The Collectors (Camel Club 2)

CHAPTER 2

GREAT BELCHES OF BLACK smoke—probably packed with enough carcinogens to vanquish an unsuspecting generation or two—were propelled from ancient brick factory stacks into a sky already dark with rain clouds. In an alleyway of this industrial town that was dying an irreversible death due to penny wages paid in far more polluted cities in China, a small crowd had gathered around one man. This was not a crime scene with a dead body, or a street Shakespeare honing his acting chops, or even a big-lunged preacher hawking Jesus and redemption for a modest contribution to the cause. This man was known in the trade as a “broad tosser,” and he was doing his best to relieve the crowd of its money in a game of chance called three-card monte.

The “shills” supporting the tosser were adequate as they won staged betting rounds at timed intervals to keep the marks hopeful for their own streak of luck. The “wall man,” or lookout, was a bit lethargic. At least the woman watching them from across the street deduced this from his body language and listless eyes. She didn’t know the “muscle” that was also part of this con team, yet he didn’t look overly tough, just doughy and slow. The two “ropers” were young and energetic and, as their title implied, it was their job to keep a steady supply of innocents coming to play a card game they would never win.

She moved closer, watching as the enthusiastic crowd alternately clapped and groaned as bets were won and lost. She’d started her career as a shill for one of the country’s best tossers. That particular con could run a table in virtually any city and walk away an hour later with at least two grand in his pocket, the marks having no idea they’d been the victim of anything more than poor luck. This tosser was excellent and for good reason: He’d been trained by the same man as she. To her informed eye he was using the double-card queen-up-front technique that would substitute the back card for the queen at the critical moment of delivery, for this was the entire key to the game.

The simple object of three-card monte, like the shell game it was based on, was to pick the queen from the trio on the table after the tosser had mixed them around with blurring speed. That was impossible to do if the lady wasn’t even on the table at the time the guess was made. Then a second before the queen’s “correct” position was revealed, the tosser would smoothly replace one of the cards with the queen and show the group where it had supposedly been all the time. This simple “short con” had lifted money from marquises and marines and everything in between for as long as playing cards had been around.

The woman slipped behind a Dumpster, made eye contact with someone in the crowd and put on a pair of large tinted sunglasses. A moment later the wall man’s attention was completely distracted by a cute miniskirted bettor. She’d bent straight over in front of him to pick up some dropped cash and gave the lookout a nice view of her firm butt and the red thong that made little attempt to cover it. The wall man no doubt thought he’d gotten incredibly lucky. However, just as with three-card monte, there was no luck involved. The woman had earlier paid the miniskirt to perform the “drop and bend” when she signaled her by putting on the shades. This simple distraction technique had worked on men ever since women had started wearing clothes.

Four quick strides and the lady was right in their midst, moving with a swagger and energy that parted the crowd immediately as the stunned lookout watched helplessly.

“Okay,” she barked, holding up her creds. “I want to see some ID from you,” she snapped, pointing a long finger at the tosser, a short, pudgy middle-aged man with a small black beard, bright green eyes and a pair of the nimblest hands in the country. He studied her from under his ball cap, even as he slowly reached in his coat and pulled out his wallet.

“All right, folks, party’s over,” she said, opening her jacket so they could see the silver badge attached to her belt. Many of the people gathered there began to back away. The intruder was in her mid-thirties, tall and broad-shouldered with a sleek pair of hips and long red hair, and dressed in black jeans, green turtleneck and a short leather jacket. A long muscle in her neck flexed when she spoke. A small, dull red scar the shape of a fishhook was perched under her right eye but remained hidden by the sunglasses. “I said party’s over. Pick up your cash and disappear,” she said in a voice notched an octave lower.

She’d already noted that the bets left on the table had vanished the moment she started speaking. And she knew exactly where they’d gone. The tosser was good, reacting to the situation instantly and taking control of the only thing that mattered: the money. The crowd fled without bothering to argue about their missing cash.

The muscle took a hesitant step toward the intruder but then froze as her gaze cut into him.

“Don’t even think about it, because they just love fat boys like you in the federal swamp.” She looked him up and down lasciviously. “They get a lot more meat for their dime.” The muscle’s lip began to tremble even as he fell back and tried to fade into the wall.

She marched up to him. “Uh-uh, big boy. W

hen I said clear out, I meant you too.”

The muscle nervously glanced at the other man, who said, “Get out of it. I’ll look you up later.”

After the man had fled, she checked the tosser’s ID, smirking as she handed it back to him and then made him stand against the wall for a pat-down. She picked up a card from the table and turned it around so he could see the black queen. “Looks like I win.”

The tosser stared unfazed at the card. “Since when do the feds care about a harmless game of chance?”

She put the card back on the table. “Good thing your marks didn’t know how ‘chancy’ this game of chance really was. Maybe I should go and enlighten some of the bigger guys who might like to come back and beat the crap out of you.”

He looked down at the black queen. “Like you said, you won. Why don’t you name your payoff?” He took a roll of cash from his fanny pack.

In response she took out her creds, slipped the badge off her belt and dropped both on the table. He glanced down at them.

“Go ahead,” she said casually. “I have no secrets.”

He picked them up. The “creds” didn’t authenticate her as a law enforcement officer. Behind the plastic shield was a membership card for the Costco Warehouse Club. The badge was tin and engraved with a brand of German beer.

His eyes widened as she slipped off her sunglasses and recognition instantly came. “Annabelle?”

Annabelle Conroy said, “Leo, what the hell are you doing cooking monte with a bunch of losers in this crappy excuse for a town?”

Leo Richter shrugged but his grin was wide. “Times are tough. And the guys are okay, a little green, but learning. And monte’s never let any of us down, has it?” He waved the wad of bills before stuffing them back in his fanny pack. “Little dicey pretending to be a cop,” he scolded mildly.

“I never said I was a cop, people just assumed. That’s why we have a career, Leo, because, if you have enough balls, people assume. But while we’re talking about it, trying to bribe a cop?”

“In my humble experience it works more often than not,” Leo said, fishing a cigarette out of a pack in his shirt pocket and offering her one. She declined.

“How much you making on this gig?” she asked matter-of-factly.

Leo glanced at her suspiciously as he lit his Winston, took a drag and blew smoke out his nostrils, neatly matching at least in miniature the fetid clouds coming out of the smokestacks overhead. “The pie’s split up enough as it is. I’ve got employees to take care of.”

“Employees! Don’t tell me you’re issuing W-2s now?” Before he could answer, she added, “Monte’s not on my radar, Leo. So how much? I’m asking for a reason, a good one.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the wall waiting.

He shrugged. “We usually work five locations on a rotation, about six hours a day. Clear three or four thou on a good one. Lotta union boys ’round here. Those guys are always itching to lose their cash. But we’ll be moving on soon. Another round of factory layoffs coming, and we don’t want people remembering our faces too well. It’s not like I have to tell you the drill. I get the sixty split of the net, but expenses are high these days. Saved up about thirty Gs. I’m looking to double that before winter. It’ll hold me for a while.”

“But just a while, knowing you.” Annabelle Conroy picked up her beer badge and Costco card. “Interested in some real money?”

“The last time you asked me that I got shot at.”

“We got shot at because you got greedy.”

Neither one was smiling now.

“What’s the deal?” Leo asked.

“I’ll tell you after we run a couple shorts. I need some seed for the long.”

“A long con! Who does that anymore?”