Artist at Work

Brother-in law Bill Reef and I were supposed to write this together, but he lost interest and dropped out after initiating the project. I took the bones of the story and ran with it because, what-the-hell, somebody had to do it.

Artist at Work
By Doc Walton

Harvey is dressed kind of nice, tan summer suit, soft yellow tie. He’s a little jumpy inside because he thinks he’s near a close, but he doesn’t show it because, well, he’s an artist, a con artist and he’s good at this.

“An investment now could bring you a double or triple return in a couple of years,” he says to the guy across the table.

That guy is a fit looking middle-aged man wearing a thin leather jacket that fits like a glove and probably cost him a fortune. He’s idly stirring an un-sipped cup of coffee while he ponders what the artist has told him.

“I don’t know,” he says, “it sounds good but…”

Harvey interrupts. “Look, Mark,” he says, thinking, man, what a perfect name, “I wouldn’t tell this to just anybody. It’s, you know, inside stuff, but I consider you a friend. We hit it off at the club and I figured you being a sports car nut like me, this might be something you’d take a flyer on. I mean, we’re not talking a lot of money.”

Mark the mark squirms a little in his seat and says he’s interested, he really is. Just doesn’t want to get crosswise with the SEC.

“Not to worry,” Harvey tells him, “nothing there to worry about. This is all legal. We’re just in on it early. We both know this area needs a track. I’ve talked to people from NASCAR and SCCA and they all say, how does it go, ‘build it and they will come’?”

The mark picks up his coffee, takes a sip, makes a face, reaches for the sugar.

“What you’re telling me,” he says. “is that I can get in on the ownership of a race track.”

Harvey the artist thinks, gotcha, says “You bet. Just a small percentage, of course. The developers want a local presence to present to the public, but they are not going to give up too much. Besides, I know you’re not made of money. He pauses a moment, picks up his own cup, thinks, he needs one more incentive, says, “Still, if you can swing it, the perks will be terrific… annual dividends, special events, owner’s box, the whole shooting match.”

“I’m interested,” the mark says. “I really am. I just have to think about it awhile. Can you draw up some papers for me? Something I can use to help me make up my mind.” He says this while standing and reaching for his wallet.

“No problem,” says the artist pulling out a money clip, picking up the check and waving off the mark. “I’ll get Legal to draw something up if you’re serious about this, but we’ll need an answer in a hurry. Things are going to happen fast, and if you don’t want in, I have other people I need to talk to.” Always good to let the mark think there are others in line.

The mark leaves and Harvey the artist returns to his booth. He orders more coffee and a two slices of dark toast. A woman gets up from a seat at the counter and joins him. She’s somewhere in her mid- to late-thirties but hot. Taller than average, plush red hair, deep green eyes and a sculpted chin line. When she walks to Harvey’s booth, every male eye in the diner watches her do it, and that tells you all you need to know about her figure. She’s no stranger to the artist. He looks up surprised and says, “Hello, Mo, long time no see and all that. What brings you to town? I thought you were settled down in Arizona.”

Her name is Maureen, but if you know her at all, it’s Mo. She takes a seat opposite the con man.

“I was,” she answers, “but it got a little warm there, so I thought I’d come north for awhile. Find some cooler air.”

A waitress approaches, and Mo orders Earl Grey.

She turns back to the artist and says, “What about you Harvey… it is still Harvey, right? What are you playing at these days?”

The artist says, “Yeah it’s still Harvey for now, but I prefer Harv. Don’t want to be confused with the big bunny.”

Mo laughs, gets the reference. The artist is pleased.

He says, “I’m a consultant actually. I put people with money to invest on to,” he pauses and chuckles, “uh… special situations.”

Mo looks at him and repeats “special situations,” but says nothing further.

Harvey’s toast and coffee and Mo’s Earl Grey arrive, and they spend a few seconds shuffling things around on the table. The artist is chewing on a piece of toast when Mo leans in and says, “So, is the mark going to bite or what?”

The artist damn near chokes. “What makes you think…?” he starts. “Why would you…?” And then, pulling himself together, “Is it that obvious?”

“Relax,” Mo tells him. “It’s a takes-one-to-know-one kind of thing. I’m sure you look downright earnest and genuine to most people.”

