Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Rope.

The old carousel looked dingier than Henry remembered. Or maybe it was his mistake coming on it during the day. It looked better at night, in the yellow glow of the lamps—just like Billie's girls, or even, Henry had to admit, Billie herself.

He had just set down his suitcase down in the bar when Billie handed him an envelope and said, "Here, this came for you." Inside was an article clipped from the New York Times:

Businessman with Suspected Syndicate Ties Murdered

Doyle Lonnegan, owner of several saloons and casinos, a reputed bookmaker, and politically connected businessman, was found stabbed in an alley outside his lower East Side saloon.

The article went on, wrapped around a picture of Lonnegan, looking just as cheery as when Henry had last seen him, but Henry had read it before on the sleeper from St. Louis the last time he visited.

He turned the envelope over. It bore no return address, but the address was written in a familiar looping scrawl. The postmark was dated a few months ago and said New York. He couldn't quite hide his smile when he looked back up at Billie.

"You gonna go see him?" she asked, turning to bus some glasses.

Henry didn't answer, but, of course, he never needed to with her.

They spent the night together in his old room. It was full of boxes that he'd had to move before he could climb into bed. Henry supposed he should be glad she hadn't given it to some other washed up con, but it just reminded him of how long he'd been gone. And he wasn't that, not anymore. He'd been working as a roper on transatlantic cruises for the last year or so, socking up a nice nest egg so he could finance his own big con with Hooker when the heat died down.

It almost went against one of his rules: never play with your own money, but maybe lifting it from a succession of well-heeled travelers would be enough to head off that brand of bad luck.

"You're looking good, Henry," said Billie when they shared a cigarette after. She lifted up a slim arm and her robe fell down it, exposing a purple bruise around her wrist.

Henry sat up sharply. "I didn't do that," he said. "Who's—"

She brushed him away like the smoke from her cigarette. "Snyder," she said. "He's come up in the world, but he never quite got over missing you two. He's driven off a bit of my custom."

Henry sat up in bed. "You're paying off the right people? I haven't been here for a while, but I can still find out if there's a new player or if someone's price's changed."

She blew out a puff of smoke. "He only has one price for me. You and Hooker."

Henry sank down to face her. He smiled slightly and traced his finger over the soft skin of her shoulder. She was older now than when he'd started traveling again, the flesh softening on her bones like wax dripping down a candle, but beautiful still for all that, soft, and a home when he had no one else. "You should give us to him."

She laughed. "You're planning something."

Henry touched the side of his nose.

**

Johnny didn't have the federal warrant hanging over him like Henry did, so after the con he went to Albany where he played a store as inside man, although sometimes he'd go on the road for a few months of short cons and roping for other outfits. Albany was a good place for it—a lot of characters who weren't welcome in New York lived there, and being on the rail-lines meant plenty of marks.

He told his Albany friends that he knew Lonnegan was dead before Lonnegan did. It was mostly true. One of the big Syndicate boys was cleaning house. Lonnegan's stock had been declining ever since he was fleeced, and as soon as it fell enough that Lansky's outfit could have him killed, they did. Johnny heard it was coming down while trying to rope a midlevel Boston mobster on the Atlantic Express up to New York.

He stopped cutting into the mark so hard and bought the bar car a round of champagne. Boston was too close to New York to make it a safe play anyway.

He got off the train in New York. Like Henry had taught him, he had everything he needed in his suitcase: an expensive selection of clothes for every occasion, made at some of the finest shops on either side of the ocean, fake beards and make up, and newspapers from every state in the union. Every time Johnny bought a new suit, he grimaced to think of the pimp suit he'd been wearing when he met Henry.

It didn't take much, though, to make him think of Henry. As soon as Lonnegan was cold, Johnny put the note in the mail. He'd been learning his craft since he left Chicago, learning how to rope from the Big Alabama Kid, and that you should never trust another con man from Yellow Walker, and a hundred other things besides. But none of his subsequent games had quite the savor of the first one, and he hated the between times so much he'd still blow all his money just so he had a good reason to start grifting again.

