Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 3

JOE WILLINGHAM HUDDLED in the parking lot across from the bus station at Third and Cincinnati. He used his high-powered Ricoh binoculars to scan the motley collection of passengers who stepped off the latest arrival, watching for the right one.

It was a talent he had developed over the years—an art, really. He could tell at a glance if a person would be susceptible to the scam. Of course what he ideally wanted was someone who would not merely fall for it, eventually, given much time-consuming effort and persuasion, but someone who would fall for it with great aplomb and enthusiasm, someone who could not only be pushed but would tumble head over heels into the abyss. And someone who, in the unlikely event the ruse fell apart, would not be in a position to put up any opposition. The perfect patsy—that was who everyone working the con hoped for. And Joe Willingham knew how to find him.

He continued scanning the passengers until he saw exactly what he wanted. The instant the black kid in the bib overalls and straw hat stepped off the bus, Joe knew he’d found his mark. It was not even something he had to think consciously about. Years of experience had made it instinctive. Truth was, Joe thought, he was the best scam artist in Tulsa—probably the best in the whole damn state. Perhaps his self-estimation was immodest, but facts were facts. He was the best.

He eased out of his crouched position and started slowly across the street. Judging from the rube’s garb, he was from some hick town west or south of Tulsa—Henrietta or Poteau or some backwater burg like that. Probably saved up his money all year long so he could treat himself to a weekend in the big city—see a show, go to a bar or club, maybe transact a little business with one of the hookers on Eleventh Street. One of the first things Joe had spotted through his binos was the fat wallet in the back pocket of the kid’s overalls.

Joe smiled. The kid was perfect. Just the way Joe liked them—unsophisticated, gullible, and loaded with cash. This would be easy pickin’s.

He waited until the kid walked a fair distance from the bus station. Better to ply one’s trade on the anonymous and unpopulated downtown streets. It was after five; all the lawyers and bankers had gone home. The sun was setting. Soon they would be able to have a conversation in near seclusion and relative darkness.

Just after the kid crossed Main Street, Joe began shouting. “ ’Scuse me! ’Scuse me!”

The black kid in the overalls slowed. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking out the source of the commotion. He did not stop walking.

“Hey, wait!” Joe shouted again. “You! In the overalls!”

He could hardly pretend he didn’t know he was being accosted. He stopped, but his expression made it clear that he did so only with extreme reluctance.

“I don’t want any trouble,” the kid mumbled, obviously nervous.

“Neither do I,” Joe said as he panted up to his prey. “But I’ve sure got it.”

“Well, I’m sorry …” The kid tried to slip away, but Joe jumped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Please, sir. You’ve got to help me.” Joe brought all his acting talents to bear, slathering on the sincerity and earnestness. It was a flawless performance—really, he ought to be up for an Oscar. “I’m in a desperate situation.”

Something about what he said or the way he said it caught the kid’s attention. These country boobs were all the same. Mama raised them to be good Samaritans and all that hogwash. “What happened?”

“I gave my friend all my money,” Joe said. He reached into his pockets and pulled them out, showing that they were empty.

“And he spent it?” the kid guessed.

“No, man, he’s still got it. He’s waitin’ for me. I just ain’t got no way to get to him.”

The kid began shaking his head. “I don’t have a car. I came in on the bus.”

“It ain’t transportation I need,” Joe said, leaving the important part of the sentence unspoken. “He’s holed up at this country club, Utica Greens. It’s clear across town. I got no way to get there. Plus, they ain’t gonna let me in dressed like this. Hell, I hear they won’t let anyone in unless they cough up a hundred bucks at the door.”

“A hundred bucks?” The kid swallowed.

“That’s right. Sad, ain’t it?”

“Maybe you could call him. Get him to meet you somewhere else.”

“Don’t you think I thought of that already? No can do.” Joe shoved his hands dejectedly into his pockets. “He’s not near a phone. And they don’t take messages for nobodies like me.”

“Gee,” the kid said. Joe could detect the slow sashay of his feet moving away. “That’s tough, but…”

“Please.” Joe grabbed the nearest bare arm poking out of the overalls. “You’ve got to help.”

The kid shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me.”

“But you’ve got to help me. I don’t have any money. I don’t have anyplace to stay.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“Do you know what it’s like, living on the streets? The bums, the thugs, the cops. They might murder me in my sleep.”

“I don’t see what I can do.”

“The police might arrest me as a vagrant. Can you imagine? Here I’ve got ten thousand bucks just waiting for me, and I get arrested as a vagrant.”

The kid paused. “Ten thousand—”

Joe nodded. “That’s what my cut is. Me and my buddy, we won big down at the Remington track in OKC. I just need a way to get to my money!”

“And you say you’ve got ten thousand—”

“Hell of a note, ain’t it?” He stopped suddenly and put that glassy-eyed I-just-got-a-brilliant-idea look on his face. “Hey, I just thought of something. If you could lend me some money—”

“Oh, I don’t know …”

“It would only be temporary. Till I get my stash.”

“But I’ve got plans—”

“Look. Here’s what I’ll do. You give me a little stake—say, two hundred bucks—so I can get my money, and I’ll pay you back five hundred.”

The kid’s eyes widened. “Five hundred?”

“Right. For your trouble. Hell, what do I care? I’ve got ten thousand. I can afford to be generous.”

“Well, I don’t know …”

“C’mon. Think of it. You can turn two hundred into five hundred in just a few hours. Maybe less. And there’s no risk. If you don’t trust me, you can come to the country club.”

The kid squirmed. “I’m not sure …”

“Please, I’m beggin’ you. You’re my last hope.”

