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“Then I’d better get to work.” He held up the figure of Eve from the cake. “And this is my payment for the time and skill.”
Amused, she cocked her head. “You’re going to eat me?”
“Too many obvious and crude rejoinders on that one. But no, I’m going to keep you.”
He leaned down, kissed the woman. “What are you looking for with those properties?”
“I hope I know when I find it.”
19
IT WOULD TAKE A WHILE, EVE KNEW—LIKELY longer than Roarke and his magic hologram—to do the search and run on properties and owners thereof. She opted to start with a basic triangulation between church, youth center, and the Ortiz home.
Probably a waste of time, she told herself. Just some wild hair, wild goose, wild whatever.
But it had always been a con, hadn’t it? At the core, she thought as her computer worked the task, Lino Martinez had run a long con. A long con meant planning, dedication, research, and the goal of a fat payoff.
Considering, she went to her ’link, checked with a good friend who knew the grift.
Mavis Freestone, her hair currently a sunburst the color of spring leaves, filled the screen with cheer.
“Hey! Good catch. Baby’s down and Leonardo just split to go get some ice cream. I had a yen for Mondo-Mucho-Mocha, and we didn’t have it on tap.”
“Sounds good. I wanted . . . Yen?” Eve felt the blood drain out of her head. “You’re not pregnant again.”
“Pregs? That’s a negativo on being knocked up.” Mavis’s eyes twinkled, the same improbable green as her hair. “Just got the yums for the triple M.”
“Okay.” Whew. “Quick question. What’s the longest con you ever ran?”
“Ah, gee, trip in the way-back. I’m getting all nostalgic. Let’s see. There was this time I ran a Carlotta, named it after an old friend. I think she’s on Vegas II now. Anyway, to run a Carlotta you’ve got to—”
“No details. Just the length.”
“Oh.” Mavis pursed her lips. “Maybe four months. Carlottas take a lot of foundation and seeding.”
“Do you know anyone that ran one for years? Not months. Into the years.”
“I know plenty who ran the same game, into years. But different marks, you know. Same game, same mark?”
“Yeah, that’s the idea.”
“There was this guy, frigging genius. Slats. He ran a Crosstown Bob for three years. Then poofed. Just poofed for five more. Came back around, I heard. He’d moved to Paris, France, changed his name and all that shit. Buzz was Slats lived high on the take from the Crosstown Bob. Kept his hand in though, over there, ’cause you can’t help it.”
“Why did he come back?”
“Hey, once a New Yorker, you know?”
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s the deal. What about religious cons?”
“Those are the cheesecake. Sweet and creamy, go down smooth. There’s Hail Mary, Praise the Lord, Kosher, Redemption—”
“Okay. Ever hear of a grifter named Lino? Lino Martinez?”
“Doesn’t ring. But I’ve been out of the game awhile now. I’m a mommy.”
“Right.” And, Eve realized, she hadn’t asked about the baby. “So how’s Bella doing?”
“She’s the maggest of the mag, the ultest of the ults. In snoozeland now or I’d put her on. Nobody goos like my Bellarina goos.”
