Operation Bamboozle (36 page)

“Bulletproof vest was underneath. Standard KGB wear.”

“Tell the general …” Vito swallowed hard. “No, this beats me. You find something.”

“Always In Our Thoughts,” Julie said. “That usually hits the spot.”

“My other news is not so good,” Luis said. “The general employs Ukrainian Cossacks to run our secondary network of counterfeit lottery tickets. I like the Cossacks. I know you would too. Gallant, dashing men, with a sparkling sense of humor, and a steely loyalty to their leaders. But when it comes to the dull routine of office management …” Luis shook his head sadly. “They would rather be at the races. Superb horsemen, all of them.”

“You're saying they dropped the ball,” Vito said. “They loused-up our tickets.”

“Yes and no. They sold a record number of our tickets. Unfortunately, and before the general could stop them, they published a list of twenty big winners.”

Nicky put his head back until he was staring at Luis through eyes that were almost closed. “You said …” he whispered. “You said that couldn't happen. On account of the winning numbers came from the unsold tickets. You said that.”

“What nobody reckoned on was the Cossacks and their native gung-ho enthusiasm. For the first time ever, there
were
no unsold tickets.” Luis looked left and right, searching for a solution. “It was a natural phenomenon that no-one could foresee. We have been struck by friendly fire. We now owe a very large sum of money.”

“Life is a lottery,” Julie said. “You never know what'll hit you next.”

“How big is big?” Nicky asked.

“Slightly under a million dollars,” Luis said.

Vito was poking a finger through the bulletholes. “So, tell the general to go shoot the bastards. That's what he usually does anyway.”

“He tried that. He personally led one squad. They met with armed resistance, which accounts for the other three bulletholes.” Luis blew his nose. “We nearly lost the general that day. Lose him, we lose everything. And many of the winners are too big to be shot. Farms, factories, schools: they club together to buy blocks of tickets. Army units, too. Police, even. If they don't get their winnings, they'll raise holy hell.”

Vito stretched out on the grass. Luis and Julie sat. Nicky remained standing.

“A million,” Vito said. “That's impossible.”

“Not if we spread it widely,” Luis said. “Yours is not the only syndicate to have invested in Bamboozle. You'd be amazed at the names, like yours, leading those syndicates. A former chairman of Du Pont, and the second-biggest publisher in America, and a retired Supreme Court judge, and the dean of an Ivy League college. In addition, Mrs. Conroy has some names here in LA that you may well know.”

Julie unfolded a sheet of paper. “Norton Scripps Todhunter, philanthropist … Michael J. Stagg, of aviation fame … Mrs. Jessica Finch, of Finch Funeral Parlors. To name just a few.” She folded the paper.

“Each and every one has contributed to the emergency rescue fund,” Luis said. “So have I, of course. We still need another fifty thousand dollars to reach the target. We're depending on you. Otherwise …” He shrugged. “Moscow will want to know why.”

“And we lose every last nickel we put in,” Vito said.

“I should also add that I have been contacted by a man from the Government who wishes to meet you as a matter of some urgency,” Luis said. “More than that he would not say.”

Vito threw his golf club at Nicky. “Go get the lousy money,” he said. “Fifty grand? What's fifty grand?”

Nicky didn't move. “I want to talk to these big-name investors.”

“They won't confirm or deny,” Luis said. “They won't say a damn word. Would you, if a total stranger came calling?”

“Move your ass,” Vito ordered. “I'm good for ten. You and your nine bums each chip in four. Makes fifty. Do it.”

“Cash,” Luis said. “By nightfall.” They watched Nicky walk away. “I was the Venezuela Amateur Champion once. Do you fancy a round? Twenty dollars a hole?”

“I'll caddy,” Julie offered. “I get ten percent.”

The trouble with money is that if you have enough of it, you don't need to do anything with your life. And the less you do, the easier it is to do nothing. Once Michael Stagg realized that he would never inherit the B strain of neurostatic hypostasia, he drifted into a bland and lazy existence. He was young and rich, he could afford to waste time and so he wasted a lot of it. He slept, he ordered room-service food, he watched a lot of TV. He might not shave or bathe or brush his teeth for a week. So what? Sometimes the memory of Luis Cabrillo came back to annoy him, and he fantasized different means of revenge. They involved effort. They went away.

One job he could not avoid was going through his father's papers, decide what to throw away, what to box and store. The lawyers kept reminding him, and in the end it was easier just to do it.

There was a lot of stuff. He moved from room to room, pulling out drawers, opening files, recognizing the handwriting but finding it hard to remember the man as a man and not a businessman. He noticed a tall wall cabinet and tugged at the handle. Locked. Well, he could do something about that. An iron doorstop felt good and heavy. He smashed the lock.

Shotguns. The old man had kept a pair of shotguns locked up. Probably wise of him. All the same, Michael Stagg felt angry. He had always wanted to own a gun and the old bastard had
always forbidden it. And never mentioned the shotguns. “Sonafabitch,” Stagg said. “He didn't trust me.” He took them both. And a box of shells. Just carrying them, he felt different. He felt free, enabled, empowered. There were things that only a man with a gun could do. Perhaps things that he must do.