It was easy to set up in New York. A store needed an inside man and he fit the bill. He paid off the fixer and played some ripe marks while he waited.

He found New York a different animal from Chicago. The heavy rackets were meaner, but the marks bled green, and all the best cons in the world gravitated here. For some reason, few men on the big con had come from New York, but they'd all worked here from time to time, and at night, Johnny could find men he'd only ever met before in tall tales drinking at bars all up and down the west side.

Dan the Dude's was the spot. Now Johnny went nightly, to hear the stories, the rumors, to find out which cops were right, and in on the fix, and which were honest, and should be avoided. And to hear about Henry. Everyone had a story about him.

Kid Twist was working the inside at a payoff shop uptown, and he was the one who'd told Johnny the stories he was dying to hear: Henry as a young man, learning the ropes. Henry'd come up the hard way, just like Johnny did.

Johnny'd wondered, when he first met Henry, and flushed under his speculative gaze, whether Henry had been a hustler in more than one sense of the word, and Kid Twist, after a few too many, had confirmed it.

Henry roped this one mark who was New York high society, Twist told him. Not a Vanderbilt, but close enough. Henry shouldn't have tried for him, but he was just that good in those days. The man had a wife and everything, but he couldn't resist Henry. Sent him flowers for months, poured hundreds of thousands into cons that wouldn't take a farmer from Idaho. Eventually Henry felt bad for the guy and finally blew him off, but it was a legendary score.

Twist had other stories, and Johnny spent the night listening, lost in that world. Henry couldn't come join him soon enough.

**

Henry took the train the next morning to New York. He sat most of the ride in the dining car, watching the other travelers from behind his newspaper. A couple seemed like potential marks, but Henry wasn't in the mood for chatting anyone up.

Once the winter sun came up over the wheat fields, he watched the countryside pass by the window. The train paralleled one of Roosevelt's new interstates for a ways, and he watched the cars, sleek black bodies like beetles, pacing the train. Someday you wouldn't be able to rope a mark on a train. Someday there might not even be trains.

He'd left it with Billie that he'd telegram when he wanted Snyder sent out to New York. She'd know how to play it, how to keep him dangling along like she might give them up. She'd probably agree to Snyder's price soon and then give him the run around about where he and Johnny were until she heard from Henry.

The sun set early and it was full dark when the train skimmed over the swamps of northern New Jersey. Beyond the flat expanse of grass and water, the towers of Manhattan glittered against the night sky. Henry was a Chicago kid, born and raised, but he'd still spent some time running games in New York. No place was more wired during Prohibition, nowhere else did the marks line up quite so neatly to be fleeced.

Nowhere was as dangerous either. The big mobsters, the Syndicate—Murder Inc., as the papers called them—they operated everywhere now, but their hooks were deep into New York. Politicians danced to their tune, and a grifter could get stomped under some big boots if he wasn't careful.

A smart grifter, even an inside man, kept on the move. You can't work the same con in the same place year after year and expect not to get caught. But in New York you almost could.

The train sped through the tunnel and into Penn Station. When Henry came up from the bowels of the station and stood on the street, it smelled like he remembered, trash and snow and urine, sweet roasted nuts and hot dogs, and just a whiff of briny air off the Hudson.

He didn't know exactly where to find Hooker, but he did know where operators went. Dan the Dude still ran his saloon on 28th St. The area had been cleaned up since the 20s when Henry had lived there, but the landmarks were the same, and Dan's still held the same mixture of faces Henry knew, and faces he should know, warm friendly faces that could convince a man of anything.

JJ was there, drinking at the bar with Kid Twist. Slim Hanson sat alone, just as Henry remembered, and Charley Traister held court at a corner table, drinking a glass of sweet vermouth.

