The Concrete Smile Read online

  THE CONCRETE SMILE

  A Grifter’s Song

  Frank Zafiro

  Series Created and Edited

  by Frank Zafiro

  Copyright © 2019 by Frank Zafiro

  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.

  Down & Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Road, Suite 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  DownAndOutBooks.com

  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

  Visit the Down & Out Books website to sign up for our monthly newsletter and we’ll deliver the latest news on our upcoming titles, sale books, Down & Out authors on the net, and more!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Concrete Smile

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Preview from People Like Us by J.D. Rhoades

  Preview from The Bad Kind of Lucky by Matt Phillips

  Preview from All the Way Down by Eric Beetner

  This one is for Gabe and Susannah.

  Of all the grifters, the confidence man is the aristocrat.

  —David Maurer

  “Jack-a-reno!”

  Sam hated that. Even if Jack had been his real name, he would have hated it. And if he actually somehow liked it, he’d still hate it coming from Jacobsen.

  Sam smiled hugely. “Barry-be-good! How’s it going?”

  They were at the Stone Pilgrim, a tasteful business bar on the fringe of downtown St. Louis. Sometimes Sam made it a point to arrive after Jacobsen, but today he was already there, nursing a beer when Jacobsen burst in.

  “Couldn’t be better,” the broker said, his larger than life persona ramped up an additional notch. He slid into the booth, sitting opposite Sam. The bartender brought him a drink without him having to order, a sure sign that he was kind of a big deal here.

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You know what’s better than closing a deal?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing!” He laughed at his own joke, and Sam dutifully laughed along with him. Then Jacobsen grew slightly more serious. “And I don’t mean just a business deal, either, my friend.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  “Uh-uh. You close the deal on some babe you’ve been working for a while, and the payoff is just as sweet. Not in money, maybe, but life is more than greenbacks, am I right?”

  “When you’re right, you’re right,” Sam told him, and Jacobsen grunted in agreement. “So, I guess telling me about it is out of the question? Since gentlemen don’t kiss and tell?”

  “Who ever said I was a gentleman?”

  They laughed again, and each took a drink. Then Jacobsen said, “Actually, since you’re my friend, I’ll be honest with you.”

  Sam smiled gratefully. In Jacobsen’s world, they were friends because they’d been sharing drinks a few times a week for the last two weeks.

  “The truth is,” he said, “there’s nothing to tell yet. I haven’t quite closed the deal. I’m still working it. But I’m close. So, so close.” He held up his fingers in a small pinch to indicate how close.

  “She must be something special.”

  Jacobsen nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. Listen, Jack-o, I’ve had plenty of tail in my day, and you get to a point where you can tell the ones that are dynamite before you ever light the fuse, you know what I mean?”

  Sam raised his glass in a toast, part mocking, part serious, and sipped. “I do.”

  “I know you do. I saw you in here the other night with that blonde.” Jacobsen raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

  Sam nodded. The woman, Patti, had been a call girl that he’d brought to the Pilgrim twice so that Jacobsen would see them together. The first time was a bust, but Jacobsen showed on the second night.

  “I’m in the same boat with that one,” he said. “Still working on the close.”

  “Really?” Jacobsen seemed surprised. “She seemed into you.”

  Sam shrugged. “Turns out she’s old fashioned. Maybe yours is, too.”

  “Maybe.” Jacobsen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Either way, it’s worth the effort. Worth the wait. She’s got this…this thing about her. I can’t describe it, but it’s there.”

  “Charisma?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, this one has taken some serious work, but they all fall eventually. Trust me.”

  Sam raised his glass a second time, because this was something Jacobsen did a lot, and he was nothing if not a willing mirror. “Happy hunting, my friend.”

  Jacobsen laughed loudly and raised his own drink high. “To landing the big one.”

  Oh yes. I will drink to that.

  They drank until near closing. Jacobsen’s boasting increased with each glass. Sam nursed his drinks, skipping the occasional round when he thought Jacobsen wouldn’t notice. He noticed that the man’s words didn’t slur, and when he left the table to use the restroom, his gait was steady. Barry Jacobsen could clearly hold his liquor. Sam took advantage of those bathroom trips to refresh their rounds, even though his own glass was usually still half-full.

  “The thing is,” Jacobsen told him, waving his hand demonstratively, “business is all about knowing when to be aggressive. You know when to be aggressive, Jack-o?”

  Sam shook his head. “I suppose it depends.”

  “No!” Jacobsen roared. “It doesn’t. The answer is always. Always, always, always be aggressive.”

  Sam considered. “Don’t you end up with some bad deals if you do that?”

