’t enough. I need ten, and that requires our fluoroscope, which, unfortunately, is in the field in New Mexico.”

Trevor leapt to his feet, his face smug. He proudly drew himself up and said, “You have an efficient, inventive man in your employ, Mister Remington. I rented a fluoroscope a half hour ago for immediate confirmation of the statue’s authenticity. Albert, your chauffeur, and I have it hitched to your limousine out front. Well, what are you waiting for, Mister Remington?”

Folks said, “A fluoroscope couldn’t prove ten points with daylight gone.”

Trevor laughed. “That one on the street can. It’s one of the latest, with an ultra violet capability.”

Folks let the floodgates of ecstatic joy burst free. He leapt up and hugged Trevor. He jigged and raced to the bedroom for his jacket and shoes. He sprinted through the open door behind Trevor, and heard the mark pounding the carpet behind him.

As Speedy cruised from the city limits, Folks lay his head back on the cushions between Trevor and the mark.

He mused the “convincer” legend of The Unhappy Virgin. “Ah, what a poignant legend she bears, my magnificent obsession. What a bitter, awful story her living counterpart suffered ages ago.

“Once upon an incestuous time, an Aztec King fell madly in love with his voluptuous virgin daughter. The King was determined to be her first lover. One night he stripped nude and invaded her chambers. He caressed all the secret, fragrant places with his eager tongue. But she awakened and she clawed and maimed the King. The royal guards rushed to his rescue. They raised their daggers to slay her, but the King saved her for a worse, hellish fate. Jail . . . until she agreed to lavish her royal cherry on the King.

“He imprisoned her in a tower in rags, and on her sixteenth birthday, the King decided to make any hankie pankie impossible. He gifted her with a bigger than life size gem-encrusted statue in her gorgeous image. The jewels were worth millions, but the interior of the statue was a spy post. A succession of slaves were imprisoned inside the statue, each fed and watered until death. And in that bleak tower the Unhappy Virgin became old, ugly and dead!”

The mark said, “I know that freakish King is turning on the spits in hellfire. Mister Lee, I don’t suppose the statue is still wearing her jewelry?”

Trevor said, “Unfortunately not, Mister Stilwell. They were most likely removed by the King at the Unhappy Virgin’s death.”

Speedy maneuvered the limo through the heavy traffic of a main highway. He turned into and moved slowly down a rutted road into the mouth of the bleak main street of a ghost town. Mountains loomed in the background. A ghostly double row of derelict shacks
lined the main street. They crouched like battered vultures in the eerie twilight. A coyote was silhouetted on a rise as he raised his muzzle and howled.

In the rear view mirror, Folks got a glimpse of the prop decaled state police car, driven by two grifters in uniform, turn in behind them. They snuffed the cruiser’s lights and pulled it into concealment. The limo glided toward a flickering glow of lantern light splashing from a lopsided shack at the end of the street. Speedy pulled up in front of the shack. The head and shoulders of the statue loomed up above the shack at the rear.

Folks said, “Mister Lee, you and Albert set up that machine immediately to check out the statue’s authenticity.”

Speedy leapt out and opened the limo doors. Stilwell and Folks got out and Speedy pulled the limo to the rear of the shack. The Kid, in a dove gray suit, wore a beaded headband to control his long coarse black wig. Kate and a grifter detective stood beside Kid, gazing sadly down at Marvel lying on a straw mattress on the rough pine floor, apparently in a coma. Marvel, in tattered underwear, was skillfully made up as a torture victim with cigarette burns and bruises.

Suddenly Marvel opened his blank eyes. He clutched Kid’s hand in a death grip as he walled up his eyes.

Marvel croaked, “Jimmy, thank God you’re here . . . dear Brother . . . horrible, Jimmy! They tortured me . . . to steal my millions . . . all yours, Jimmy. Wouldn’t tell those lice where . . .”

The grifter detective leaned down close to Marvel and said, “I’m Detective Ware. They, the bandits, did you know them?”

Marvel gasped and death rattled. He fell back, apparently dead. The detective tucked Marvel’s limp hands across his chest and pulled the flour sack sheet over his face. Then he took out a report notebook and pen.

Kid’s face was tragic with sorrow. He said, “Poor dreamer, Billy. Treasure slave! Bled his sweat all over the world for twenty years, dreamed here . . . uranium, big strike here . . . murdered here!”

