The Texas Twist (35 page)

Just the same, a gun in the face, even a scripted one
shooting blanks, will shift a man's outlook, even Radar's, and even when he'd scripted it and knew it was coming. When that gun went off, his life changed forever. You could say that he buttoned himself up. In that instant, he left the game for good. It wasn't a matter of keeping his family out of harm's way. Harm, Radar knew, had a way of finding its own way. It was just knowing that he'd outgrown the grift. It was time to do better than that. With the others' blessing, he even donated to a legitimate charity the legitimate get from the fest. Between admission fees, Midway gaffs, auction items, food, drink, and diversions (plus some scams that the guests wouldn't really figure out until later) it was plenty. And giving it away felt great.

Not that there wasn't a payday, for Adam proved a mook after all. Uncertain how the money-go-round would play out, he had in fact shown up on the night with substantial true green, two hundred grand in a FedEx box left at coat check. Split six ways it wasn't a huge take for anyone, but no one complained, for they all got other value. Kadyn won the experience she craved, a blitz introduction to a new career in which her manifest gifts could grow. That she'd also bagged a Mirplo was just a bonus for them both. Allie would always cherish the snuke as the one that saw her off into parenthood and very different adventures. And for Woody it had been a chance to run one last script with his son. Now he looked forward to playing the grandfather card.

For Radar Hoverlander, money was a burden no more. It could bankroll a straight play or maybe a baby's college fund, but it meant nothing in and of itself. It was just how you kept score, and there's no need to keep score in a game
that you've already won.

On a stunningly sunny August afternoon, in forested hills above Puget Sound, Allie got her woodsy wedding at last. She stood radiantly blimpy beneath an arbor of lily vines and white roses and accepted the Savransky-cut true diamond ring that Radar had given to Jessup to give to Ames but really all along planned to give her. Woody gave the bride away and Boy was best dog. Vic officiated, but he left the Book of Mirplo at home, for the world, he'd decided, was not yet prepared. He ratified the couple's union, congratulated them on their good judgment in choosing each other, and blessed their journey into the future they'd share.

He would not be sharing it with them. Mirplo was hitting the road, off to see all the Perus and Katmandus he'd never seen so far. Kadyn was hitting it with him. How they would make their living remained to be seen, but Radar had a hunch that work permits and tax returns would not figure in.

Afterward, at the reception, Mirplo marveled at Allie's belly out to here, and wondered if she and Radar were still playing the name game.

“No, we've settled that,” she said. “If it's a boy, Woody. If it's a girl—”

“—when it's a girl,” said Radar.

“
If
it's a girl,” Allie repeated, “Curiosity.”

“I knew it!” cried Vic. “It's what I predicted all along!”

“Oh, did you?”

“You'll see. You'll see when my book comes out. Anyway, great choice, awesome choice. Curiosity Hoverlander. Sounds like the name of a detective.”

“It does, now doesn't it?” said Radar.

And his eyes went to a faraway place.

THE END

          
Next: Radar and Curiosity Hoverlander team up as father-daughter detectives in
The Seattle Straddle.

P
eople ask me all the time, “JV, are you a con artist?” By which they usually mean, '
Cause if you're not, you sure know a lot about that world.
Okay, let me state for the record that I, personally, am not a con artist. I know that's exactly what you'd expect a con artist to say, and there's not much I can do about that, by the logic of
Only a witch would deny being a witch.
But what can I tell you? The cons I've invented—the ones I hold dear to my heart, like the Doolally shorthair terrier scam or the Visine gag—are ones I
wish
I had the balls to pull off. No, dear friends, I exist in the world of my imagining. I find that it's safer that way.

But come on, admit it—you're fascinated, too. I mean, duh—I know you are because here you are at the end of a book about cons. But it goes deeper than that. When you read a story about just some audacious scam—your
Hitler
Diaries
, your
Catch Me if You Can
—don't you think,
Who would get into that line of work?
You know that you wouldn't. You'd be too scared. And maybe too moral.

Others share not your compunctions.

Just today I get a phone call from a teenage stranger who tells me in a hoarse voice that he's “my oldest grandson” who's been sick, so that's why he doesn't sound like him. Can you guess where he's going with this? Seems last night he was out driving with some friends—
You know those crazy friends of mine, Grandpa
—and got into a teeny tiny accident. Well, he'd been drinking a little, so now he's in jail, hoping “Grandpa Duffy” can throw some cash at the owner of the other car and make this whole thing go away.

Of course “Grandpa Duffy” was a dead giveaway, because that's my wife's surname, not mine, but who wouldn't see through this from the start? You would, right? I think most people would. Yet there must be enough profit in this scheme to keep people trying it. I strung the guy along for five or ten minutes before he realized I was messing with him and clicked off. Most of the time he just gets hung up on, I'm sure. Every now and then he gets a nibble, but can he land the fish? That has to be a victim clueless enough to buy the caller's fake panic, yet together enough to, you know, have cash. Do people like that abound? They can't
abound
.

