Текст книги "Con Academy"

Автор книги: Joe Schreiber

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Thirty-Four

BY THE TIME I MANAGE TO UPLOAD THE photo onto the school’s website, I’m pretty sure the drugs have worn off. It wasn’t a particularly heavy dose to begin with, and although I’m not around to see the details, I’m picturing Brandt waking up on the floor of his suite sometime around three p.m. with a throbbing headache in his skull and the sound of someone—maybe several concerned someones—pounding on the door.

When his parents got my anonymous email linking them to the Connaughton homepage, they must have panicked and phoned Dr. Melville, because it was the head of school who called George and demanded to meet him in Brandt’s room immediately. I can speculate about this part with some confidence because it’s George who describes the scene to me later that afternoon, while he and I are gathered in his truck with Carl out by the statue of Lancelot Connaughton.

“Did he see the picture?” I ask.

“I don’t see how he could’ve missed it.” George grins, looking down at my MacBook, where the official Connaughton Academy homepage now features a full-screen, high-resolution image of Brandt, stark-naked, duct-taped to the statue of Lancelot Connaughton. You can’t actually see anything R-rated because of the way we wrapped the tape, but Brandt’s got a big, dreamy smile on his face, and the message below the picture couldn’t be more obvious.

TO BRANDT,

SO GLAD YOU COULD FIND THAT

“SPECIAL SOMEONE” TO MAKE ALL

YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!

MOIRA

“Moira McDonald.” Looking at the screen, George chuckles and glances at me. “You know, signing her name to that was a stroke of genius.”

“Thanks,” I say. “It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“They’ll kick you out for it,” Carl says.

“No doubt.” I nod. “It was worth it. Especially the part where we got to yank the tape off him before he woke up.”

“He’s probably still counting what’s left of his chest hair,” Carl says.

George shakes his head and laughs. “Wherever Moira is,” he says, “I hope somebody sends her a link to this page before the administration takes it down.” He casts a sidelong glance my way. “Hey. You mind if I ask you something?”

“What?”

“You’re the new kid on campus. You haven’t been here a month. You didn’t even know Moira.” He frowns and nods at the screen. “So why are you doing this?”

“I need something from Brandt,” I say, “and this is the only way I could get it.”

“What?”

Before I can say anything, my cell rings. On the other end, Brandt is apoplectic, so furious that I can practically feel the spit flying through the earpiece.

“I got the cash,” he shouts. “Two million. Tell your boss we’re coming back. I’m going to take that piece of crap down tonight.” I hang up the phone without responding.

George cocks an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“My long-lost buddy,” I say, holding out my hand for George and Carl to shake. “It was a pleasure working with you, gentlemen.”

Something tells me I won’t be seeing them again.

Thirty-Five

AN HOUR LATER, I’M WAITING NEXT TO THE STATUE OF Lancelot Connaughton when Brandt comes striding up with an expensive-looking leather briefcase. His jaw is clamped and his eyes are slits. Any sign of playfulness is gone from his face now. Even in the twilight, I can see that he’s squeezing the handle hard enough to make his knuckles go white.

“Where’s your driver?” he snarls.

I glance at my phone to check the time. Six o’clock. “He’ll be here.” Clearing my throat, I look down at Brandt’s briefcase and say in a lower voice: “He’s, ah . . . he’s not sure Mr. McDonald can cover a bet that big,” I say. “Two million is a lot of coin. There might be a house maximum.”

“Too bad,” Brandt says. “Your boss shouldn’t be running an online casino, then, should he?” He pokes me hard in the chest as if the message requires additional punctuation. “Don’t wuss out on me now, Humbert.”

Seconds later, Uncle Roy pulls up in the Caddy. This time Brandt doesn’t wait for me to open the door. He practically leaps into the back seat with the briefcase on his lap and we head across campus. Uncle Roy drives in silence. Out the window I see tiny dots of white swirling down through the street lamps. It’s starting to snow. Brandt pops a couple of ibuprofen. His phone chimes and he ignores it. We keep driving, the lights on the highway flashing by us in the oncoming night.