The artist thinks, I didn’t know she was this together, gets an idea. “Walk with me.” he says, “It’s a little too close in here.”

They leave the diner and neither speaks as they stroll toward the nearby Civic Center. It’s a late spring morning, warming rapidly, and they stop at a park bench facing Denver’s largest public library. The artist remains silent and Mo gets antsy. She breaks the ice.

“Okay,” she says, “the hot guy in the leather jacket, red silk shirt, sharing your booth back there…he’s the mark right?”

The artist nods. He’s got an odd look on his face like a man making a decision, but not quite there yet. He’s wary but seeing possibilities.

“C’mon Harv, give,” Mo urges.

“All right” the artist says, making up his mind. “Here’s the deal. The guy’s name is Mark Pierce. He’s a forty-four year old divorcee who owns three restaurants, lives in a Cherry Creek townhouse and drives a burgundy colored Porsche 911. The Porsche thing is important because he acts like he’s still in his thirties and fancies himself a driver.”

Mo says, “Okay…and your play is?”

The artist looks at her hard then, real hard. “Who wants to know” he says.

Mo laughs. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch” she says. “You know I’m not a cop, and I won’t steal your play. It’s just professional interest. Besides, I’m not doing anything at the moment…thought maybe I could help. Relieve the boredom so to speak. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But…if that’s the case, why am I here?”

The artist thinks, she’s perfect. She can make this happen. He looks around to be certain they’re alone and then carefully and deliberately outlines his plan. “A few weeks ago there was an article in the Post about the possibility of a new race track –
cars, not horses – being built east of the old airport here in Denver. It takes a lot of money to build a race track… a lot of money. Investors large and small have to be found. The small-timers, like Mark, are my targets. They are way out of their element in a deal like this, because they don’t know how to follow their money. See how it gets used. For them it’s all about ego, you know, being an owner and a player.”

“I get that” Mo says. “What I don’t get is your angle.”

“It’s easy, Mo. I’m the Marketing Director. I handle the PR and the media, and I drum up excitement for the project. I find investors and I act as the liaison between those investors and the developers.”

“Who are the developers?”

The artist gives Mo another one of his hard looks, then breaks into a smile. “That’s just it, Kiddo,” he says. “There are none. The whole thing is simply a plausible rumor that I’m making look like a reality. I’m the one who put the notice in the paper to begin with. Now I make up a development corporation, call it Speer Speedway or something like that, and then,” the artist pauses and smiles again, because he likes this punch line, “and then… I deposit the checks.”

“Niiiccce,” says Mo, dragging out the word, “very nice indeed. And you’re telling me this because?”

Harvey thinks, I’m all in. Too late to change my mind. “Well, because you asked,” he says, “and it occurs to me that there will come a time when investor wants to meet developer. Who better, I’m thinking, than a beautiful, intelligent woman who looks like money in the bank? Someone who can be a perfect distraction. Can you be that distraction, Mo? Can you be a designated executive from, say, National Speedway, Inc.?”

Mo takes less than a second to consider. She likes the set-up. “For the right price, Harv” she says, “I’ll be the Queen of Sheba. Question is, what’s the right price?”

The con takes a long look at his potential partner like he’s pondering the question. What he’s really thinking is, she’s gorgeous. Fills out her blouse like a bra model and has the kind of legs most men would die to follow to hosiery’s end. She’ll be a distraction all right. I’ll have to keep my own mind on business.

“Let’s talk money later” he says. “There’ll be plenty to go around.”

On cue his cell rings and he puts it to his ear. “Great,” he says, “great. I’ll talk to my people and see how much they are willing to part with. Back at you no later than…Thursday, okay?”

He snaps the phone cover shut and laughs. “Mo,” he says, “this is cake. That was Mark. He wants in and has a couple of buddies chomping at the bit for a piece of the action as well. This, I think, calls for a celebration. What do you say to lunch? Lodo maybe, some place nice?”

Mo smiles, says, “You name it Harv. Your town, your call. I’m over at the Hilton, room 112, first floor up the escalator above the coffee shop. Do you want to pick me up or meet me?”

Lower downtown Denver has evolved with an influx of money and smart developers from a rough area of warehouses, decaying factories, bad-assed bars and homeless people into one of the cities hottest attractions. Upscale franchise shops, boutiques, trendy restaurants and a beautiful stadium for Denver’s major league baseball team have transformed the area.