Kid choked up as the detective scribbled furiously in his report book.

He said, “Be careful! Don’t touch anything as we move out of here.”

The detective picked up the lamp. The mark was in a trance as Folks took his arm to guide him toward the door. The cop steered them from the shack before he followed. He stooped down beside the shack and they all gathered around him as he very carefully retrieved a fancy gold lighter. He cradled the lighter in his palm as he showed it to the con mob.

He swept his cold cop eyes across their faces and said, “Any of you folks lose this item?”

They did not respond. He carefully sealed the lighter in an envelope and pocketed it. Then he took his pad and pen in hand to jot down names. Kid tugged at his sleeve. The cop turned and faced him.

Kid said, “Detective Ware, is there any chance that lighter could lead to Billy’s killers?”

The cop pulled at his earlobe and said, “Possibly. Perhaps the lab can lift prints. The lighter was apparently purchased at Cartier’s, that famous jewelry firm in New York City. Now, Mr. Dancing Rain, tell me everything you know about those millions in cash the killers believed were here.”

Kid said, “I can assure you, Detective Ware, that those millions in cash existed only in Billy’s delirium. Apparently the rumors about that damn legend of the Unhappy Virgin Statue Billy dug up prospecting for gold in Mexico, years ago, sent those murderers here.”

The cop said, “Rumors? A legend about a statue sent the killers?”

Kid said, “The legend was, an Aztec King had the statue sculpted in his daughter’s image, encrusted with priceless gems. The false rumors were that Billy peddled the stones for millions in cash. Look, Detective Ware, only a pauper or a lunatic miser would stay in this lonely hole for twenty years! Billy was broke!”

The cop sucked his teeth and said, “Apparently, Mr. Dancing Rain, just apparently.”

Kid screwed up his face in surprise. “What?”

The cop said, “It happens to be an official fact that some people allow themselves to die in terrible poverty while in possession of fortunes.”

Kid waved his arms in exasperation. “I know Billy was broke!”

The cop glanced toward a wooded section on a nearby rise. He said, “Maybe. Nobody enter that shack while I look around. I’m holding you responsible, Mr. Dancing Rain.”

He got into a Chevy and drove toward the rise.

Folks said, “Mr. Dancing Rain, you have my . . . our warmest sympathy. I hope it is not, uh, indelicate to inquire as to when and how you plan to dispose of your brother’s property?”

Kid said, “Mr. Remington, I am aware that only intense interest could have brought you and Mrs. Osborn such long distances. As Billy’s only surviving heir and administrator, I am prepared to sell everything now, at auction. The proceeds will be the reward offered to send Billy’s killers to the death house. Are you a prospective bidder, Mister Lee?”

Trevor said, “Thanks for the invitation, Mr. Dancing Rain, but I think not.”

Kid turned to Stilwell and said, “And you, Mister Stilwell, do you plan to bid?”

Stilwell said, “No, I don’t think so, sir. I, too, am on the selling end. I am just with Mr. Remington. He is interested in a parcel of Indiana farmland I own.”

Kid said, “Good for you, Mister Stilwell.”

Then Kid turned to Kate and Folks. He said, “Mrs. Osbourne, Mister Remington, shall we go to the stable and to the relics next door?”

Trevor came to Folks’ side. The mark moved in close. Trevor leaned in close and stage whispered into Folks’ ear. “She’s real! Fifteen points of authenticity!”

Folks said, “Mister Dancing Rain, Mister Lee, my business manager and curator of artifacts, has refined my interests to a solitary piece. The Indian Maiden Statue at the rear of your late brother’s sha . . . uh, home.”

Kid snorted and said testily, “I am very sorry, Mister Remington, that I can not satisfy your, ah, limited interest. My time is much too valuable to auction piece by piece. That could take days. Highest bidder takes land and all.”

Folks said, “Mister Dancing Rain, please excuse Mister Lee and me for a moment.”

Kid said, “Of course. I’m taking Mrs. Osbourne to the stable.”

Kid and Kate went into the stable-curio shop, which was flush against the shack. Stilwell, Trevor and Folks stood outside the darkened death shack in the glow of bright stars.

Folks stage whispered, as Stilwell moved his ears in close. “Mister Lee, this is an extremely unfortunate turn of events. However, I am prepared to bid for Mister Dancing Rain’s whole package. I must have that statue!”

