The Whale Read online

  THE WHALE

  A Grifter’s Song

  Lawrence Kelter

  Series Created and Edited

  by Frank Zafiro

  Copyright © 2019 by Lawrence Kelter

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Zach McCain

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Whale

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Preview from The Movie Makers by Gary Phillips

  Preview from Hell Chose Me by Angel Luis Colón

  Preview from Main Bad Guy by Nick Kolakowski

  For all the dreamers and all the schemers

  One

  Sam stood outside the University Club for a long while fighting his fear of those who resided within the “old boys club,” the robber barons and captains of industry, those of such staggering wealth they rivaled the sheiks of the Fertile Crescent and the diamond miners of South Africa. He’d read everything that was available online, the club’s history and facilities as well as descriptions of the fabled rooms inside. Nothing could’ve prepare him for the spectacle that met his eyes as he entered the building. Passing through the revolving doors was like entering Dr. Who’s Tardis, deceptively small on the outside—mind-blowingly large once within. The grand lobby was ringed with columns made of stunning blur marble. The ceilings, modeled after the Vatican apartments, were breathtaking—trimmed in gold, they were tall, vaulted, and grand. The walls were adorned in dark wood. Plush carpeting felt like a cloud beneath his feet. Leather chairs were so thickly padded it seemed the pleating might burst at any time. It was the most extravagant and opulent interior space he’d ever seen. Though he’d traveled the country shore to shore over the last several years, at heart he was a country boy from a small town in Iowa. As practiced a grifter as he was, he couldn’t help but lose his breath as his eyes widened to take it all in.

  “Holy Mother of God, Dorothy,” he muttered. “I’m a long way from Kansas.”

  Rachel’s voice mirrored his astonishment as it poured through his earpiece. “Holy crap. It’s the goddamn Taj Mahal.”

  The sub-vocal microphone hidden behind his ear relayed his response. “I guess the camera in my glasses frame is working.”

  “Yeah, it’s working. Now stop standing there like a deer caught in the headlights. You’re Peter Keys, the Bill Gates of Madison Avenue. Start acting like it before you blow your cover.”

  “Does it matter that I already wet my pants?”

  She hacked out a laugh. “Jerk!”

  Two

  He’d left Sam at the doors and become Peter Keys, the identity he would assume until the sting was over and they were safely in the wind. It was going to be their last job, the one with a payoff so large they’d never have to look back, the payday that would allow them to quit the game once and for all.

  One last score.

  The mother of all scores.

  Seven figures and out.

  He signed in at reception and was greeted with a smile and a robust, “Welcome back, Mr. Keys,” from the slick-looking suit behind the desk, a Brooks Brother’s two-button worsted wool with a nametag that read Michael Broadbend. Broadbend was ridiculously handsome, a Jude Law lookalike with a prominent jaw and confidence to match. Sam immediately wondered what angle he was playing, but pushed the thought out of his mind. Passing for Peter Keys was the challenge he faced at the moment, not figuring out if Broadbend was rifling through coat pockets and purses in the cloak room.

  Peter Keys had always been something of an absentee member, traveling the world for long periods at a time, dropping in at the club only when in New York for a brief respite between excursions. His latest disappearance was the longest—almost a decade. He hadn’t been to the club since 2009, nor had he been back in the country in all that time. He was a thrill seeker with more than enough old money to indulge his every adventurous whim. He’d hiked the Torres del Paine in Chile, explored the mysteries of the Great Barrier Reef, and sandboarded the Atacama Desert.

  Broadbend was a young man—mid-twenties. Sam felt confident he’d never met the real Keys, so he didn’t feel threatened. They’d used a computer program to age the last taken photos of Keys, building a composite of what the man would look like now, ten-years hence. He caught a glimpse of himself in a polished glass wall panel. Rachel had done one hell of a job with makeup, spirit gum, and prosthetic facial hair. With ten years elapsed since his last visit to the club no one would be able to tell him and the real Keys apart. At least that’s was what they were counting on.

  Broadbend looked up from the computer screen. “I see it’s been quite a while since you last visited with us, Mr. Keys. There’s been significant renovation in the last several years. Would you like me to give you a quick tour?”

  The club was like an Egyptian pyramid in that the outside façade revealed a mere three-story structure, while inside a full nine floors existed. From researching online, Sam was aware of the inner nine-level structure and what resided on each floor. Even so, guided tour would make his life so much easier. Still, he had a role to play and was well rehearsed. “A tour?” he howled. “What kind of simpleton do you think I am, Broadbend?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.”

  “Why I’ve navigated the underground city of Derinkuyu in Turkey with nothing more than my sense of direction and a flask of brandy. Does it sound like I’d have difficulty finding the library in my own social club?” Cutting him down with a scowl, he watched the color drain from the young man’s face.