The thing I think about most attempted cons is they're just colossal wastes of time. But let's take somebody who cooks up one of these grand scams—a multi-million-dollar pyramid, let's say. That's a job that takes time, effort, planning, organization, infrastructure, collaboration,
seed money,
and sales—tons and tons of sales. It's a
business,
muthafucka, and
I just have to ask, if you have what it takes to launch and run a successful scam, couldn't you apply those same tools to something legit?

Maybe the part I don't get—the part I can only comprehend in the world of my imagining—is that it's not about the money for these guys. It's about
getting over
on their fellow man. They take joy in ripping people off, satisfaction in proving they're better than you. In my book, that's called
sociopath.
Okay, so that's what they are, and that's what I'm not.

At least I
think
I'm not. Here I am, cooking up these cruelties to inflict on innocent people, things I know I'd never do in the real world.
Steal
from someone? Strip-mine some senior's savings account? I can't even imagine it. Except that I
can
imagine it, and I'm lucky enough to do just that for a living. Which begs the question: If JV's not a con artist, yet he represents himself as an authority on con artists, doesn't that make him something of a…con artist?

Oops, yeah, kind of it does.

So here's where we get to the intersection of invention and morality. I mean, like all novelists, I lie for a living. So do con artists. What's the difference between us? We do it to entertain; they do it to steal.

Which is why I used this novel to get Radar off the snuke. I invented him to entertain; I could no longer stand that he'd steal. Sure, he tries to justify it, with phrases like
metaphorical reacharound
and
verbal prostate massage
, and he rationalizes that crossing paths with him isn't the worst thing that could happen to a mook. But I don't buy it. Never have, really. If you want to be moral, be moral, Radar. Quit screwing
around and get right with the world.

You might be thinking,
Hang on, now, JV. I've read all the Radar novels (or at least this one) and he seems to be doing things for a worthy cause. Self-defense, if nothing else. What's wrong with self-defense?
Nothing, friend, nothing at all. But you don't know Radar like I know Radar. You only see his stories—stories designed by me to protect him from your disapproval.

But he's never escaped mine.

Isn't that a weird thing? And what a discovery to make after already having lived with the guy for a quarter of a million words. Don't get me wrong: I like and love Radar Hoverlander. I admire that he can “read lips, pick pockets, pick locks, run a six-minute mile, and build a car or disable its engine.” I just never liked what he stood for. And he never liked it, either. In a sense, he's been fighting against his nature since page one of book one. And trying to explain it away. So his inner conflict is my inner conflict. He's as fascinated by the world of cons as I am. He's always wondered if he was as good as the game, and always wanted to prove that he was. Even while knowing that the game itself was no good.

It took me three novels to get Radar off the snuke, but now that he's out, he's out for keeps. He recognizes that his talents, cleverness, and bent perspective are “powerful tools that can only be used for good or for evil.” He's determined to use them for good. Up next, then,
The Seattle Straddle,
in which Radar becomes a detective. Working with his daughter, no less. I'm very excited by that. Now he can use his massive mental dexterity for good works
and
good parenting. No moral ambiguity there.

I wonder if that will be a problem. Maybe a Radar Hoverlander without inner tension just falls apart, or isn't worth looking at. Nah. That won't be a problem. He'll have a little girl for a partner. That'll keep his hands full.

Honestly, I have no idea what the next novel will be about. I want to advance Curiosity's age to the point where she can be an effective girl detective. But what age is that? If she's a Hoverlander, she's bound to be precocious; I feel I can start her as early as I like. That said, though, if I advance her timeline even a few years, I'll get out ahead of the present day, and have to start thinking of my tales in some
world of the future
context, maybe even a sci-fi one. Or, no, probably I won't. Radar is witty enough to manipulate his reality; I'm half-witty enough to manipulate mine.

For the record, I always make this shit up as I go along. Some writers don't. The smart writers, I'd say, map their moves out way in advance. That never worked for me; if I know too much about where the story's going, I lose my desire to follow. So I'm forever treating my novels as puzzles where I'm simultaneously creating the pieces and trying to make them fit. It's not an efficient process. No more efficient than trolling for senile grandparents by phone. I guess I do it because it gets me off, and I guess at the end of the day that's why the con guys do what they do, too. So join me in
The Seattle Straddle,
and we'll discover together what Radar and Curiosity are up to next.

Thank you for reading this book. Sincerely. With your support I can continue to live in the world of my imagining, creating devious traps for Radar to stumble into and think his way out of (now with the help of his clever and cunning
little girl!). While meanwhile the real world stays safely out of range of my nature's dark side. It's for the best. I know it is.

Otherwise, heck, I might have to be a con artist for real.

 

—Southern California
February 2013

JOHN VORHAUS first introduced the charming con man Radar Hoverlander in the novel
The California Roll,
followed by
The Albuquerque Turkey.
When not spinning such yarns, he travels the world teaching and training writers—twenty-nine countries on five continents at last count. His many nonfiction works include the
Killer Poker
series and the bestselling comedy writing text
The Comic Toolbox: How to Be Funny Even if You're Not.