“Been meaning to tell you,” Uncle Roy says from the front seat, glancing in the rearview mirror. “I like that picture of you and your pal online.”

Brandt stiffens but doesn’t say anything, and I think I can actually hear his back molars grinding together. By now his grip on the briefcase is enough to permanently dent the leather.

“I gotta say, though,” Roy continues, “that statue must’ve been pretty cold, huh?”

“You want to shut your mouth, old man?” Brandt says. “Or maybe I’ll come up there and shut it for you.”

Roy eyes him. “You try.”

“Guys,” I say, “take it easy, okay?”

Roy returns his attention to the road. Brandt holds on to his briefcase. When we arrive at the office space in Lowell, he jumps out and heads up the stairs. I follow closely. On the landing, I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Hold on,” I say. “When we get into McDonald’s office, let me talk to him first. I think he’ll let you make the bet, but I just want to be sure.”

Brandt ignores me, shrugging off my hand, and barges through the door. Inside, it’s business as usual—Rhonda on the phone at the reception desk, smoking a Camel and working on her nails, programmers at their computers in the main office. Brandt walks past all of them and slams his briefcase onto the nearest empty desk.

“Somebody get me a laptop.” He looks around, whipping his gaze back in my direction. “Where’s your boss?”

Across the room, the private office door opens and Dad comes out. First he stares at Brandt, and then he looks at me, pointing one accusatory finger in my face.

“I thought I told you not to bring that piece of crap around here again.”

I take a step back. “He wants to make a bet, Mr. McDonald. I tried to talk to him, but he’s got cash in hand—”

“How much?” Dad asks.

Brandt dials in the combination on the briefcase and pops the latches, opening it up to reveal rows of cash, neatly stacked and bundled. “Two million.”

Dad stares at it for a second, then shakes his head. “It’s too much. I can’t cover a bet that big.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him,” I say, “but—”

“There’s nothing on your site about a house maximum,” Brandt says. “Which means you have to take this bet.” He steps forward. “And by the way, you can tell your daughter I said that she can go to hell.”

Dad glares at him. Something twitches in his jaw. Then he looks at me.

“Get him a laptop,” he says.

It’s Lupo Reilly who brings the laptop over and sets it up next to Brandt’s briefcase full of cash. Brandt sits down in front of it and Lupo hovers nearby, next to Dad. All the crew members are watching out of the corner of their eye, but Brandt’s too distracted to notice. Next to the briefcase, his iPhone sits there, turned on, screen up. Brandt logs on to the poker site, and Lupo takes possession of the briefcase, then clicks in his credit—two million in cash. Dad and I are standing five feet behind Brandt, just far enough back to get a full view of everything as it happens.

The hand gets dealt. Brandt looks at it and places his bet.

“Wait,” Dad says. “You’re betting the full two million on one hand?”

“Maybe I’m feeling lucky.” Brandt glances at the iPhone and then at the laptop, where he trades in two cards.

I look at Dad. He looks at me. I’m aware that I’ve been holding my breath for a very long time. I can tell Dad’s just as nervous.

Brandt looks at the phone again, then back at the computer screen. I try to swallow but my throat’s too dry. A single pinhead of sweat prickles against the right side of my rib cage. Brandt’s finger hovers over the return button, suspended there in space.

Two million dollars.

One tap and the money’s ours.

That’s when I hear the door fly open behind us.

“Don’t do it, Brandt.”

It’s a girl’s voice, one I would’ve recognized anywhere. We all look around at once, and I see Andrea burst into the office in a flurry of papers.

“Andrea?” Brandt gapes at her. “What the—”

“This whole thing is a scam.” She points at Dad. “That’s not Mr. McDonald—it’s Will’s father. There is no online poker site. They’re about to take you for two million dollars.”

Brandt’s mouth falls open, and for a brief, shining moment, all the wealth and entitlement drain away, leaving a pale, shocked kid caught with his pants around his ankles. For that instant, however short-lived, it’s almost more gratifying than the money.