Mo and the artist are seated under a large umbrella that reads “Cinzano” in bright colors at a restaurant named Pintos. They order wine before looking at their menus. Mo is dressed in pleated slacks and a silk blouse. There are pearls at her throat. She’s wearing a skosh more makeup than she had that morning. The overall effect is understated elegance.

Harvey sits mesmerized and has to force himself not to stare. He’s a fast talking artist at a loss for words. He covers his discomfort by tossing the conversational ball to his new partner. “So tell me, Mo, what have you been doing since that day I saw you at Turf Paradise?”

Mo doesn’t hesitate. She figures a job interview is in order. “Well,” she begins, “you already know my husband Tony and I owned a small copying, printing and mailing business. We actually did okay on the legit side, but the real money was in fake ID’s, passports, licenses, social security cards, what-have-you. You did a little business with us so you know what I’m talking. You also know from seeing us at the Turf club, we liked to play the ponies.”

Mo pauses a moment as a darker part of her memory comes to mind and she looks away briefly toward the old clock tower that still stands across the mall from the restaurant. When she looks back at the con man, her eyes are moist, but she carries on.

“What you probably don’t know, Harv, is that my husband died in a car accident two years ago.”

He says he didn’t and he’s sorry, but she talks right over him.

“I was still grieving and kind of a mess when a month later a couple of muscle heads show up carrying Tony’s markers. Like I needed that. It turns out that Tony, damn his sweet black heart, had been betting heavily and losing. He had taken out loans to cover those losses so I wouldn’t know. And now, when I’m thinking it can’t get worse, here come these low-lifes to collect.”

Mo sips wine, gathers her thoughts.

“Anyway, they want 50 large and I can’t come up with anything near that. In lieu of the money, the creeps tell me they will take my shop, the lease, the equipment, everything. To be fair they tell me, and so it’s all legal, they will pay me about half what it’s worth. Real sweethearts these guys. I’m also told this is a one time offer, take it or leave it. The consequences of leave it they don’t spell out, and I wasn’t up for asking. I agree to the deal because I have to. I mean, what else can I do?”

Harvey refills her wine glass, says nothing.

“As you can imagine, at first I was intimidated and scared. Later though, after I’d thought about it, I got royally pissed. I’d worked too hard to let some cheap hoods take advantage of me when I was down.”

The artist nods, says, “Do tell.”

“What I did was, I went to the company that owns and manages the property with a proposal that they give me a long term lease on my shop. I told them I had contracted to become a Fed Ex outlet and retail distribution center. The packet of materials I presented them had letters of introduction, commitment guarantees and revenue projections, all of which, of course, I had made with our equipment. With Fed Ex as a partner, I told them, I was willing to pay double the current rent for the space and I threw in a revenue sharing percentage as a kicker. The management people jumped all over the deal.”

The artist sits back, admiring the story as much as the story teller. “Go on.”

Mo takes a couple more sips of vino. Stalls, let’s Harvey wait for it. She knows she’s got his attention.

“Telling them I was cash poor at the moment, I ask for some up front money to do some necessary remodeling. I say to they could spread the amount over the first two years of the new lease with ten percent interest. I also tell them I had co-signers to secure the note. Of course, I had to bat my eyelashes a little and play the flirtatious widow here and there, but I had the money in my hands before the week was out.”

The artist applauds softly and says, “Beautiful! So you take the money, pay off the heavies and walk away. I love it.”

Mo gives the artist a patient smile and says, “Not even close. I go back to the shop and create a new lease leaving out the increased rent, the revenue sharing and the loan agreement. When the creeps come back, I give them a quitclaim deed for the shop and have them sign the phony lease, which I said I would deliver to the mall owners so they could remain incognito, and then, the best part, they give me 50k instead of the other way around! And, get this Harv, they give it to me in cash!”

The artist is truly impressed. He thinks, she’s good, she’s really good, says, “So you put the faux signature page with the new contract and send it back to the mall people.”