Big Sal was working behind the bar as always. His long walrus mustache had a hint of gray in the black now. He squinted for a moment at Henry before nodding. "Gondorff. Never thought you'd cover up that pretty face with a mustache."

Henry smiled and tried to hide cheeks that suddenly flushed. Not much could do that anymore, but he'd been young and stupid once in New York, and Sal had seen most of it. Henry touched his upper lip. "I thought I'd try to give the other fellows a chance to shine," he said.

He settled in to have a drink at the bar. Wouldn't do to tip his hand too early, but once he'd settled into a glass of whiskey and the familiar sounds of cons mulled over, big scores bragged about, tricks revealed and concealed, Sal came over again. He didn't have to say anything, just leaned across the bar and looked at Henry until Henry sighed and said, "Looking for a Johnny Hooker, you know him?"

Sal stroked his chin. "Good-looking kid? 'Bout this tall? Thinks he's charming?"

Henry nodded. "That'd be him."

"Running a store on Ludlow. Pay-off mostly, but he runs some wire too. Old-fashioned. I like that."

Henry passed a couple dollars across the bar and slugged back the last of his whiskey. Grifter etiquette said he should wait for Hooker to come back to Dan's and meet him there, but Dan's had the air of expectation that told Henry someone was being played tonight, and he wanted to see Hooker in action.

He took the subway partway there, but came back above ground and switched to a taxi in time to pull up in front of the place. Henry knew this store from the old days. Interesting that Hooker had been the one to take it over when some sucker laid the beef on The Slipper Kid. Henry would have thought someone else would have been in line for it.

The place was stirring tonight, full of shills passing boodles of money around like it was Christmas. Henry went in and nodded to Jack Hardy, who was running the roulette wheel. His eyes widened imperceptibly at Henry, but he didn't give him any of the "go away" signals, so Henry sat down at the poker table. Jack was working roulette. This was where the game was being played tonight.

The poker game was real enough, except for the denominations of money being played for. One of the keys to the big con was allowing the mark to see hundreds of thousands of dollars being played casually, and this table was keeping up their end of the bargain. Some exchange rate would have been worked out in advance, probably pennies on the thousand.

Henry recognized most of the faces around the table—a regular New York mob. Henry had cut a deck together on the train. He pressed his arm against it through his suit to make sure it was still there—he would lay money there wasn't a man at the table who wasn't cheating in some way or another. It was a miracle when the first hand was played that there weren't seven aces looking up at them.

Henry felt Johnny arrive before he spoke. The tenor of the room changed, and though all the men at the table were old enough hands not to turn and look, everyone knew that the game was on. It wasn't quite the fever pitch of the touch—tonight was the convincer, where the mark got to win enough to tie him up for the rest of the game—but the tension still ran high.

Henry didn't turn around, although he could hardly bear not to. He'd gotten postcards from Johnny at the various way stations along the grifters' trail, and they'd even met up once in Kansas City, crossing paths while Henry roped a sucker into a Chicago game, and Henry played one off to a store in Texas. They both had marks tied up, though, and it had hardly been more than a nod.

Johnny went around the room, playing store-keeper, glad-handing the shills like this was his real job. He still looked good, better than good. His golden hair was as thick and shiny as Henry remembered, his smile as infectious. Then he got to Henry and his face split in a wide, character breaking grin. "Come on kid," said Henry, "I taught you better than that."

"C'mere." Hooker dragged him into a hug. "Sit tight, though. Mark's almost here."

Henry sat down and turned back to his game, but the warmth of Hooker's greeting made Henry feel an embarrassing glow that kept his mind off his cards.

The mark arrived a few minutes later. At first a potted plant blocked Henry's view, but then he doffed his coat and Henry saw the backward collar and black shirt under the mark's dinner jacket, and Henry laughed out loud. A priest. Johnny had roped a priest, who was as out of place here as a blackbird in a dovecote. He was past the first flush of youth but still a good-looking man, and from the way he cocked his head and looked around the room, he clearly knew it.