Trevor and Folks moved quickly from the mark toward the lamplit stable. The mark halted when he heard Marvel moan. He turned and went into the death shack when Marvel cried out, “Jimmy! My millions are . . .”

Folks went to a peep hole in the stable wall, which was also a wall of the death shack. He watched the mark strike a match in the blackness of the death shack. In the feeble flare of flame, he saw the mark as he leaned down close to Marvel’s sheeted face. A moan issued from beneath the sheet. The mark uncovered Marvel’s face. Marvel’s eyes fluttered open and stared up blankly. The mark put his ear close to Marvel’s mouth.

Marvel whispered raggedly, “Jimmy? . . .”

The mark’s
basso profundo
voice cracked as he tried to fake the Kid’s higher register voice. “Yes Billy! It’s me, Jimmy!”

Marvel sighed. “Get out my millions, Jimmy. Duffel bags . . .”

The mark said, “Billy, where?”

Marvel gasped, “Don’t let the gov’ment steal it! Get it out!”

The mark pleaded. “Sure, Billy. Where? Where, Billy?”

Marvel moaned as he quivered uncontrollably. He closed his eyes as he sighed out his last line of the play. “Aztec Virgin . . . ’neath her feet.”

Marvel went limp. The mark’s match burnt out. Folks saw his shadow dash from the shack. He went to a rear wall to a stable peep hole. He watched the mark race to the ten foot statue at the rear of the shack. The mark struck a match. The portable fluoroscope gleamed beside the statue. He aimed it downward and put his eye against the machine’s eye-piece.

Folks knew he was looking at fat, bulging canvas duffel bags buried in a large hole in the earth beneath the statue’s feet. The tops of several of the bags were gaped open, exposing prop bales of play money, topped off with real paper money. The mark fled the statue. Folks turned back to the play in the stable, packed from floor to ceiling with dusty bric-a-brac and statuary of many sizes. He took his position with Kate, before Kid. Kid struck a tomahawk against an old horseshoe. The excited mark rushed into the stable.

The Kid said, “Mrs. Osbourne bids forty-five thousand . . . once!”

He tomahawked the horseshoe.

He intoned, “Forty-five thousand . . . twice!”

The mark moved up front. His face was suffused with larceny.

The mark shouted, “Mister Dancing Rain, I would like to join the bidding!”

Kid glanced inquiringly at Folks and Kate. They shrugged assent.

Kid said, “You’re welcome to join us, Mister Stilwell. I’m bid forty-five thousand twice!”

The mark said stoutly, “Mister Dancing Rain, I bid fifty thousand!”

Folks said, “I bid sixty thousand.”

The mark’s ear wiggled as Trevor stage whispered into Folks’ ear. “Now remember, Mister Remington, past eighty-five or eighty-seven
thousand, which is your liquid capital at the moment, you will have lost the legal capacity to bid here under Mister Dancing Rain’s rules of auction. Two days hence your liquid capital will be four million after the sale of that Australian property.”

Folks said, “Mister Lee, have you lost your mind? Arrange a remedy for me with Mister Dancing Rain. I’ll liquidate a million dollars of my holdings immediately if necessary. I need a time break. Damn it, man! Can’t you understand? I must have that statue!”

Trevor was about to make Folks’ request of Kid when the mark piped up, “Mister Dancing Rain, I would like to request a moment’s suspension in the bidding.”

Kid studied him for a moment before he said, “All right Mister Stilwell. Take five minutes.”

The mark’s big buck lust had him racked up, Folks thought. He pulled Folks and Trevor to the side. He took a pen and pad from his coat pocket. He rapidly scribbled an agreement that the statue was Folks’ for one dollar. He signed it.

He whispered, “Now, friend, give me a dollar. The statue is yours if you drop out of the bidding.”

Trevor and Folks looked at each other with genuine astonishment that the mark was playing himself.

Then Folks bit his lip doubtfully. He said, “Mister Lee, can I acquire title to that statue in this . . . informal manner?”

He said, “Why not, Mister Remington? I’m a notary.”

Trevor gave the mark a dollar and took the paper.

Trevor said, “That was a noble gesture, Mister Stilwell. But something puzzles me. Why your sudden interest in this ghost town and its rather tawdry assets? The statue excluded, of course.”

The mark said, “I guess I discovered a compelling charm and mystique about this place.”

Kate shouted, “Mister Dancing Rain, Mister Stilwell’s five minutes have expired. I bid seventy thousand!”