  “Mr. Keys, I’m so sorry. I was only trying to be helpful. I—”

  Sam leaned in, his scowl slowly resolving into a grin. He patted Broadbend on the cheek playfully. “Relax, young man. Your charm and boyish good looks are better spent on the wealthy widows. I’m a bit out of practice, but give me a couple days to get back into circulation and I’ll find you one who’s still got a figure and bags of money.” He winked at Broadbend and walked off with a swagger, leaving the younger man flatfooted with his jaw hanging.

  He whispered into his mic, “I may actually be able to pull this off.”

  Rachel replied with a laugh. “Don’t get cocky.”

  Three

  Las Vegas, Nevada, Four months earlier

  Rachel exited the elevator on the third floor of the Cosmopolitan Hotel. Before her stood the STK Bar, a breathtaking expanse that exuded an abundant amount of laissez-faire extravagance. It was dark enough to insure discretion yet bright enough to flaunt the stunning layout and accouterments—the bronze-tone, wave-like, floor-to-ceiling abstract statuary, the white leather half-circle booths, and the exquisite high-gloss wooden tables. Yet in such an extraordinary setting, it was Rachel who turned heads as she strode toward the bar in her figure-fitting black gown with a slit cut to the thigh, her long tanned leg emerging with each of her flowing strides. Her hair for this occasion was sunshine blonde, curled with rollers—it bounced on her shoulders when she walked across the restaurant to the bar.

  She’
d selected this particular bar with great care. Of all the opulent night spots in Las Vegas, the STK was the most pigeon-rich. The Continuing Professional Education Convention was in progress bringing accountants from all over the country to town for required continuing education courses and a little something extra. The hooker-to-accountant ratio was at an all-time high—you couldn’t traverse a casino bar without picking up glitter from skin contact from the working girls.

  The STK was different from the run of the mill watering holes. There were no five and dime bean counters here. It was strictly top drawer, a place where the Who’s Who of the CPA world came to relax—those of such high echelon in the accounting world—their clients of such extreme wealth—that they, too, had become extremely well-to-do.

  It was also where the cleverest grifters came to play. Not that the con was a form of entertainment but it was most definitely a game, a game of strategy like chess, of baiting and switching, and creating the illusion of victory in the minds of their marks only to yank it away at the very last moment. Though she considered each scam deadly seriously business, she couldn’t deny that there was a thrill and sense of excitement that went along with it, especially now at the very beginning when the plot would materialize before her eyes, the webs of deceit expanding like the pedals of a blossoming orchid. She had studied for her role no differently than an actor rehearsing for a performance on Broadway, and had no ego in this process other than the self-confidence in knowing that she had what was necessary to get the job done. The real star was the mark, the person who would be worked and cajoled, played up to in a dozen different ways. All she had to do was find the right one and spot the angle from which to exploit him.

  Rachel ordered a vodka gimlet and nursed it for a while. Business was dead slow and she was getting no real action worth following up on. She considered moving on to a different location, and even gathered up her small purse in preparation to leave, but the bartender appeared in front of her with another drink.

  “It’s early,” he assured her. “Give it time.”

  She checked her watch. “Almost eight o’clock.”

  “Like I said—early.” He leaned across the bar and whispered, “Please stay. I’ve got you covered. All right?”

  She was already feeling no pain. “Sure. Why not?”

  With a second, and then a third, cocktail down the gullet she began to doubt her ability to do an effective job of landing a nice fat pigeon even if he sat down at the bar right next to her.

  She was getting antsy but before she could call it a night the bartender placed a dish in front of her filled with day boat scallops atop pancetta. “It’s our signature dish.”

  She smiled at the bartender politely. “I am kind of hungry.”

  “Eat slowly,” he said and moved off.

  “That looks amazing.” A gent pulled up a chair next to her at the bar. “Day boat scallops, am I right?”

  Rachel’s mouth was full and her eyes open, open for a mark. She finished chewing. “That’s what Clive told me.”

  “That’s me,” the bartender said. “What can I get for you, my good fellow?”

  “What kind of sipping whiskeys do you have?”

  “All of them,” Clive said pointing to the top shelf. “I’ve got Macallan Fine Oak and Macallan eighteen years—both single malt—Glenfiddich twenty-one years. For a little less money there’s Highland Park eighteen years, then—”

  “Whoa. That’s enough. When I asked what you had I wasn’t asking for an audited inventory. I’ll have the Macallan eighteen.”

  “Great choice,” Clive said as he reached for the bottle and placed a glass in front of his new customer. “It’s a hundred dollars a pour. Is that all right?”

  “Just pour heavy,” he said and tapped the rim of the glass with his finger. He turned to Rachel. “Would you like one?”

  “I am getting tired of the gimlets.”

  The gent tapped the bar in front of her and Clive poured another whiskey.