His eyes softened somewhat when they landed on Johnny. Henry hid a smirk at that, and wondered if Johnny knew why this mark had bit down so hard on the bait. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the priest placed a bet on the roulette wheel. An avaricious look lit his face when his number came up, and his fin turned to five hundred.

"I want to play again," said the priest. Johnny made a motion with his head—if this game was played the usual way, the mark should know that not every time he played would be a winner. Jack at the roulette wheel looked to Johnny for a signal, but he shrugged it off. If the mark wants to lose . . .

So the priest lost his money again, almost as fast as he won it. Henry almost laughed out loud at the childish look of indignation that passed over his face.

He could well imagine the conversation when Johnny steered the mark back onto the street: "You were supposed to take the money."—"I wanted to see if I could win more."—"Perhaps now you see how dangerous gambling is." Henry'd bet that's how they were playing it—the good priest beating the evil gamblers at their own game. But a mark never got into something like this without a touch of larceny in his soul.

As soon as the roper got him out of the joint, the pitch of play slowed and then stopped. Johnny stood up and called a halt. "That's it boys. Scatter for a bit, then a round on me at Dan's."

A grin spread over Johnny's face as he walked over to Henry. "Took you long enough," he said, still smiling.

"I was working a—ah, who cares, right?" Henry grinned back.

They walked out onto the street. "You used to work this town," said Johnny conversationally. "Seems everyone with a name's worked here. Why do no good con men come from New York?"

Henry had theories about that, but instead he asked, "You been hearing stories about me?"

Johnny looked sidelong at him. Henry could only imagine. Used to be his favorite mark was the type that liked men, not women. Used to be he'd dangle himself as bait. Used to be he didn't mind getting snapped up sometimes. No one would tell those stories very loudly, since Henry was a right guy, and this decade wasn't as forgiving of that sort of thing as the last one had been, but neither would the stories die.

But Johnny just said, "I heard you were the best of the best. What happened?"

Henry knocked a shoulder into Johnny's. "I still am, kid," he said.

They walked slowly to Dan's. It was a couple miles, but Henry had memories of most of the streets they walked down, and where he didn't, Johnny did. And they had the years in between to pass the time this evening, and many to follow. The shills and barkers were already at Dan's when Hooker pushed open the door. He bought his round, but settled into a corner booth with Henry.

"How's Pretty James?" Johnny asked.

"He stuck around Chicago for a while," Henry answered, "but he got mixed up with the Syndicate. He's doing jobs for them now."

"Huh. Didn't see that coming."

"You never do." James was as genteel as they came, and Henry couldn't figure it either, except that the big mobsters were leaning harder and harder on anyone they could squeeze during these lean times. Maybe that was what happened.

Once Johnny had run through all their mutual acquaintances, he took a careful sip of his drink, looking straight ahead then set it down. "And Billie?"

Henry stole a look at him. Johnny's face was perfectly unreadable. Henry cleared his throat. "Glad you asked. She's sending a mark this way, if we want to play for him."

"Anyone I know?"

Traveling Tom stopped by the table to doff his hat to Henry and mention old times. Henry knocked glasses with him and shot the breeze until he moved along, but then picked up where he left off. "I'd say so. Detective Snyder."

"Pshaw. What can we get out of him?"

"Oh, he's come up in the world." Henry repeated what Billie had told him: Snyder made the jump from Joliet to Chicago just after Lonnegan's wire went down. He'd played it like it was him who'd run Henry out of town, and saved Lonnegan to boot. Someone in Chicago liked that, and now Snyder got the big payoffs from the Chicago mob instead of rolling drunks in Joliet.

Johnny raised his eyebrows. "Really? I'd'a thought he would have tripped over his feet and fallen under a train before he got a chance to rise so fast.

"Or been pushed?" Henry grimaced. "No such luck. He's leaning hard on Billie for you and me, and I thought, why not give us to him?"

