…
The best cons included more than just a mechanic, also known as the man performing the con. Austin himself had worked with a partner since he’d turned sixteen and watched his father get taken for five quid in a game of three-card monte during a family trip to Brighton. He’d seen it all take place, like a play unfolding on a stage. At the time, he hadn’t known what the term “shill” meant. He’d only seen the silent communication pass between the mechanic—the card dealer—and the man who’d taken a turn before his father. They’d been in on it together. I won! The shill had said it loud enough to stop passersby in their tracks. This guy must be blind…I’ve already won supper money for the week.
Austin had scoffed to himself, expecting his father to catch on. To see clear through the pair of wankers who’d pulled the wool over everyone else’s eyes. Only his father hadn’t copped on, and when it was his turn to guess which bent playing card hid the pebble, Austin’s family had walked away minus a fiver. He could still remember the stifling disappointment he’d felt in his father—how it had kept him silent the whole ride back to London. The next day, he’d skipped school and hitched a ride back to Brighton to watch the monte sharks all day, learning their tricks. Before long, he’d set up his own operation on the opposite end of the beach, swindling unsuspecting tourists out of their holiday money.
He’d done fair enough for a beginner, but he’d needed a partner. A shill. A chiller to step in when a mark didn’t take kindly to being cheated. There’d been no need to seek out a partner, however, because a partner had found him right enough. Found him, sunk his claws in, taught him the ropes…then double-crossed him by making off with his half of a million-dollar score.
Austin’s hands turned to fists inside his coat pockets as he followed Polly down the darkened street in Near North Side, just north of the Loop, Chicago’s business district. His blood pumped in both temples, creating a heavy drumbeat to match his footsteps. She couldn’t know the identity of the man she walked beside. Could she? He wouldn’t wager on anything where Polly was concerned, suspecting the undercover squad had only begun to tap her capabilities as a hacker. But this man—one of the best shills in the bloody business—was dangerous, despite his affable demeanor.
Austin still hadn’t managed to trap the alarm that had run free when Darren Burnbaum walked into the bar, the familiar swagger tipping off Austin immediately. His anxiety had only tripled when Polly got up to leave the bar with the man. By God, she’d barely made him work for the pleasure of her time, agreeing to dinner in two minutes flat. If that easy agreement had come off suspicious to Austin, it sure as hell hadn’t gone unnoticed by Darren, which was only one of his aliases.
See, the drawback to needing additional players in a good con meant Austin had crossed paths over the last fourteen years with some of the best. When word went out that a mark was prime for the taking, cons swarmed like piranha around the opportunity. Kind of a fucked-up version of supply and demand. Oftentimes, if anyone wanted to score, it meant organizing the team and working together. So Austin was quite familiar with Darren’s skill set, and he didn’t want it anywhere near Polly.
She was playing a part, so the fix was definitely in. This wasn’t just a random meeting at a bar—it had been planned. Until he knew the particulars, Darren was going down for the count.
Because as dangerous as Darren Burnbaum had proved to be, Austin Shaw was twice as lethal. And not a goddamn hair on Polly’s head would be harmed on his stolen watch.
When Darren led Polly to a diner, Austin shook his head. Still a cheap fuck. Loath to let Polly out of his sight for even a minute, Austin hung back and waited for them to enter the diner and be seated. Then he sneaked around to the kitchen entrance through the alley around back, nodding to the bored cook who shrugged and flipped over a grilled cheese sandwich. He slipped into the bathroom, grateful to see two stalls, and closed himself in the left one.
If he remembered correctly—and he always did—Darren had a coke habit that would require a trip to the bathroom at some point—
The ancient bathroom door swung open. Austin held his breath and waited for Darren to lock the right stall door and tap out a line of coke…onto the goppin’ toilet tank? Austin grimaced. The lengths a man went to for his vice. Darren’s came in the form of white powder while Austin’s stood five foot two and smelled like fresh-squeezed lemonade. At least Darren’s position would make what came next easy.