  “Hell, no!” He paused. “Well, maybe sometimes. But you’re missing the point. You gotta be aggressive to take advantage of those golden opportunities when they come along. Everyone knows that. But being aggressive helps you ferret out the lousy deals, too. Let me tell you something, my friend. Walking away from a deal, especially after you’ve put some money into it, is still an aggressive move.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”

  “No one does! That’s because most people let fear drive their decisions. Fear doesn’t allow you to be bold. And being bold is how you make money.”

  “Not cautious?”

  Jacobsen waved the question away. “Caution is death. Lawyers love caution, and I hate lawyers.”

  Believe me, I know.

  Sam pretended to think about the concept for a few moments. Then he offered, “Sounds a bit dangerous for most people.”

  “It is. That’s what I’ve been telling you.” Jacobsen took a long swallow, and suppressed a belch. “Look, I’m not talking about doing your due diligence. You gotta make sure someone’s not full of shit, or that the product is solid. Check ’em out, poke around the books, all of it. That’s not caution, that’s just good business. I’m talking about not letting fear run your life.”

  “Like that call in the Super Bowl, you mean?”

  Jacobsen snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “Exactly! Most coaches would be too afraid to make a call like that. But that coach was bold, and he went for it. And what did it get him?”

  “A championship,” Sam admitted.

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Jacobsen took another drink, this one more measured. “It works that way in the business world, too.”

  “I’m just not seeing how, exactly.”

  “How can you not?
You’re in business, Jack.”

  “I’m an independent contractor. I look over contracts, give my clients advice on the terms, possible counter-offers, that sort of thing. I don’t buy things and I don’t sell them, so I guess I just don’t…” Sam shrugged.

  “I’ll give you an example,” Jacobsen said.

  Oh, please do…

  Sam leaned forward attentively.

  “I’ve got this concrete business,” Jacobsen began, and Sam listened.

  Much later, when the night had faded and morning was drifting away, he lay in the motel bed on the outskirts of the city. She lay next to him, her head on his chest. Her hair fell across his shoulder and neck. He enjoyed the clean smell of it.

  “I’m glad you called,” she said.

  “So am I.”

  They were quiet for a while. He let his mind walk through his night’s work, and he wondered how much Jacobsen would remember today. That was the danger of the bar approach. Booze tended to grease the rails, but the fog it created sometimes ground things to a halt when everyone was sober again. But if the man is a drinker, he’s a drinker. You play the cards you’re dealt.

  “You’ve been quiet,” she said.

  “Just thinking.”

  Thinking about all the things that could go wrong. How to make them fall right. Trying to stay inside Jacobsen’s head, anticipate his thoughts, his doubts, his greed. Angling the mark was a constant Sam never stopped doing, even if he sometimes wanted to. He reached out and briefly touched the Zippo lighter on the nightstand, its cool silver reminding him of who he was.

  She stroked his other arm. “Too much thinking is dangerous.”

  “So is not enough.”

  She didn’t reply, and they lay there until deep into the day.

  He met with Finch for an early dinner, though the dinner consisted of Chinese take-out that Sam brought with him to the upscale hotel. He stopped a block away and texted a question mark from his throwaway phone. A few moments later, his phone buzzed and “OK” appeared on the screen.

  In the lobby, Sam made straight for the elevators and up to the third floor. Finch was in room 1570, and he gave the door three quick raps. Finch opened the door and he slipped inside.

  “You get kung pao?” Finch asked him.

  “Kung pao tastes like duck vomit.”

  “Then duck vomit must be delicious.”

  “I got you some,” Sam said, handing the bag to the older, rangy man.

  Finch took the bag and went to the couch in the small living room of the suite. As he dug through the bag, Sam settled into the chair opposite him.

  “You see him last night?” Finch asked without looking up.

  “Yeah. He was in the mood for pounding them back at the Stone Pilgrim.”

  “And?”

  “He’s close, I think.”

  “You think or you know?” Finch pulled a carton from the bag and opened it. “Ah,” he sighed. “Lucky’s has the best kung pao in the country.”

  “He told me about the deal, and he talked a lot about being aggressive. Then he tried to be a little coy about what that meant, but it was pretty clear what he intends to do.”

  “Which is?” Finch tore the paper from a pair of chopsticks and started to eat.

  “He’s going to flip the offer.”

  “Jesus, finally.” Finch spoke around a mouthful of food. “I don’t know how many more hints I could drop to this guy. Is he cautious or just stupid?”

  “Definitely not stupid,” Sam said.

  “Well, he’s one cautious son of a bitch. Maybe you roped the wrong one, Sammy.”

  Sam gave him a tired look. “You said that last time. And we all made out pretty good on that one.”

  “That was six years ago. Maybe you’ve lost your touch.”

  “The touch gets better with time, Finch. Not worse.”

  “That’s what all athletes think, too.”

  Sam smiled indulgently. Finch busting balls was part of the package, and while some in the game might not like it, Sam did for some reason. “Will the website hold up?”