The kid pressed his lips firmly together. “No, I don’t think so.” He whirled around abruptly and started walking away.

Damn! Joe thought. What did he do wrong? He thought he had this one hooked and reeled. He raced after his quarry. “Wait! Don’t go!”

The kid continued walking, accelerating his pace. “Leave me alone.”

Joe reached out and grabbed the kid by the arm. “Please stop! You’ve got to listen!”

The kid whirled around. “I told you not to touch me!”

Joe squeezed all the harder. “But you’ve got to help me!”

All of the sudden the kid screamed. “Oh my God! You touched my blood!”

“What?” Joe looked down and saw that his hand, tightly gripping the kid’s arm, had rubbed off a large Band-Aid covering what appeared to be an open sore. The red, mucousy surface of the wound touched his thumb.

“Wh-what’s that?” Joe asked. His voice began to tremble. “Come on, tell me. What is it?”

“It’s the plague!” the kid shouted. “I got the plague!”

Joe became paralyzed with fear. “You don’t mean—”

“Worse! I got that thing from Africa, you know. That Ebola virus!”

“No!” Joe vaguely remembered hearing something about that on television. “But… I thought you came from a farm—”

“Farm? I just came in from Africa. And I’ve got the plague! His eyes widened, filled with panic and fear. “And now you’ve got it, too!”

Joe’s mouth went dry. He could barely speak. “B-b-but there must be some mistake.”

“There ain’t no mistake, man. I’m dying! My internal organs are meltin’! My whole body is turnin’ into a big mess of flesh soup!”

“Th-there must be something you can do—”

The kid shook his head gravely. “Maybe if they’d caught it earlier. But it’s too late for me now.”

Joe’s face went wild. “But it ain’t too late for me. I just got it! What can I do?”

The kid continued shaking his head. “It’s hopeless. There’s an antidote, but by the time you got to a doctor—”

Joe could feel his joints stiffening. It was getting harder to breathe, harder to think. Damn but this thing worked fast! “Where can I get the antidote?”

The kid looked away. “I’ve got one vial left, but I’m savin’ it for myself.”

“For you? Why?” Joe’s eyes were watering. He was having a hard time focusing. Everything was beginning to spin around in dizzy circles. He knew he didn’t have much time. “You’re already doomed, you said so yourself!”

The kid looked away. “Still, it cuts the pain—”

“Please, I’ll do anything.” Joe ripped his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket. “Look, I’ll pay you.”

The kid frowned. “I thought you didn’t have any money.”

“I lied, okay? How much do you want?” He started ripping bills out of his wallet. “You want two hundred? Here it is! Or make it three.”

The kid eyed the wallet carefully. “Looks more like you’ve got five.”

Joe threw the wallet into the kid’s hands. “Fine, take it all. Just give me the antidote!”

The kid hesitated. “I shouldn’t do this.”

“Please!” Joe could feel his heart weakening, his lungs collapsing. “Please!”

The kid took a deep breath. “All right.” He removed a small vial containing a purple liquid from his top bib pocket. “Here.”

Joe snatched the vial away. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.” He removed the cork and downed the contents in one swallow.

It went down smooth, with a pleasant grape flavor. He could feel the liquid coursing through his veins, calming his heart, strengthening his body. Slowly but surely he felt his old self returning. It had been a narrow escape, but somehow he had managed to survive.

“Thank you,” he whispered, leaning against the side of a building. “You don’t know how grateful I am.” His breathing began to normalize. Thank God, he thought, he was going to make it. Now he needed to get his cash back. “Look, about the money …”

He turned, then stopped abruptly in mid-sentence.

The kid had disappeared.

About a quarter of a mile away, in a dark alley behind the remains of the old Mayo Hotel, the kid counted his loot. His eyeball estimate had been conservative. There were more than seven hundred dollars in this wallet. And now it was all his.

He tossed the wallet, credit cards intact, in a nearby Dumpster, and took his own wallet from his back pocket. He removed the shredded paper he had put in to make his pocket bulge, inserted his newly acquired cash, and shoved it back in his pocket. It felt good in there. Nothing cushioned the tush quite so sweetly as other people’s money.

Tyrone Jackson grinned, congratulating himself on another successful scam. He laughed when he thought about the boys he had grown up with, the North Side Hoover Crips, the gang that had first taught him how to work a con. Back then, they had preyed on innocence and kindness, exploiting people’s desire to help and backing it up with the threat of violence. He had never liked that, and now that he had split from the gang, he didn’t do it.

It was much more satisfying to scam the scammers. He never felt a trace of remorse, much less regret. And as it turned out, con artists were the easiest people on earth to fool. They’d gotten so accustomed to thinking of themselves as the most clever dudes on earth that it never occurred to them that someone might try a little flimflam at their expense. They’d lived so long in fantasy they’d lost their grip on the real world. Who else would believe the dreaded Ebola virus could be cured by Welch’s grape juice? He’d been working this con for four months now, and it had worked almost every time. Dress up like a country boy, get off the eastbound bus, and watch the patsies fall at his feet.

Tonight’s killing was an absolute record, though. Most con men carried a fair amount of cash to sustain them through emergencies, like making bail, but he had never scored anything like this before. With seven hundred smackers, he could live high and happy for days. He could get some new clothes, maybe get a good meal at the Polo Grill. He might even treat himself to a little North Side entertainment. Jazz. That was his favorite. He was learning to play sax, and he loved nothing better than to hear the pros play.

It was only natural that he would gravitate to jazz. He was kind of a jazz artist already, playing his riffs on the streets of the city. The only difference was, his improvisations were making him rich.