I wonder how many more motivational posters he’ll quote if I don’t say a word. But he finally seems to have reached his point because he gulps the last of his Hennessy.
Pointing the rim of his glass toward me, he proclaims: “I don’t have time for any more lectures on whythiscrypto opportunity is a scam and whythatone will cost me a fortune. With your brains and my wallet… By now, son, we should beprintingmoney.”
“Money,” I say again.
When I was a kid, Shannon used to tell me bedtime stories. NoGoodnight MoonorWinnie the PoohorWhere the Wild Things Arefor her, though. Instead, Shannon told me about her favorite cons.
The Pig in a Poke—an ancient one, selling someone a worthless cat in a burlap sack instead of the valuable pig they expect to put on their holiday table.
The Dropped Wallet—accusing a good Samaritan of stealing money when they return a purposely dropped wallet, playing on their fear of police involvement so they pay up.
The Stranded Grandchild—pretending to be a helpless kid trapped abroad, desperately in need of wired funds.
But the best story Shannon ever told me was the Money Box. Night after night, I made her tell me the details, piling on exaggeration after exaggeration until we both collapsed into helpless giggles, overwhelmed by the motivating power of a clueless mark’s greed.
The original Money Box was a real con, worked by an actual swindler on honest-to-God victims in Texas, around World War I. Viktor Lustig (“Uncle Viktor”, Shannon called him) convinced his targets he owned a box that printed actual money on blank sheets of paper. Uncle Viktor was always reluctant to demonstrate his incredible invention, but if a mark begged hard enough, the con man would give in. He instructed his target to wind a crank, pulling a genuine hundred-dollar bill into a sealed box. Inside that box, the machine took six hours for the ink. After the wait, another crank was wound, and two hundred-dollar bills emerged.
Uncle Viktor never wanted to sell his invention. But if a mark begged hard enough for long enough Viktor gave in—in exchange for a small fortune. His record was one hundred grand taken off an especially greedy fish.
The genius of the con was that six-hour wait. Salting the machine with ten of his own hundred-dollar bills, Uncle Viktor bought a four-day head start on anyone determined to track him down and make him pay. And most of his victims were tooashamed to go to the authorities. That’s how a lot of cons work. People are too embarrassed to admit their greedy naïveté.
Lynch is still rumbling on about how I’ve failed him, about how the Canton Crew should be rolling in funds due to my hacking skills. But I interrupt him, saying for the third time: “Money.”
“That’s right, son. The Canton Crew isn’t running a charity. We need money.”
The plan I’m thinking of is risky. But if I play the game right, Lynch will stop his constant phone calls. I’ll be able to run Lone Wolf in peace.
I gaze out the window. Tarasov is standing too close to Breagha, who has crossed her arms over her chest. She’s leaning away from the Russian, and even at this distance, it’s clear she isn’t a totally besotted fiancée. I wonder if his breath still stinks of onion, the way it did in my living room.
My Money Box scam can get Lynch off my back. And if I play my cards right—and I always do—I can take down Tarasov as well.
It will take a while to build the actual machine. Mine won’t print money. I’m a computer genius. So my Money Box will work computer miracles.
“Son,” Lynch asks, exhaling a metric ton of rancid smoke. “Are you listening to me?”
“Of course,” I say.
“So what do you have to say for yourself? I’ve paid a lot for your time. When will I see something for it?”
I make a show of being uncomfortable. Cons only work when victims think they have the upper hand. “I’ve had an idea for a long time now, but it… No. Never mind.”
“What?” Lynch demands, his eyes glinting as he takes a step closer.
“It’s too dangerous. The feds have a whole task force devoted to… No. Forget I said anything.”
“Danger is my middle name,” Lynch says, puffing his chest like a pigeon. It isn’t, of course. His middle name is Aloysius, which I didn’t know until he railroaded his own mother out of his dining room.
I don’t fully understand the game Lynch is playing, pawning off his younger daughter onto a Russian mobster. But I know for sure that Lynch’s actions aren’t just putting Breagha in danger. They’re hurting my wife.
And for that, Lynch will pay. Pay until it hurts. Pay until he doesn’t have anything left to give.
“If I tell you,” I say. “You have to promise it will go no further than the two of us. If this tool got into the wrong hands…”
Of course, Lynch looks out at Tarasov. Orla has planted herself between the happy couple. Her fingers look like claws on her daughter’s bare arms. She’s displaying Breagha to the bratva brigadier like a flank steak in a butcher’s shop.
“You can trust me,” Lynch bluffs. “This idea. It stays between the two of us.”The two of us and Tarasov, he means. Just the way I want it. “Just tell me what it is.”
“It’s been a dream of mine for years.” I bite my lip. Look away. Shake my head.