  Finch snorted. “Of course it will. That part just keeps getting easier. I knocked it out in half a day. Social media is harder than a static website.”

  “Jacobsen is pretty old school.”

  “But Jacobsen’s Concrete and Drywall has a Facebook page.”

  “I know. It’s bare bones and hasn’t had a post in nine months.”

  “Which is why I didn’t bother setting one up for Dylan Brothers. But our website looks great.”

  “And the books?”

  Finch grinned. “All ready.”

  “That was fast.”

  “That’s because I stole them.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows.

  “Yeah,” Finch confirmed. “I lifted the past three years from a company in Irvine, California, changed the header and the first few transactions, then did a little find and replace on the rest of spreadsheet.”

  “They need to be losing money,” Sam said.

  “And I doctored that, too,” Finch assured him. “They’re bleeding.”

  “Heavily?”

  “Yes, yes. But I made it more like internal bleeding. Not easily spotted, but there.”

  “And that’ll pass muster?”

  “Sammy, don’t you see how perfect it is? It’s mostly real. Of course, it’ll pass muster.”

  Sam didn’t reply right away.

  “And who says pass muster anymore?” Finch asked, shaking his head while he popped another piece of chicken into his mouth. A bit of sauce dribbled onto his beard.

  “Barry Jacobsen,” Sam said absently.

  Finch chuckled at that. “Maybe you’re not past your prime yet, my boy.”

  “We’ll see.”

  That night, he picked up Patti to take to the bar again. On the way, he coached her on the role he wanted her to play. She seemed intrigued, as always.

  “What kind of game are you playing, hon?”

  He ignored the question. “You’re set on the plan?”

  She shrugged. “It’s easy enough.”

  They arrived before Jacobsen, and nursed a drink and an appetizer for the better part of an hour. Sam set his lucky Zippo on the table, absently toying with it.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” Patti told him. “Can’t in most places these days.”

  Sam nodded. “I know.”

  Patti looked at him for a while. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Then why the lighter?”

  Sam didn’t answer. His mind drifted to another bar, years ago, when he’d first seen Rachel. She’d been dressed to land a whale, and he recognized that same quality that Jacobsen would struggle to define to him years later. He watched her for a bit, and when it was clear that the pickings were slim, he sat down and offered her a cigarette.

  “I don’t smoke,” Rachel had said.

  Sam shrugged and put the pack away. “Do you kiss?” he asked casually.

  She smirked, but behind the smirk she looked closer at him, and after a moment, he could tell she saw the same thing he saw. Another grifter.

  “No lips that touch a cigarette ever touch mine,” she said, her tone somehow curt and playful at the same time.

  Wordlessly, Sam dropped the pack of cigarettes on the bar and pushed them away. He pocketed the lighter, though. It had been his father’s.

  “Just like that?” Rachel asked.

  “Just like that.”

  The smoldering look between them should have put off anyone with half a clue, but Sam thanked God the world over that he created so many marks who didn’t meet that minimum criteria. One of them approached and sat down on the other side of Rachel.

  “This guy bothering you?” he asked her, his voice full of the bravado that comes with money.

  A touch of a smile tugged at the corners of Rachel’s mouth, and that was all it
took for Sam to understand.

  “Yes,” Rachel told the mark, still looking at Sam. “Yes, he is.”

  Sam played his role, and they took him for almost six thousand dollars.

  “Where’d you go?” Patti asked him.

  Sam glanced around the Stone Pilgrim. Still no Jacobsen.

  “Nowhere,” he told Patti. “You remember what to do?”

  She sipped her drink. “Please. I’m a professional.”

  When the time came, Patti played her part well. When Sam spotted Jacobsen enter the bar alone, he gave her the signal. Without hesitation, she rose from her chair, irritation plain on her face.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she snapped, shrugging her way into her coat.

  Sam watched her, not saying a word.

  She waited another beat, then spun on her heels and stalked toward the door, right past a surprised Jacobsen. Jacobsen watched her go, then turned his gaze back to Sam. Sam offered him an embarrassed wave of hello.

  “What happened, Jack-o?” Jacobsen asked as he took her vacated seat.

  Sam shrugged. “I’d rather not dwell on defeat, Barry.”

  “Spoken like a true winner,” Jacobsen agreed. He waved at the bartender and signaled for a round for both of them. “Ten minutes and you’ll forget her, I promise you.”

  “Forget who?”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  They drank, and polished off a steak dinner, and drank some more. Sam matched him drink, laugh for laugh. As the night wore on, the bar filled and then began to empty. It was after one when Jacobsen finally leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “Jackie, lemme ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  “You do contract work, right?”

  “True.”

  “You any good at it?”

  Sam gave Jacobsen the smile he knew the man was looking for. “The best.”

  “You open for some work?”

  Sam frowned, then shrugged. “I hate to turn away work, but my plate’s pretty full right now. Who’s the client?”