“Exactly. It won’t hold up, but I figure it will keep them all busy for awhile with accountants and attorneys while I do a Houdini and disappear. And that’s exactly how it played out. I cashed the mall owner’s check, emptied the store’s and my personal checking accounts, left my car in long term parking and flew to Atlanta. I got a new driver’s license with a bogus birth certificate I’d printed, rented a car and drove to Miami. I’ve been there until now, playing the horses and doing the beach.”

The artist is touched. This is too beautiful. He reaches across the table and lightly clutches Mo’s forearm. “And how” he asks, “did that make you feel?”

Mo gives him her broadest smile yet. “Liberated,” she says, “goddamn liberated!”

The oath catches Harvey completely by surprise. He bursts out laughing so loud he has to stifle it with his napkin.

After lunch they walk the downtown mall and window shop, making small talk, getting acquainted. During the meal they had settled easily on a sixty-forty split, it was Harvey’s con after all. Mo asks him where he’s staying.

“I’m over at the Cambridge,” he says. “It wreaks respectability.”

Then she asks him why he’s meeting a guy in a downtown coffee shop when the guy owns three restaurants.

The con man laughs, says, “You don’t miss much. Mark was downtown to pay speeding tickets. The coffee shop was convenient for us both. But what about you? Why were you there?”

“Couple reasons” Mo says. “First, hotels charge too much for average food. Second, too many people coming and going. Some of them are looking for other people.”

“You think someone’s looking for you?” he asks.

“Could be. Some of these hard cases have real long memories. I’d be difficult to recognize though.”

“Why? I knew you right off.”

“Sure,” Mo says. “But I was two feet from you. When I left Scottsdale, I had long brownish-blonde hair and was ten or twelve pounds lighter. Only people who knew me pretty well would make me now.”

The artist seems satisfied with that and they part shortly after, Harvey saying he’ll be in touch.

True to his word he calls less than three hours later.

“We’re on, meeting Mark at his restaurant, Romeo’s, at nine. I want to pick you up at eight though, so we can work out details. Okay by you?”

Mo says she’ll be ready.

At eight sharp they’re in the car fine tuning her character. She’s going to be a lobbyist for the developer, whose identity must remain undisclosed for the moment. She and Harvey had met at the developer’s office and had worked in tandem since then. Mo’s job is to liaise between the developer and the various city and state government offices with the intention of expediting the project, securing support and possibly obtaining public funding to augment that of private investors. Private investors though, will be at the heart of the venture, and if Harv and Mo can scare up enough of them, there will be more feathers in their caps…so to speak. Harv is working, for now, on a consultant basis, but if ultimately hired for the PR position, he will report to Mo. They agree this tweak in the cover story will give Mo a patina of power, enhancing her credibility.

When they arrive at the restaurant, Mark is walking around directing his staff and talking with patrons here and there. He stops long enough to say hello to the con man and be introduced to Mo before he has his hostess show them to a booth along the back wall of the restaurant. There they order drinks and don’t say much as they sip and look around the room. Mo’s mind is on Mark Pierce. She has felt some kind of a small, physical jolt at his appearance and is drawn to him in a way she has not felt since meeting her now-deceased husband. She can’t put her finger on what it is. I mean, she thinks, he’s balding and kind of burly, so why am I so anxious to see him again?

They have just finished their cocktails when Mark reappears and tells them to go ahead and order, he’ll join them later. He has sampled all the entries in the kitchen and isn’t hungry but promises to be back for coffee and dessert so they can talk. “Whatever you like,” he tells them, “it’s on the house.” He gives Mo a long once-over as he says this and then leaves to make the rounds of other tables.

While they are eating and making idle conversation, Mo gets that curious, but often unerring feeling that she is being watched. She begins to glance around the room suspecting, and let’s face it hoping, her gaze will find Mark looking her way. He is not, however, anywhere in evidence. The room’s other diners all seem busy with their drinks and meals, oblivious to her presence. She is about to return to her own scaloppini and Harv’s droning on about one racecar or another when her eyes alight on two men across the room in a small booth. When she looks directly at them, they turn away and busy themselves shuffling food around on their plates and talking, Mo thinks, self consciously. She can’t quite make them out, their table sits in a shadow, but she knows they were staring at her. Periodically over the next ten minutes while a waiter clears their table, Mo glances at the men and several times finds them hastily averting their eyes from hers. She is just about to mention this to Harv when Mark returns to the table and the two men are momentarily forgotten. When, after a bit, she looks their way again, the men are gone.