Johnny turned in the booth and his knee brushed against Henry's. "You think we can play for him? He knows all the games."

"Ah, come on kid, you've been around long enough to know that it's guys who fancy themselves players who make the best marks. Snyder was born roped."

"Maybe so, but what's to stop him from coming after us or Billie again when he loses his money."

Henry smiled slowly. "We play him for enough that he gets himself in trouble scraping together the money. And we have to make sure he borrows it from just the wrong sort of people."

"The wrong sort of people, like the heavy rackets?" Johnny asked.

"The heaviest. Mayor Kelly."

Johnny grinned at that, and Henry knew exactly why. Mayor Kelly of Chicago had done plenty of good for the city with Roosevelt's New Deal money, but he was also an old machine politician, and he wouldn't take kindly to Snyder skimming it from anyone else. He'd help Henry blow Snyder off and he wouldn't even know it.

**

Henry could still stand when Johnny steered him out of the bar, but he wasn't quite walking in straight lines. Johnny hadn't drunk as much, though more than he usually did—drinking wasn't his vice like gambling was. When he was playing, a mark or the cards, the world narrowed down to a perfect sharp focus that was addictive, whether he won or lost. Drinking had the opposite effect, and it wasn't what he craved.

Henry, on the other hand, well, Johnny wondered after hearing some of the stories if Henry had things he'd rather forget. Henry'd been a hungry kid, willing to do anything. So had Johnny. Thing was, Johnny still wanted to do most of those things. Henry, maybe not.

"Where you staying?" Johnny asked.

Henry waved that off. "Ah, I'll get a place."

"Not like that you won't." He wasn't that bad, just a happy drunk, and he probably wouldn't even feel it tomorrow, but Johnny liked having the excuse to say, "I've got a suite at the Ferguson. You can stay with me tonight."

"The Ferguson, eh?"

Johnny slung Henry's arm over his shoulder. "Yeah. You told me, remember, an inside man has to keep up appearances. Gives me something to do with the money other than blowing it."

"You're keeping up just fine," said Henry. "Just fine."

Henry was fine to take his jacket and shoes off when they got back to Johnny's hotel room, but when Johnny came back from hanging them up, Henry was laid out on the couch, eyes closed and his mouth open and slack. Johnny looked at him for a long moment. He hadn't had any real hopes in bringing Henry here tonight, or so he told himself, but he'd still wanted Henry to stay up late enough they could keep catching up, and maybe, just before dawn, Henry would make good on one of those looks he'd given Johnny back in Chicago.

And Johnny would look back, and Henry would reach out to him and . . . Johnny sighed. He was letting his imagination get the better of him again. A good grifter had to be practical. Henry'd told him that—marks were the ones who lived in their fantasy worlds.

He found a blanket in the closet to cover Henry up. His clothes would be wrinkled in the morning, but he could borrow something of Johnny's. They were the same height, even if Johnny was broader in the shoulder.

Johnny slept in his own room, and woke before Henry, who didn't wake up until the porter knocked with Johnny's breakfast and paper.

"You've taken to this well," said Henry, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"You were right. The fix is so good here it feels like being a citizen." Johnny snorted. "Not that I've ever been a citizen long enough to know. I won't stay too long."

Henry glanced up at him, and Johnny felt like Henry could see right through him, like he was the green kid he had been when he first met Henry two years ago. After the wire with Lonnegan, Henry'd fixed him up with some good men on the big con who'd taught him the plays Henry hadn't gotten around to yet. He'd worked with some of the biggest names in the business, but Henry was still the best.

Henry busied himself with some buttered toast and skimmed through the newspaper to the stock section while Johnny dressed for mass. He didn't look hungover, just a little tired, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Come on," said Johnny as he smoothed down his hair. "I know you want to ask me."

Henry made an innocent face. "About what?"

"The mark. The priest."

"That's yours," said Henry. "It's a funny sight, though, a good Catholic boy like you roping a priest."