Then he goes for the briefcase.

“Forget it,” Dad says, blocking the way, but Brandt manages to grab the handle of the case anyway. Dad rounds on Andrea, lunging for her with both hands. She steps neatly back out of his reach and fires a glance in my direction.

“The police are on their way,” she says.

I stare at her. “I can’t believe you did this. I stood up for you in front of Melville.”

“Noted and appreciated,” she says. “It’s time to do what you do best, Billy. Run away. New Jersey awaits.”

I take a step back, but my legs don’t work. They seem to have disappeared underneath me. I can see Andrea and Brandt heading for the door, and that’s when Dad makes his move, throwing himself at Brandt and trying to yank the briefcase from his hand.

“You’re not leaving with—”

Brandt whirls and slams the briefcase into my dad’s head, knocking him backwards. The case flies across the room. On the other side of the office, Rhonda is on her feet, lips drawn down in a rictus of panic. “Frank, no!” She reaches into her purse, and the world goes into slow motion as I see the automatic coming out, swinging toward Brandt and Andrea.

Rhonda fires.

Brandt ducks.

Andrea doesn’t.

Thirty-Six

FOR A SECOND NO ONE CAN SPEAK—OR IF SOMEONE DOES, I can’t hear a sound. The gunshot seems to have cracked reality itself in half. My dad is the first one to find his voice.

“What . . . ?” He’s staring down at Andrea on the floor, blood splattered across her white blouse, and then he looks up at Rhonda. I can see the whites all the way around his eyes. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t . . .” Rhonda manages, and the words seem to trail off into silence. The air around us smells like gunpowder. With a blankness of expression, Rhonda looks down at the gun in her hand and forces the next few syllables out. “Frank, I thought . . . you said . . .”

“You stupid cow. What the hell were you thinking?” Dad’s face has now gone white with alarm, and he stares at me. Sirens are rising in the distance, getting closer, and I can see him trying to remember every exit. “This isn’t happening.”

Meanwhile, all I can see is Andrea.

She’s sprawled out below me, pale and motionless, staring up at the ceiling, and I think of the way that Mr. Bodkins described her to me after my first day at Connaughton. Looks like she sleeps in a coffin. There’s a thread of blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, and her hair is over her eyes. Looking at her, I feel like somebody’s kicked me in the chest.

Somewhere off to my right, Brandt is making weird, high-pitched, asthmatic noises, and I can feel him trying to process what’s happening, the facts sinking in, and how he can’t possibly be here in the middle of this room. I know exactly how he feels. This isn’t part of the script. Dad and I were supposed to have Brandt’s cash and be out the door by now. Instead there’s a seventeen-year-old girl on the floor in front of me with a bullet in her chest, dying.

I think about how this all got started, with a wild, misdirected flight of optimism that I realize now was just a delusion.

It’s all gone wrong.

The sirens are right outside now, car doors slamming, and I can hear footsteps, authoritative cop shoes, coming up the stairs.

“Will . . .” Dad looks at me and moves his mouth, but instead of talking, he just turns and bolts for the back office. There’s a window in there that is connected to a fire escape, and when he’s gone, I notice that Brandt is also backing away.

“I can’t . . .” he starts, and turns to go, but it’s too late.

Two men in suits are stepping through the doorway. They immediately put Uncle Roy in handcuffs.

And that’s how I know it’s really over.

“FBI,” the tall, bald one says, flashing his badge as he pushes Roy into the corner, while the other agent, a distinguished, middle-aged guy with a well-trimmed goatee, slaps some cuffs onto Rhonda. The bald one rushes over to where Andrea’s lying and looks at his partner. “Call an ambulance.”

“They’re on their way.” The second agent turns and scans the room, his gaze settling on Brandt. “Brandt Rush?” he asks, as if to confirm his identity.

Brandt takes a step backwards. The sight of their badges seems to have done something to him, snapped him out of the paralysis of the moment. He blinks at them, hands in the air. “Wait, hold on—”

“Mr. Rush, you need to get out of here right now.” The bald agent is moving toward Brandt. “The Bureau has been surveilling this operation for a week, and your father sent us to get you out.” He casts another glance down at Andrea. “There’s a car waiting downstairs. Come on.”