“So,” Mark says, “what can I bring you, more coffee, a liqueur, dessert?”

They settle on Grand Marniers and Mark joins them at the table, scooting in on Mo’s side of the booth. His thigh lightly touches hers as he does so and Mo feels a trickle of something vaguely electric race up her spine. She takes a sip from her snifter to cover her slight blush.

“Okay,” Mark says, “tell me everything I need to know to make this thing happen.”

Harvey and Mo launch into their cover story and then just wing plausible answers to Mark’s follow up questions. They promise to have all the necessary paperwork in Mark’s hands in a week to ten days. After that it will be up to Mark to seal the deal, meaning a check will be required. Harvey suggests an initial hundred thousand dollars as a reasonable show of interest and when Mark doesn’t flinch, adds that he doesn’t know for sure how much ownership the developers are willing to part with, but promises to find out if Mark decides he would like a bigger bite.

At the door to the restaurant, they shake hands and Harvey walks off to deal with the car retrieval. Mark clings to Mo’s hand a moment and asks her if she and Harvey are a couple or just a working duo. Maureen gives him a throaty little chuckle and looks him in the eyes. “Just colleagues” she says. “Why do you ask?”

“Because tomorrow,” he answers, “I’m driving to my Vail restaurant and it’s a beautiful drive and I hate going alone and I thought you might find it fun to…”

Mo cuts him off with a big smile and says, “I’m there. What time?”

Out at the curb the valet pulls up with Harvey’s car and hands him the keys. Harvey beeps for Mo just as Mark releases her hand and says, “Your hotel…nine o’clock.”

A moment later, Harvey eases the car from the front of the restaurant and out into the night’s traffic. A dark sedan with two men inside slips from the curb a half block away and tucks in behind him. It remains there at a three car interval until Harvey drops Mo at her hotel. It cruises past then, and disappears into the night.

Mo is dressed and ready and has a day bag packed when Mark picks her up the next morning. She’s told Harvey she wanted the day to herself, and he agreed saying things were moving kind of fast and some down-time might be good for both of them.

The morning is warm and sunny and Mark is driving with the top down. He likes to drive fast and he accelerates into curves just hard enough to feel the tug of the g-forces pushing them into their seat’s upright. Mo finds it exhilarating watching Mark’s confident hands on the wheel as he deftly maneuvers through curve after mountain curve. She finds herself blushing when she realizes early on that she’s wondering how those hands would feel on her own ample curves.

At one point the radar detector mounted on the dash beeps, and Mark slows until a state patrol car passes on the other side of the divided highway. They make it to Vail in under two hours. He pulls into the parking garage at Lions Head, and they walk toward the gondola loading area.

Within a couple of minutes, he points to his right. “That’s my joint.”

The restaurant sits back behind a wide deck on which there are an assortment of tables, chairs and market umbrellas. Vail Valley Vittles has, the sign in the front window proclaims, the “award-winning burgers and bratwurst.”

“Nice thing about this time of year is that we can sit outside,” Mark says. “Gets too cold for most people during the ski season, although we bring in a few fire pits and surround them with some of the chairs. I’ll show you the inside, and then I’ll get one of my gals to bring us some food.”

Mo positions herself so she is shaded by the big umbrella, and so she can watch the broad walkway where tourists stroll.

In the fashion of two people wildly attracted to each other, the day becomes a magical journey of discovery. He wants to know all there is of her and she of him. They eat, they talk and she watches him work with his staff.

He says he keeps a studio apartment in the lodge above the restaurant. In the late afternoon with the sun glowing crimson through the drapes, he takes her to bed. And the magic continues.

On the drive back to Denver there is more talk, and this time there is some honesty.

After a lingering kiss and promises for the morrow, Mo goes into the hotel and up to her room. Before she can find the light switch, a hand closes over her mouth and strong arms drag her into the room. She struggles, but to no avail.

“If you scream,” a voice says, “he will break your jaw and knock you out…understand?”
Mo nods and the hand slides slowly, tentatively from her mouth. She is led to one of the room’s two cushy chairs and told to sit. Across from her, in the other chair, a razor thin, elderly man in a dark suit flicks on a table lamp and stares at her, saying nothing.

