Con Academy by Joe Schreiber

casino that night. We’ll go together to talk to him then.”
    â€œWhat about the dance?” Andrea asks.
    â€œI’ll put in an appearance and be out of there by eight.” He looks at me again. “Make it happen, okay?” His voice tightens. “Don’t waste my time.” He turns to Andrea, who’s pretending to look at the books on the circulation desk. “You ready, babe?”
    â€œI’m always ready . . . babe,” Andrea murmurs, and leans in to kiss him with enough visible tongue that Gatsby and I are basically forced to pretend we’re someplace far enough away that we can’t hear the sucking noises they’re making. We’re talking feeding time at the aquarium. I don’t even want to know what Andrea has to think about in order to sell it.
    â€œI’ll see you around,” I say, nodding toward Gatsby, and walk away. The last thing I see is Andrea’s face smiling smugly at me as I head out the door.

Fourteen
    I T’S STILL DARK OUTSIDE WHEN MY CELL PHONE GOES OFF ON Monday morning with a 702 area code—Las Vegas. It’s five a.m. here, which means that where Uncle Roy is calling from it’s not even early—it’s still late.
    â€œHey, Uncle Roy,” I croak, shaking off the cobwebs while I scan the floor for an unopened bottle of Mountain Dew to pour over my brain and wake it up.
    â€œWilliam!” Roy’s voice bellows, and I can hear the endless ringing of slot machines and the rabble of voices in the background. “Did I catch you sleeping?”
    â€œNo,” I say, “I was just getting up.”
    Roy is my mom’s uncle, making him my great-uncle and the single greatest old-school-confidence man that I know. For most of his life, he’s lived in Vegas, working security before he became a full-time grifter like his favorite niece. Back when the old MGM Grand burned down in 1980, he was part of the retrieval team that the casino sent into the vault to get the money out, while the place was still smoldering. He and a handful of other guards carried the cash to a secret location to await pickup from an armored car. He used to tell me stories of hauling pillowcases stuffed with bills past the scorched bodies of gamblers who were melted to slot machines because they hadn’t been able to walk away, even while the place went up in flames. At eighty-two, Uncle Roy is one of the toughest guys I’ve ever met, and he still hasn’t gotten over Mom’s death.
    â€œSorry I haven’t had a chance to call you back, William,” Roy says. “I’ve been a little busy.”
    â€œI thought you were taking it easy these days,” I say.
    â€œYeah, I’ve never worked harder than after I retired,” Roy says, chuckling, and I can hear the faint metallic
snick
of his lighter as he fires up what I’m sure is his twentieth cigarette of the night. “Where are you, anyway?”
    â€œNew England,” I say. “North of Boston. A prep school called Connaughton.”
    â€œPosh digs,” he says admiringly. “So what can I do for you? Judging from the message you left, I’m guessing you’re looking for funding?”
    Good old Roy, never one to waste time. “Well, actually, I’m setting up a little con here,” I say, “and I was hoping I could hit you up for some seed money. And maybe a few guys in the Boston area that you could recommend?”
    Roy bellows out smoky laughter. “Like mother, like son, huh?” The laughter becomes a wheezing cough, and I wait while it dies away and he gets his breath back. “Sure, I got friends in that neck of the woods. Some of them even owe me a favor. How many guys do you need?”
    â€œSix.”
    â€œNo problem. What type are you looking for? Distinguished? Continental? Harvard Yard types?”
    â€œActually,” I say, “I’m hoping for some younger faces.