“But—” Brandt looks at the briefcase across the room. “What about my money?”

“There’s a dead girl on the floor, Mr. Rush. You can’t be mixed up in this right now.”

Brandt’s eyes widen. “That’s two million dollars in there!”

“It’s evidence now,” the bald agent tells him, grabbing his arm. “Right now you have to go.”

As he hustles Brandt out the door, I finally feel whatever was left of my strength draining away, pulling the hinges on my knees, and I manage to descend to the floor so slowly that it doesn’t hurt. It feels vaguely reassuring to know that at this moment, I literally can’t sink any lower.

The bearded FBI agent walks right past me to where Andrea’s lying on the floor. Watching him in action as he squats down to look at her, I realize that there’s something familiar about the way he moves. Turning her head to one side, the agent leans down and taps her on the shoulder.

“They’re gone.”

Andrea opens her eyes and smiles. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

The agent helps her to her feet. That’s when I remember where I’ve seen him before. He’s Donnie, and the first time I saw him, he was dressed in a bathrobe and standing in my dorm room, claiming to be Dr. Melville while he ordered me to pack my things and leave Connaughton. And the other agent is Chuck, his tall build and bald head helping him pass, apparently, for any kind of authority figure.

Words fail me. I stare at Andrea, and I get a totally unreal feeling that the world is going sideways on its axis. I wonder if this is how a mark feels when he recognizes that he’s been suckered, and I realize—however belatedly—how much I’ve really learned here after all.

Andrea spits out a squib of blood, wipes her mouth, and brushes her hair back out of her eyes, favoring me with a smile.

“Well played, Will,” she says. “Sorry we couldn’t let you in on it earlier, but we figured it would be more realistic if you didn’t know the whole setup.”

“We?” And now I’m staring across the room at Rhonda, who’s already pulled off her dishwater-blond wig and tossed it unceremoniously on the floor. She’s actually quite young and pretty if she were to take off her makeup and not dress like a tramp.

The woman walks over and gives Andrea a hug. “We did it,” she says, and Andrea smiles.

“Are you going to call Moira?”

“Right now,” Rhonda says, and dials a number on her cell phone. “I’ll put her on speaker.”

The room goes quiet as the phone rings, and a voice—Moira McDonald’s, I guess—picks up. “Rhonda?”

“Hi, you,” Rhonda says, mock-casually. “Guess what?”

“You got him?”

Rhonda smiles at Andrea. “Nailed the bastard to the wall.”

Through the phone, Moira lets out a whoop of pure joy. “I can’t believe it,” she says. “We finally got Brandt Rush!”

“And then some.” As Rhonda takes Moira off speakerphone and continues the conversation privately, I flick my eyes back over to Andrea.

“Who is that?”

“Moira’s older sister,” Andrea says. “She’s a junior at Mount Holyoke.”

I stare at her. “So you and my dad actually—”

“Yuck. No.” Rhonda makes a face. “Thankfully your dad’s a black-out drunk. I just let him get plowed and in the morning I’d tell him what a great time he had.”

“How long have you two been planning this?” I ask. “From the beginning?”

“Moira and I were best friends when Brandt put up those pictures of her last year,” Andrea says. “I promised her we’d get payback. From the moment I realized that you were a con artist, I knew you’d pick him as a mark.”

“I’m seriously that predictable?”

“You’re a guy,” she says with a shrug. “All you required was the proper motivation.”

“So our whole bet was just—”

“Me getting you to do what I wanted and needed.” Andrea blinks, the very picture of innocence incarnate. “I guess it worked.”

“What about the—”

Bang!

Jerking upright at the noise, I spin around to see Uncle Roy holding a bottle of champagne, bubbles spilling from the neck. It’s the good stuff. He’s already serving it to the rest of the crew, who have abandoned their computers and are holding up glasses to be filled.

“Were you in on this too?” I ask him.