Mo is the first to talk. “Who are you and what do you want?” she asks, although thinking she already knows.

“My name is unimportant,” the thin man says. “But for the record and because a person should know the name of the last face they will ever see, it’s Emilio. “What is important is that you owe some people money…lots of money.”

The other man, a big man, has moved a desk chair close to Mo and now sits on it blocking any avenue of escape she might consider.

“How do you figure?” she says.

“The thin man says one word, “Scottsdale.” And Mo knows she’s been made.

“Okay,” she says stalling, her mind whirling, looking for an option. “Give me a number.”

“A number she wants,” the thin man says, looking at his partner, “a number.” He turns back to Mo. “And like that you give me the money and I go away. Is that how you see it?”

“Would work for me,” Mo says, “if I had any money.”

“Let me tell you how this is going to play out, Miss I Think I Can Fuck With The Big Boys And Get Away With It. You are going to pay in one of two ways. First, if you really have no money, I make an example of you for all the other piss-ants who think they can screw with my clients…and me. You will, of course, beg me to die before it is over and, eventually, when I feel like it, you will. The second way, because I am a reasonable man, is that you pay double what you owe and then I punish you anyway. This way, though, you get to live.”

Mo has an idea. “There is no way I can pay you right now,” she says, “so you’ll probably want to kill me… but… if you give me a little time…I’m not asking for much… I know how to get the money and a lot more… more than I took.”

The thin man leans back, puts his hand out to his crony and says, “Cigarette.” The big man pulls a pack from a shirt packet, gives him one and lights it. The thin man inhales deeply, looks at Mo. “Really” he says skeptically. “Make me a believer.”

“Okay,” Mo begins, “you know I’m good at a running a con. I mean I fooled your people.”

Emilio looks hard at her. “Watch your mouth. And they’re not my people. They just hired me to get their money back…and deal with you.”

She ignores the threat. “Look, I can handle complex details and I can see them through. I’m working an angle right now that could make me walk-away rich. I’m talking A LOT of money; you get me…A LOT. If you let me go through with the con, I’ll put you in for half. How does that sound?”

The thin man snorts. It’s meant to be a laugh. “I’m going to listen to your…con. Hear what you have to say. After that, if I think you are playing me… your painful death will begin soon and take longer. If I believe you…which seems unlikely… and we go with your game…I will decide how much you get to keep, not you. Are we clear on that?”

Mo nods.

“Tell me then,” Emilio says smirking, “about your big it’s going to make me and my clients rich deal.”

Mo tells all, Harvey’s whole plan. She tells it though, as if it were hers. Harvey is never mentioned. When she’s finished, she looks nervously at the thin man who rises, says nothing, and walks to the door. The big man opens it for him and the thin man walks through. He turns and with no expression looks one last time at this clever redhead. “You will be watched…every moment,” he says to her, “from now until there is money in my hands.” The door closes and he walks away.

The next morning Mo joins Harvey in the same café where they first met and teamed up. She tells him what happened the night before.

Harvey says, “I’ve heard of this guy Emilio. He’s a local enforcer for hire, supposedly connected to the north side hoods. His reputation is he’s a slice and dice freak. Likes to carve up people before he kills them. He supposedly has a kid brother, Ernesto, who is mentally challenged but does whatever Emilio tells him… including beating people to death with his bare hands. He could be the big guy.

“These are not people to screw with, Mo. You better have a really good out.”

“That’s the problem.” Mo says. “I don’t. I would run if I thought I could get away, but I doubt I would get far. Somehow they managed to trace me to here.

“I think the only thing I can do now is go ahead with the con and give my share away. You can back out now, if you want to. I’m sure this is more than you bargained for.”

“I don’t think the con would work without me,” the artist says. “Besides, it’s my con, and we’re too close to the money to quit now. You say Emilio doesn’t know about me, so I can work angles while you’re being watched. I’m arranging for all the bogus paperwork right now and after that, well, the ball will be in Mark’s court. If he and his buddies post the money, you can buy your way free and I’ll make like smoke and vanish. Maybe after that we can meet somewhere down the road, and I’ll find you another money maker.”

Mo, thinking hard about something else, says, “Thanks, but my conning days will be over. If I get out of this in one piece, I’m going to be June Fucking Cleaver.”

