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“I don’t have time for school,” he said with a dramatic sigh, then went with, “You should know, Miss, that I like your watch very, very much.”
“You should know that it would be better if you went to school.”
He gave her an adults-are-pathetic look, then reached into his pocket, pulled out a strip of leather, and announced he would make her a friendship bracelet, which he did, knotting, twisting, and plaiting the leather before he tied it on her wrist.
“Now Miss, it would very much benefit my education if you would give me your watch.”
She blinked at him. His leather bracelet was the equivalent of a held drink, hair twisted in an earring, a dropped purse, a small charitable donation to warm up a large one.
“If I could tell the time, imagine how good a student I would be. I would never be bored at school. And I could help other boys to learn. They would learn so very much and so very quickly with my excellent help. Your watch would bring great benefit to many boys and even teachers. You can get another watch, but in all seriousness, Miss, I should have that one.”
Marilyn said she’d never fooled anyone, just let men fool themselves. She also said fear was stupid and so was regret.
When Fin left Windhoek, Kibali was wearing her watch.
She’d been expertly conned by an eight year old, for an excellent reason.
Everyone lies and everyone cons.
And some cons were righteous and made the world a fairer place.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A week after Fin had taken Cal’s money, the go-bag, and his heart, he rustled up three blue plastic cups, a couple of red marbles, and a card table. He dressed in a pair of old jeans, a plain black shirt, a pair of scuffed boots, and a cap. He found a bodega with a wide storefront on a corner location near a bus station, then set up the card table and waited.
At first, he let the people who stopped to play win. The more players he let win, the more people crowded around, and they sent for their friends. Every day he showed up, so did a group of people keen to play. He let the women with kids, the old folk, the players who looked him in the eye and smiled because they didn’t expect to win, take his money.
Anyone who shoved, got impatient, talked over a player, was boastful or made a spectacle of themselves, he cheated. Anyone who was rude or cocky after a polite warning, he punished by building their ego up and then taking every cent they had on them, and in some cases, the money they borrowed.
But his criteria were all wrong. The man in the trucker cap with the arthritic fingers who was polite could well beat his wife. The woman with the three kids might be a careful mother but a drunk driver. The crude teenager might’ve been mouthy for show but a decent, church-going boy.
Most cons didn’t care. Everyone was a potential mark, but that’s not how it worked for a Sherwood. A Sherwood had a finely tuned appreciation for justice and was skilled in sifting good people from bad, protecting those whose intentions were honorable and targeting those who were motivated by unreasonable greed.
Of course, the cops moved him on. He’d wait a few hours and set up again. The bodega owner liked the crowds he attracted—they got thirsty or needed a snack, so Cal’s shell game was good for business. Cal liked the bodega owner’s cat. It reminded him of Scungy.
Zeke and Tresna tracked him down. He didn’t ask how, it didn’t matter. For a day, they ran a more sophisticated version of the game, with Zeke and Tres playing the role of marks making easy money to inspire confidence in potential players. It was like they were kids again. The three of them cleaned up enough for a decent meal together, and he forgot for the moment to feel wretched.
Two days later, Zeke came back alone. “How long you going to do this?” he asked as they ate meatball subs huddled under the narrow shop awning as it poured.
“Does it matter?”
“It’s not going to help.”
“It’s sharpening my skills. Hand eye coordination. Mark selection.” It was keeping his hands busy and his mouth away from a bottle of woe.
“It’s not going to bring her back.”
Cal watched as two cab drivers almost came to blows, honking and yelling out their windows. Everyday road rage. What he was doing had nothing to do with Fin.
And everything to do with Fin.
“At least tell me you don’t seriously think she long conned you.”
He’d had time to mull that around, to get over the wrench. “She was devastated. She wanted to make me hurt. It was a crime of opportunity, not something she planned.”
“More like a crime of passion. You’re not wrong about Fin being in love with you.”
“What do you think about his weather, hey?” he said, in a pitiful attempt to stop Zeke’s interrogation before it really got going.