“Only at the end,” Roy says. “Andrea came to me a few days ago with the perfect way to get your dad off your back, and I knew I had to do it.” He beams at her. “You’re a pretty sharp grifter for a kid,” he says. “In ten years you’ll be dangerous.”

Andrea gives him a crooked smile. “Thanks. I think.”

“You too, William.” Roy rests his hand on my shoulder, and I see a serious expression come over his face. “Good con. Even if you weren’t in on the whole enchilada, your mother would be proud. You’re going to be great at this, kid—maybe even better than me someday.” Then, before I can reply, he tosses back a glass and turns to the room. “Okay, everybody—have your drink, and start tearing this place down. I don’t want to be here when the Rush family comes back with the real police.”

“Uncle Roy—” I begin.

“Later, William, all right? I’ll meet up with you at the airport with your cut of the take.” Turning, he grabs one of the computer monitors and hands it off to Chuck. “Everybody lend a hand—let’s get this done.”

The office bursts into a blur of activity. I look over at Andrea, but she and Rhonda are off in the corner with Moira still on the phone, the three of them laughing and talking about the score. Andrea glances down at the bloodstain on her blouse, and Rhonda points at the gun, reenacting what just happened. In the midst of all of it, Andrea looks up at me and starts walking back over.

“Hey, tough guy.” She comes in close, regarding me quizzically. “You all right?”

I nod. “I’ll survive.”

“Kind of weird to find yourself on the other end of the con, isn’t it?” she asks. “But we had fun while it lasted, didn’t we?”

“Who knows?” I say. “Maybe I’ll bump into you down the road.”

She gives me a peck on the cheek and turns away.

And that’s okay, because now that I know how it’s going to end, I realize that I still have one last thing to take care of.

Thirty-Seven

“WILLIAM?” IT’S UNCLE ROY’S VOICE ON THE OTHER end of the cell phone, and he’s bellowing loudly enough that I have to hold the device a good six inches from my ear. “Are you even listening to a single word that I’m saying to you?”

“I can hear you just fine.” Looking down at the backpack lying open on my bed, I shove the last of my clothes inside, just jeans and T-shirts, and stuff the laptop in before zipping it up. “I’m just not sure why you’re freaking out like this.”

“You’re not sure? You’re not sure?”

“Well,” I say, “I guess . . .”

“The money’s gone, kid! Nobody saw where it went! One second we’re tearing down the office, clearing out, and the next second . . .” He pauses. “It’s just not there.”

“Yeah, well.” I glance out the window of my room, mentally saying goodbye to the view. “I guess you’re right. The money’s gone.”

“You guess?” Roy roars and coughs his incredulity. “William, I’m asking you this once, and it’s not a rhetorical question: Who are you, and what did you do with my favorite nephew?”

“Come on, Uncle Roy, face it. It was never about the money.”

“Are you nuts? Of course it was!” Roy is coughing louder now, like he just swallowed his cigarette. “And what about those other guys, the ones that came up here from Boston for the job—”

“And they got to work with the most legendary con man in America,” I say, “at the very top of his game. They should be paying you.”

“Well, yeah,” Uncle Roy grumbles reluctantly, “you’re right about that. But still . . .” He sighs. “She took off with it, didn’t she?”

“Who?” Although I know exactly whom he’s talking about. “Andrea?”

“Who else?” Roy growls. “Come on, we both saw the way she and Rhonda were sizing up that briefcase. I don’t care what they said about revenge being enough.”

“She already took the hundred and twenty-five thousand that she raised for those orphans,” I say. “You’d think that would be enough.”

“Nuts.” Roy grunts. “I don’t care who you are—nobody in their right mind walks away from two million bucks.”

“I guess you’ll be going after her, then?”

“You bet I will. As soon as . . .” There’s a long silence, and Roy finally lets out a breath. “Nah.”

“Seriously?”

