Cons, Scams, and Grifts

Forty-two

The Colonial Hotel, a three-story mellow red-brick building at 550 Washington Street, was built in 1911 to furnish rooms and meals for workers at the nearby Standard Oil facility. After declining for decades and finally being gutted by fire, in 1978 it was renamed, restored, renovated, and reborn along with the rest of Point Richmond.

Now it had a huge sign on top spelling out HOTEL MAC. The double front doors had a canopy over them bearing the same name in bold white letters. Through big flanking leaded windows that looked out on Washington Street could be seen drinkers at the bar on one side, loungers in the lounge on the other.

Johanna Knudsen and Alberto Angelini went up to the second-floor dining room. A burly maître d’ in a flowery sport shirt seated them at a choice table under one of the carefully restored stained glass windows. By that time, Johanna had waved or exchanged a word with no fewer than seven of her clients.

She was pleased to be lunching with such a remarkably handsome man. Who insisted she throw her diet to the winds and order the most expensive dishes on the menu — with dessert.

She groaned, “You’re going to ruin my figure.”

“It will take a great deal more than honey garlic lamb chops to do that, cara mia,” grinned Angelini. What an utterly charming man he was! “And the salmon is from your native Norway, it must be good for you, no?” It wasn’t until they were drinking coffee and feasting on rich gooey slices of Snickers pie that he laid a hand on his chest and said, “Johanna, in my heart I have every belief that you have solved my travel problems.”

So did she: Johanna loved being ingenious for the rare client who appreciated how clever she could be.

“I can schedule your people separately on a scheduled airline. There aren’t enough individual seats next week to Rome, but Alitalia has daily eleven-and-a-half-hour nonstops to Milan that do have room.”

“That is even better than Rome!” he told her. Which was true. “I have relatives in Milan.” Which was a lie.

“Great! Your people can be spread out over three or four days and half a dozen flights. All I need are their names and credit card information. They all have their passports?”

“But of course.”

“And they don’t need visas for Italy.” She grinned. “The best news is that each fare is only nine hundred twenty-two dollars plus tax, round-trip. That’s really good for last-minute reservations at this time of year!”

“It is indeed.”

Angelini took an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit and laid it on the table. “Here are the names. I shall give you my credit card later.”

“I’ll get busy then. You are all going to Italy, Alberto.”

“Benissimo! You are extraordinary, cara mia! ”

Dan Kearny looked at the handpicked troops assembled after-hours in DKA’s big back office. O’Bannon and Giselle were listening to an intent Bart Heslip. Ballard and Morales stood in front of the mainframe computer, beers in hand, chatting as if they were pals. “Sorry to hear about your lady, Trin.”

“. . just came from the hospital,” Morales said. “She’s doing better, man. Takin’ her home to her mother’s on Tuesday.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Of the DKA regulars, only Ken Warren was not there. He had located the last outstanding classic car, the $95,000 1970 Aston Martin Volante; it had been legitimately sold by UpScale Motors to a man named Adam Zeccola the day before DKA’s raid, but no payments had been made to the bank. Ken had dug up a lead on him in Medford, Oregon, and was driving up to drop a rock on the car before Zeccola could move somewhere else.

Kearny walked to the middle of the room. “Okay, guys, let’s get to it.” He looked at Morales. “Trin. The truck?”

“It’ll get there. Maybe not back, but—”

“It doesn’t have to get back. Clean?”

“Yeah. Outfit back in Jersey we repo’d it for is gone — they got firebombed in a mob dispute last month. No way to trace it back to us.”

He swung his gaze to Heslip. “Bart. The dental mirrors?”

“Ten of them. Adhesive putty fixed to the handles.”

“And the crossbow and the expanding-head quarrel?”

“Yassuh, boss.”

“Clown around.” Dan turned to Giselle. “The skyrockets?”

“With a fuse to lead to the cab of the truck. Got ’em out in the Sunset from an illicit fireworks guy on Nineteenth Ave.”

“I thought he blew himself up last year.”

“Same part of town, different guy.”

Kearny nodded. “O’B. The firecrackers?”

“A hundred strings. Same guy Giselle dealt with.”

“Okay,” said Kearny, “I’ve got the talcum powder, and the fishhooks strung every ten feet on the Primacord.” He looked at Ballard. “Larry. The steel ball bearings?”

Kearny was wired. They all were. Ballard suddenly thought, We’re in a caper movie here. Flat delivery, keen glances, tight clipped sentences. In his mind played the faint far strains of the Mission: Impossible theme. Of course, he was a little old to be Tom Cruise. But then, Tom Cruise was a little old to be Tom Cruise.

“Eight dozen, like you said. And I found two of those dart pistols that shoot little sticks with rubber suction cups on the ends in that magic and trick shop in the Marina. They’re almost collectibles now, but they’ll work great.”

“The Baron is furnishing the tranquilizer darts,” said Kearny. “He tells me the dosage is tricky. And I’ve got the grappling hooks. Anything I’m missing?”

“The shaving cream,” said Giselle. “I’ve got that — two cans. What about the uniforms?”

“The Baron’s dropping them by tomorrow morning.”

Giselle’s private phone rang. Sitting on the edge of her desk, she turned to pick up and heard the jangle of gold coins. The Gypsy messenger from Yana Poteet! She looked quickly around, then hunched over the phone with the woman’s voice in her ear.

“Two nights from now, midnight, Jackson Playground on—”

“On Mariposa?” Giselle clapped a hand over her careless mouth: she wanted to beat Larry to Yana. She wanted to beat everyone to Yana. Probably because Yana had chosen to communicate with her, not Larry or anyone else.

“Yes. Wait for the Gypsy outside the park,” the gentle voice was going on. “She will take you to the Undertaker.”

The Gypsy had to be this woman, the Undertaker had to be Yana. “Fine,” said Giselle, afraid to slip again. But she needn’t have worried. When she hung up, Kearny was still talking and everybody was still listening.

“The Baron has already learned that three guards will be taking off for Memorial Day on Monday. That makes our—”

“Zloppy zecurity!” barked Ballard in his best S.S. Storm Trooper voice. “Unt zeir ties are crooked!”

Kearny plowed on, ignoring him. “Questions? Comments? Objections?” Nobody spoke. “Okay. It goes down two nights from now. Sunday night.”

No! screamed Giselle.

But the scream was silent, inside her head only. At last she was getting her chance to get out into the field again on the greatest, most exciting caper that DKA had ever planned — and it was on the night she had just committed to meet with Yana. She couldn’t change her mind now. For some reason, she really needed to hear what Yana had to say.

“This Sunday?” she managed to get out, tight-lipped. “My parents are coming up from San Diego for the holiday. I can’t let them down again.”

“It’s okay,” Dan said quickly, relief hidden in his voice.

I just bet it is, thought Giselle. The old male bonding thing yet again. All the boys eager to go out and play with their toys with no woman along to lend some sanity to the proceedings. Well, she had her own P.I. license, didn’t she? Sunday night she was going to go out and use it and act like a private eye all on her own.