"I'm sure my lowly parole officer couldn't dish the dirt fast enough for the great Tim Rackley. You came to gloat? Celebrate your old man's fifth release from the Crossbars Hotel?"
"I didn't know you were out. You been on paper a month?"
"Give or take. I got dinged on a 470 in November, trying to pass forged deeds of trust for these lots up Las Flores. I flipped on a schmuck up the ladder for a reduced sentence – six months custody, half time knocked it to three. I served it concurrent with the three-month parole – board – violation sentence. All in all, not a bad deal, except for my parole clock. It reset like an egg timer. Another three years."
Tim glanced down. His father was wearing the sleek gray pants he'd had tailored so the right cuff flared; it concealed an electronic monitoring bracelet.
"You were so close this time."
"Yes, but these were beautiful forges."
His father was, as always, dressed and groomed impeccably – not a wrinkle in his slacks, not a stray hair. He outclassed the cheap surroundings as he generally did, a ghetto-bound prince. He'd been born an unplanned child to displeased older parents – his mother forty-eight, his father sixty-one. His mother had died giving birth to him, his father six dour years later. He'd been raised by an abusive older brother who, as far as Tim knew, was still alive – a successful banker somewhere in the Midwest. Tim's father referred to him as "the VIP" so consistently that Tim didn't know his uncle's given name.
Of his own mother, Tim recalled only that she had soft hands and a melodic voice; she'd figured out before Tim was four that she'd be better off without either of the men in her life and was just gone one afternoon when he'd come in from the backyard. She had not been mourned or mentioned thereafter – neither was permitted – though Tim did remember standing in her abandoned work space, running his hands over her drafting table as if part of her still resided there. He'd been brought up by a man who regarded him as a curiosity – a resolute boy bent on lawfulness even as he was being deployed as a prop in one elaborate con after another.
"How are you doing?" Tim asked.
"Well, thank you. A bit tired. Picking up trash beside the freeway at six A.M. wears one out, but at least I get to wear a stylish orange vest. Now and then when the stars align, the Petty Ones bestow graffiti-removal duties upon me. It's great fun." He smiled a pastor's patient smile. "Is there something I can help you with? I'm quite busy. As you can imagine, car stereos do a brisk business in these environs."
"Yes. I need…I'd like your help. With a case."
"Back behind a badge, are we?" He turned to the abbreviated counter and tapped on a primitive computer. "I don't much care to contribute to the greater glory of law enforcement."
"I want to know how you picked marks. For cons."
He paused, his interest piqued. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder, but Ricardo was banging away on a dashboard in the back. "Depends on the con."
"How can you tell if someone has money?"
"A rich mark? I'm not sure. At this stage of the game, I just sense it."
"Well, think for a moment. If you had to break it down."
He nodded, a thoughtful frown wrinkling his face. As Tim had hoped, he couldn't resist showing off. "Well, you don't look at name brands. Not on clothes at least. Shoes sometimes, more with men – a woman will take out a second mortgage on her trailer to buy a pair of Jimmy Choos. Bulky-wallet guys are broke, generally. Money clips aren't. Mesh baseball caps – no money. White caps with curved bills – money. Check a shirt – has it been dry-cleaned? Are the lines crisp? Nice pens. Rich people have nice pens. Look for the snowy cap of a Montblanc, the cursive swoop of a Waterman. And watches, but not middle quality. Anyone can be gifted a Movado or a Tag for a birthday, a graduation. You want to look for Baume amp; Mercier, Breitling, high-end Omega, Cartier if they're nuevo."
"What else with new money?"
"They dress just wrong. A little too hip, like a divorcee in a singles bar. They reek of desperation. They've gotten ahead of themselves and see the long drop down."
"Other ways to tell rich marks in general?"
"Ask what their fathers do. I know – one of your childhood sore spots. Kids like you will cower from questioning. But those whose daddies are doctors and judges will perk their ears and bark. Richness begets richness, and affluent spawn may feign contrived humility, but if pushed right, they aren't afraid to own up fast and proud." He closed his eyes for a moment, lost in pleasant remembrances. "There's something in the movement, in the posture, that can't be taught – a smug self-assurance that's one of the many side effects of an entitled childhood." His eyes opened, held their gaze. "You move like a rich man, Timmy."
"Must have been my privileged childhood."
"Must have been." His father pressed his lips together, making them disappear. "The main trick to conning, I'd say, is circumventing people's thinking. You want them to respond instinctively, to salivate at the bell."
"Give me an example."
"Okay. A mark comes in here, he wants a stereo and speakers. What do I sell him first?"
"The stereo."
"The stereo. Why?"
"Because in contrast to it, the speakers will seem cheaper."
He smiled, pleased. "That's right. We sell him a two-thousand-dollar head unit first. After that, what's eight hundred for speakers? Besides, you can't enjoy the two-thousand-dollar stereo without them. Then you load him up with even cheaper accessories he doesn't need. It's all chump change now, Constant Buyer, in comparison. Just you try running a mark up the ladder. If you start with a thirty-buck CD-cleaner kit, the sheep are already thinking, 'My goodness. That's a whole dinner at Claim Jumper.' You don't want to climb that ladder. No, sir." He ran a hand across his clean-shaven face. "Of course, this sales scheme's old hat now – Christ, they teach it on Rodeo – but I knew it back when. I knew it like I know how to smell people. Like I know how to get into their brains."
"Or their wallets."
"There's a difference?" He paused, his posture flawless, his hands clasped behind his back. "Where do you think you got it? Your school-teachers adored you. Your commander in the army took you under his wing. The marshal himself hung the Medal of Valor around your neck – you'd think you won the biathlon at Lillehammer. Do you think you got by on natural smarts and talent?" A smile warmed his features; even approaching sixty, he was still more handsome than Tim. "You know the angles. The well-timed favor. The chuck on the shoulder. Dropping heat-seeking flattery. You know how to read the river, just like me." When Tim didn't rise to the bait, he arched a silver eyebrow. "Why all this interest? Considering a career switch?"
"Background information."
"Mugsy and I used to run a lucrative ruse out in La Canada that might be of interest. The mark can be anyone, really, but we had an easier go with elderly folk living alone. Widows are always good. I'd throw on a three-piece suit, and Mugsy would dress as a bank guard. I'd hit the mark around four o'clock, tell her I'm a professional bank examiner and her account has shown a few concerning irregularities. I have a culprit in mind, a crafty teller who's been doctoring transactions in certain accounts. I furnish him with a Jewish name. To be safe, would she mind going to the bank and withdrawing her savings so our team of highly qualified individuals can monitor the transaction as it crosses the culprit's desk?"
His tone, even now, exuded authority and reasonableness. "She pulls out her life savings and brings it home in a cab we furnish. I wait with her maybe a half hour, share some small talk over coffee. That's when Mugsy arrives. He tells her the culprit showed his hand and was arrested. Her account was straightened out, fortunately, and now it's safe from any future tampering. Our anxious widow is relieved beyond words. Since by now the bank is closed, I instruct Mugsy to return her money to the vault. We're back at the house splitting green before angina strikes." He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "What's that face? Do I disgust you?"