“You know, William, guys like us, we’re always looking for the angle, some way to cheat fate,” he says. “But in life, as in the big con, sometimes there is no angle. Sometimes you just have to play it as it lays.” He pauses and I realize we’re reaching the end of our conversation. I stop and take one last look around my room to make sure I didn’t miss anything. I’ve left my Connaughton school uniform neatly folded at the foot of the bed. I don’t belong here, and at this point I don’t plan on lingering around any longer than I absolutely have to.

I hear the sound of a motor getting louder, and I look outside my window again. A hundred yards away, an airport shuttle bus is pulling up in front of the statue of Lancelot Connaughton.

“Roy,” I say, “I need to go. Call me when you get back to Vegas, okay?”

“I’m not going to Vegas, kid. Not right now, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“I got a tip on some hot action, a little stock swindle going down in Fort Lauderdale. Florida’s where most of us geezers end up anyway, this time of year. After that . . . who knows. Europe, maybe. The French Riviera.” He chuckles. “Lots of rich widows there.”

I smile, imagining him walking down the café-lined boulevards of Nice, hand in hand with a wealthy socialite from Minneapolis. “Thanks, Uncle Roy. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. This was . . . really great.”

“Don’t thank me yet, kid,” he says. “You hear anything more from the Rush kid?”

“Not really. Word around campus is that his parents pulled him out of school, flew him to Davos for a week on the slopes.” I can only shake my head at the absurdity of it. Only in this particular stratum of American wealth would someone get punished for losing two million dollars by being sent on a ski trip. “I think he’s probably just glad it wasn’t worse.”

“Well, do me a favor—see what you can find out about that two million, huh? For an old man’s peace of mind?”

“I will.”

“It was a good con, wasn’t it?”

“The best,” I say, and click off the phone, making my way to the door.

Walking down the pathway to the statue, I see Dr. Stanley and his wife walking toward the airport shuttle bus with their three young children, who are all dressed in Connaughton sweatshirts and bouncing happily forward.

“Dr. Stanley?”

He stops and looks at me, his forehead wrinkling in puzzlement as he shields his eyes to see who it is. “Yes?”

“Sir, I know that you don’t know me, but I just wanted to say”—I hold out my hand—“that I’m really glad you and your family flew all the way here to visit the school.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. “It is very strange,” he finally says.

“What’s that?”

“My family and I traveled here to your country, and we arrive here with great fanfare, only to find out that all the money that was raised for the orphanage has been embezzled.”

“I’m sorry about that, sir.” Reaching down, I pick up the briefcase I’d brought and hold it out to him. “I hope this helps.”

“What is it?”

“A minor contribution, on behalf of the alumni. In the hopes that you won’t remember your visit here at Connaughton as being all bad.”

Dr. Stanley takes the briefcase and pops the latches, holding it upright so that the bundles of cash don’t go spilling out. “This—” His eyes widen slightly. “How much is this?”

“I believe it’s in the neighborhood of two million dollars.”

“I—I cannot possibly accept—”

“It’s our pleasure.” I hold his gaze. “It was good to meet you, sir. I’d like to come visit your island sometime, if I could. In many ways I feel like I already know it.”

He just blinks and nods, glancing back at his wife and children, who have already climbed onto the bus. For an instant his eyes hold mine with an unexpected intensity. “Thank you,” he says simply. He closes the briefcase and steps onboard the bus, joining his family. The door closes and the bus pulls away, leaving me standing there next to the statue of our founder.

It’s time for me to head out too. Shouldering my backpack, I turn around and start walking, making my way to the main gate. It’s going to be a long hike to town, but I’m optimistic about catching a ride once I get there.

My pocket buzzes with an incoming text, and I pull out my phone.

It’s a photo of a white-sand beach, the ocean blue and rolling in the distance, so clear and bright that the wave peaks look like glass. There’s no message, just the picture taken from a beach chair or a hammock, legs with freshly painted red toenails in the foreground. I think I know whose toes they are. And I figure that wherever Andrea’s stretched out at the moment, she’s a lot warmer than I am, standing here.

I smile. “Good for you,” I murmur, and slip the phone back into my pocket.

“Mr. Humbert,” a voice says behind me, and right away I know who it is.