  Rachel wiped her mouth on a linen napkin before turning to him. Her mind was still clear enough for her to zone-in on two important points. Number one: he’d mentioned an “audited inventory,” which was clearly accountant’s terminology. Number two: the roll of hundreds from which he paid the tab was fat and juicy—at least three grand to her eye. “Layla Riggs,” she said. “Are you always so generous with strangers?”

  “I now know your name, so, you’re no longer a stranger.”

  “But you’re still a stranger to me,” she said.

  “Alton Wrent.” He picked up his glass and they toasted. “To new friends,” he said. “So, how are the scallops?”

  “Mouth watering, Mr. Wrent.”

  “They’re from Maine, you know, and the fishing there is strictly regulated. They’re harvested only three months a year, and are shucked and put on ice immediately—never frozen.”

  “You seem to know quite a lot about scallops. Are you a fisherman?”

  “Ha! Do I look like a fisherman?”

  “Not at all, but you are here…fishing, are you not?” Her eyes conveyed a clear message.

  Wrent smiled before taking a sip of scotch. “I very well may be.”

  “Good.” She placed her hand on his arm. “Then I’m prepared to hear all about these scallops.”

  And anything else that comes along with catching you, hook, line, and sinker. Mama’s got to put some bread on the table.

  Four

  April 19, 2019

  It was the first Friday following the income tax filing deadline. The office of Alton Wrent was deader than an ant colony after an elephant stampede. Wrent had flown out on the first morning flight to Miami. All of his associates and clericals had gone at 5:00 p.m. sharp—most leaving for vacation now that the grueling tax season was over. At 7:00 p.m. the cleaning crew arrived—a man and a woman, both new employees of Spotless Cleaning Service.

  Sam emptied the trash bins and passed the vacuum over the carpets so that no one would ask questions when a skeleton crew of low-ranking office members showed up on Monday morning. While he did the grunt work Rachel located Wrent’s private office and unpacked a laptop computer of her own, sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. She’d learned some very important information from Alton Wrent in the hours and days she’d spent with him in Las Vegas. Although he spoke of his clients generically to protect their identities, Rachel had been able to secure one very important name, the one that interested her the most, and now they were in his place of business to learn all about a man named Peter Keys. It took all of her guile to finesse the name from him without raising a flaming red flag, but it was a risk she had to take. She’d been captivated by the stories of adventure about the man as well as his acts of philanthropy and kindness. Peter Keys was a man who had captured her imagination.

  Her highly tweaked laptop booted in the blink of an eye. It was fast as hell, the Secretariat of portable computing devices, capable of blazing fast processing speed. She placed it atop a fan-driven cooling pad and connected it to Wrent’s machine with a high speed USB-C cable. The Medusa password-hacking software began with a single keystroke. Their developer had set up the software to be idiot proof. The progress bar showed it had already generated millions of passwords as the password-cracking software attempted to brute-force its way into the login panel. Even so, the time it would take to crack Wrent’s password was a crapshoot. The system might require fifteen minutes or several days to do its job. She checked her watch—they had approximately sixty hours before the office receptionist would show up to open the office on Monday morning. “Tick tock, tick tock, Medusa. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Sam checked on her after a while. He’d picked up some stains on his Spotless Cleaning Service coveralls. “They’ve got a full-size refrigerator in the break room,” he said as he scooped up the bag of sandwiches. “I don’t want my Katz’s pastrami sandwich going bad.”

  “It better not. At twenty-two dollars a san
dwich, it’s more expensive per ounce than this whiz-bang computer we sprang for.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Seven million attempted passwords generated—none accepted.”

  “How many possible combinations are there?”

  “About a hundred pastrami sandwiches worth.”

  Sam threw her a weary nod. “I’ll stash these, then get started picking the locks on the filing cabinets.”

  “I hope you’re faster than the computer.”

  He winked at her. “You know I am, babe. You know I am.”

  Five

  Sam and Rachel were knee-deep in files when they awoke the next morning after just a few hours’ sleep. Wrent’s boutique firm provided accounting services to hundreds of exorbitantly wealthy clients. They had just Peter Keys in mind when they embarked on the scam, but the temptation of access to the personal information of so many high net worth individuals was so strong they just had to take the bait. They spent the night photographing the files of all those they felt might provide a future opportunity if one was needed.

  Rachel yawned as she rose from couch and made her way over to Wrent’s desk where her high-speed computer was tethered to his. More than half a billion passwords had been generated and rejected. The numeric counter was advancing so quickly it was impossible for her to focus in in on any one number.

  “How are we doing?” Sam asked, prying himself out of a desk chair.

  “Our high-priced gizmo is generating useless passwords at blinding speed. We’ll be lucky if we’re out of here by Memorial Day.”

  “Even if we never hack in, we’ve got enough information here to work several huge scores, so I’m not worried about—”