Nicky Zangara drove up to Konigsberg at 8 p.m. and gave Luis a briefcase of money. He watched it change hands as if it was his last dollar and he hadn't eaten for two days. He had a question: how a million bucks would get to Ukraine? By Western Union? Pony Express? Luis said he operated a need-to-know policy and Nicky didn't need, but if he felt so strongly he could fly to Switzerland and open a secret account at the Zurich International Union Bank, where the manager would explain absolutely nothing. “His name is Emil,” Luis said.

“You're a smartass,” Nicky said. “Why Vito got into bed with a smartass, beats me.” He left.

They didn't count the money. “The Mob is trustworthy,” Julie said. Luis took twenty bucks and they drove down to the shore, ate steak sandwiches at the coffee shop, strolled on the beach in the moonlight.

“Life is a lottery,” Luis said. “I was glad to hear you say that. I had it in mind from the very beginning of this con. The whole point of faking a lottery was so that I could fake the winning tickets. Everything builds toward that. It's the curtain line at the end of Act Two. Thank you for delivering it so well.”

“What's in Act Three?”

“Don't know. Maybe the theater burns down.”

“Sure. You never know what'll hit you next. I said that too, Luis. Maybe the you is
you.”
When he laughed, she thought:
He takes nothing seriously, except the joke.

Michael Stagg bought a dun-colored raincoat, long and roomy, with reach-through pockets so you could fish out your keys without unbuttoning the coat. He practiced walking with the
shotgun inside the coat, held by his right hand, out of sight. Purely for self-defense, of course.

He drove to Santa Monica Canyon Road. There was a trail through the brush on the opposite side of the canyon. He climbed it and got a good view of Konigsberg. He sat on a rock for an hour. Nothing happened. Next day he did it again. Same result. “Ain't good enough,” he said. He was impatient with himself. Cabrillo had robbed him. So rob Cabrillo. What was the problem? He went down the trail and drove home.

Tomorrow.

Charlie Denny invited Agents Moody and Fisk to the meeting with DiLazzari. “I don't want to be alone in the room when I give him the news,” he said. “These people can be volatile.” They agreed to be present. Denny left.

“I wonder about him,” Fisk said to Moody. “I know you checked him out, he's genuine CIA, but … This whole Ukraine lottery thing is so … What's the word …
erratic.
I mean, is it possible he's moonlighting? Running some kind of freelance operation for his own benefit?”

“Possible. Does it matter? As long as DiLazzari gets screwed, do we care about the details?”

“I suppose not. Especially if he
knows
he's been screwed.” Fisk brightened. “Double-screwed, in fact.”

Moody had heard enough. “You like complicating things. The Mob doesn't complicate. It simplicates, usually by deadly force. Just don't come running to me if you get killed in the crossfire.”

Charlie Denny's office was at the top of the Perry Como Building, one of the new earthquake-proof structures that reached above the smog. It was midafternoon, and the view was of a gray-white blanket that covered almost all the city. Moody, Fisk and Cabrillo were on time. Vito and Nicky arrived fifteen minutes late and did not like being outnumbered. While Denny was shaking hands, Vito asked who these were. “I'm Uncle Sam,” Fisk said. “And so is he.”

“Feds,” Nicky said. He spoke like a pest control man.

“That's the last they say,” Vito told Denny, “and they said too much already. I came to meet you.”

“Yes, of course. Ignore them, old chap, they're harmless. They go around selling Girl Scout cookies and I let them stay to rest their poor feet. Now, about Ukraine.”

“Him, I know.” Vito jerked a thumb toward Luis. “Einstein on stilts. Ten ways to fall off a ladder, he invented fourteen. Me an' him, we're kickin' Stalin right in the rubles.”

“Stalin's dead,” Fisk said softly.

Vito stared. “It moves, it speaks, it wets its pants.”

Fisk grinned. Luis remembered that grin. Sharing a taxi into Manhattan. Thomas G. Duffy. Garbage disposal. Bloody hell. Could nobody be trusted?

“Ukraine,” Denny said, with just a hint of impatience. “Your spadework in this operation is appreciated, Mr. DiLazzari. Washington recognizes a staunch trailblazer. The national interest now requires that the Central Intelligence Agency assumes total control of Bamboozle in all respects.”

Nobody moved. From the harbor a siren began a somber hooting and soon quit. Vito pointed to Nicky and clicked his fingers.

“Cabrillo said Bamboozle was too hot for the CIA,” Nicky said. “Said the CIA was afraid to touch it, so he came to us instead.”

“Oh, you mustn't believe everything Mr. Cabrillo says. Mr. Cabrillo says a lot of things. He told me, for instance, the whole Ukraine fake lottery idea is a con. He said Bamboozle is an invention.” The absurdity of it made Denny's eyebrows bounce.

“Certainly,” Luis said. “I told him that. But you mustn't believe all I say. Mr. Denny's own words.” He gestured, giving credit where due. “I lied for the finest possible motives: to protect Mr. DiLazzari's sizeable investment—made on admirably patriotic rounds—from a hostile takeover bid by the CIA.” He let the room think about that for a moment. “I fought off the CIA's grab with the only weapon I could find. I insisted that there was nothing to be grabbed. I did my best. Unhappily …” He shrugged, and turned away. “Mr. Denny knew better.”