What she’s thinking about is Mark…the mark. What Harvey doesn’t know and she can’t tell, is that the con is off. Mark knows all. Harvey is screwed and she’s royally fucked, most likely dead. “Look,” she says, “I have no choice but to be in this all the way. You can and should run not walk to the nearest exit. You said yourself these guys are worse than bad news. C’mon, screw the money Harvey, it’s not worth it.”

Harvey reaches across the table and takes her hands in his. She looks up at him and he holds her eyes with his own. “You told me once you felt ‘liberated’ when you pulled off the con that got you out from under your dead husband’s debts. Well that con is back now and it’s biting you in the ass. That’s how it goes sometimes.

“You can’t walk a straight line out. Once a con is in motion, you’ve got to play it as far as you can. When it’s good, you take the money and walk. When it’s bad, you keep playing it, looking for another angle. So you’re right, you are in all the way, Mo. But so am I. That leaves us only one thing to do and that’s to do this…together.”

Mo thinks, Oh crap, if he only knew, says, “Thanks Harvey, you’re a good guy.”

She spends the rest of the day lying on her hotel bed staring at the ceiling. When she gets up, she does so abruptly. She telephones Mark and arranges to see him that night. She showers, dresses and walks out to the lobby to await her date. She doesn’t care about the big man she sees rise from a lobby sofa and move to the adjoining glassed-in dining room where he continues to glance in her direction from time to time. She doesn’t care, because she has an idea.

When Mark picks her up, she instructs him to “just drive around awhile.” She tells him what happened after she left him the night before. Mark is stunned and wants to interrupt, but Mo shushes him until she gets all the way through the encounter with Emilio.

When she finishes, he drives a couple of blocks further and finally speaks. His thought is simple and clear. “Either we leave the country or we go to the police.”
Mo gives him a sad smile and explains, “Both are just temporary solutions, Mark. They will find me no matter where I go… and the police? The police have nothing. They can bring Emilio and his brother in for questioning, but they have nothing to hold them on…just yet”

“Then what are we going to do, Mo? I can’t let them hurt you.”

Mo lets the question hang there for a moment while she gathers her thoughts and decides where to start. “Just keep driving and listen to me, Mark. I have an idea that I think will work if we all play our parts right.” She pauses then. “The first thing is,” she continues, “the con has to continue.” She goes on talking and while Mark listens fascinated, amazed by his new love’s mind, she outlines her entire plan.

This time when she finishes there are no more questions. Mark drives straight to his condo and they tumble into bed. When death seems a real and imminent possibility, physical love is the strongest expression of life.

Across town Harvey the artist has ideas of his own. He lies fully dressed on his king-size bed, hands behind his head giving additional support to the bed’s fat pillows. He thinks, is she playing me? Is this guy Emilio really threatening her? Why does she want me out? Could it be the mark? She seemed all google-eyed with him at Romeo’s. Maybe she wasn’t acting. Is she playing it straight or playing an angle? He finally comes to a conclusion. He reaches for his phone to make a call, but before he can, it rings. When he hangs up the receiver, everything has changed.

When she returns to the Hilton lobby, Ernesto is startled when Mo smacks down the newspaper he was using to cover his face. She makes it short. “Tell your brother we need to talk.” She stares at him a minute, making sure he understands. He nods and she goes up to her room. Five minutes later the phone rings.

The voice on the phone says one word, “Speak.”

Mo tells it, “The deal is done. The mark is ready to hand over 100k for his earnest money. Thing is, he won’t give it to me. I told him I would bring the project’s principle developer, someone with clout enough to accept the money. That’s got to be you. And get this next part, the mark’s bringing cash because he says these are funds he doesn’t want anyone to know he has. Oh, and PLEASE, don’t bring your brother. He doesn’t fit the profile for this kind of meeting. I’ve booked a small conference room at my hotel so this looks like a legit happening. We are going to meet at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You have to be there and play your part, so listen up.”

When she is done, Emilio says, “All right, I got it. But be careful. Don’t fuck this up.” Mo’s phone goes dead.

Her next move is to get Harvey and Mark together. Mark knows both sides of the story. Harvey doesn’t. When he learns he’s been burned, he is reluctant to face Mark. But Mo tells him it will be okay, that Mark understands. And under the existing circumstances, this looks like their only play.

At three o’clock on the next day afternoon while conference rooms are emptying all over the city to send their occupants home or to happy hour, one remains in use. Mo and Mark sit in it silently, nervously waiting for a thin, elderly, but very dangerous man to join them. On the table rests an ordinary brown briefcase. Its contents though, are far from ordinary. It contains one thousand, hundred dollar bills.

When the thin man arrives, introductions are made, bogus but very convincing. Dressed in a dark suit, dark shirt and tie, Emilio presents a surprisingly professional appearance. Mo introduces Mark as the investor. She has provided Emilio with just enough background information so he would think he's going to come off like a legitimate developer to Mark. The killer says little but avoids any hoodlum attitude or slang.

Papers are signed and hands are shaken. At this moment Mark’s phone rings. He answers, listens for a moment and then tells the others, “It’s one of my maitre de’s. I’ve got to take this.” He moves to the door and opens it.

Mo turns to the thin man and says, “Are we done, Emilio? That’s a lot of money you have there. Twice what I took off your clients. Even with the vig, I imagine you get a hefty percentage. Thirty percent? Forty? What’s your little brother get?”

Emilio says, “There are things my brother doesn’t have to know and this is one of them. He is, as you may have noticed, a little slow. But that is neither here nor there. You said there are other investors. I want their money too. This…con, as you call it, is over when I tell you it’s over.”

Mark steps aside. “And you can tell her it’s over right now,” Harvey the artist says as he enters to the room. He is holding a gun on Ernesto who walks in front of him. “You are all under arrest. This room has been wired. The big boy here and I have been listening to everything you’ve said. It’s also on tape.”

He looks first at Mo and then at the thin man. “But before you freak out, I want you to listen. I’ve got a proposition to make. First though, you better calm this lug nut down before I have to…”

What happens next happens very fast. It is not part of Mo’s plan. Ernesto takes two quick steps forward and grabs his brother by the throat. He’s enraged. “I don’t need to know,” he growls, “because I’m slow?”

Emilio is startled and reacts instinctively. What he does, he doesn’t mean. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother, but he has reacted too quickly to stop himself. He has shoved the long, sharp blade that rests inside his sleeve deep into Ernesto’s side. It slips smoothly between his ribs. Ernesto feels it and his rage grows. He digs his thumbs deeper into Emilio’s throat. Emilio knows sudden fear and his knife sinks twice more, through ribs into lung and heart. Ernesto’s eyes go dim then blank, but before he falls, he gives one last twist to Emilio’s throat. The crack can be heard throughout the room. Their bodies fall entwined across the conference table, tipping it, and crashing loudly to the floor.

Mark reaches for Mo, holds her and asks if she is okay. She says she’s never seen violence like that before. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not part of the plan. Mark pulls her closer. They’re not aware of much but each other for a moment or two. They finally part at the sound of a door slamming far down a hallway.

Mo says, “Where’s Harvey?”

Mark says, “Where’s the money?”

The plan had been simple. Harvey was going to be a dirty cop. He was going to take the money and threaten the brothers with exposure if they tried to blow the whistle. The room really had been bugged and there really was a tape. Afterwards, Mark would get his money back.

They all knew the con was dead, but Mark had agreed to give Harvey a cool ten g’s for playing his part. It wouldn’t be what the artist had set out for, but all things considered, not a bad payday.

They knew Ernesto would be hanging around near his brother, probably in the hotel lobby again, and he would have to be compromised. He was though, truthfully slow, and getting the drop on him was not difficult.

There was a bit more, of course, than that to Mo’s plan. Should it all go awry, the real cops would be called in. The money was marked.

Holding Mark’s hand, Mo says, “I guess now we have to blow the whistle on Harvey. Bummer. He was a straight up guy…until now.”

“You know what?” Mark says. “If it wasn’t for Harvey, we wouldn’t be together. And when we told him you’d screwed up his con, he didn’t get pissed, he just went right along with the new plan. I think the police are going to be more than thrilled just to have these two creeps out of the picture. I say to hell with the money. Let Harvey keep it. He earned it and I’ve got lots more.”

On a Trailways bus heading east, Harvey picks at a box of KFC and smiles to himself. He knew it would work out in the end. It always does. Harvey is not just a con man, he’s an artist.