"You can't cheat an honest man," said Johnny. Being an old saw didn't make it any less true. Johnny still went to church on Sunday when he could find the time but a bent priest was no different from any of the other savages. Still, he touched the St. Christopher medallion at his chest. He didn't notice until he looked up that Henry's eyes were lingering on the chain against the V of skin his open shirt showed. He tucked the medallion into his undershirt.

"He's not a local, is he?" Henry asked.

Johnny shook his head. "He's in from Chicago. Apparently there's a gambling problem there."

"You don't say? So let me guess. You've got him convinced that you've got a racket of guys across the country—good Catholic boys, every one—primed to take down casinos through some inside betting. You just need someone to make the play."

Johnny grinned. "That's about the size of it. Want to come to mass?"

Henry lay back on the couch. "I think roping stockbrokers is easier. You can sleep in."

Johnny shrugged. "I was going to go to church anyway."

**

That much was true, but usually he went to St. Paul's on the Lower East side, not St. Patrick's. Paddy's always made him feel like the rube from Joliet he still was under the expensive suits. Johnny sat near the back, stood when he always stood, ate the wafer, sipped the wine.

At the end Father Gardner came around, and gave Johnny the look of the hooked mark: conspiratorial and smug. Nothing different just because he had a rosary looped around his hand.

"I have a dinner tonight, but I'll see you tomorrow," said Father Gardner hopefully.

"I'll meet you at the Alderbrook hotel."

The priest was staying at whatever housing the church provided, which put Johnny off his game a little. Usually he'd have the roper or a tailer stay with the priest at all times, to make sure he stayed hooked, to apply just the right amount of pressure, but this time he'd have to count on the strength of the tale.

When Johnny went to meet Gardner at the hotel, he was already sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of scotch. He drank well, for a priest, not that Johnny'd had much opportunity to drink with one before.

"I don't have the money yet," he said when Johnny slid in beside him. Johnny gestured for Gardner to keep it down a little.

"My superiors aren't sure it's a good investment," he continued in a stage whisper.

Johnny had to fight to keep his irritation under control. The last thing he needed was Gardner getting the whole church organization involved. Time to cut him loose, Henry's voice whispered in his head, the same voice that had been keeping him clear of trouble these past two years. "But I think I've found someone who can help." Father Gardner frowned. "He says he wants to take a cut, but it will still be enough to ruin the gambling house, right?"

Now Johnny had to stifle his laughter. Father Gardner was shaping up to be a fair roper himself. Well, there was a bit of the mark in every good con, and the reverse was true as well.

"And this is just the beginning," said Johnny, leaning in, spinning the tale that had hooked Gardner in the first place. What did he care if Gardner worked his own con to get the money? "With what you win we can ruin half the houses in New York."

"We're a good team," said Gardner. He put his hand on Johnny's thigh and said, "Did you ever think of being a priest?"

As a line, it could use some work, but Johnny almost leaned into it anyway. He'd been good since he got to New York, sticking to women, hoping, well, for what he'd been hoping for the past two years. And now Henry was close enough to reach out and touch.

Use it, Johnny told himself. He took Gardner's hand off his thigh, but gently, holding it in his own before placing it on the bar. "Not here," he said, giving Gardner a direct look.

"I'll get a room," said Gardner.

It would help if Johnny went through with this. Gardner would be hooked even harder, and Johnny would have something to hold over him when the con was done, to keep him from talking even if he got wise. Of course, that worked better with pictures and this con didn't have time for that.

Johnny slapped a five on the bar to cover Gardner's tab and went to find him at the front desk. He motioned Gardner into a dark space next to the phones. "Not now," he said quietly enough that Gardner had to lean in so their bodies were touching. If Johnny could forget he was a priest, forget about Henry, this would be a perfect release. "I have to—my boss is expecting me tonight." He leaned in close enough that Gardner could nip a taste from his lips. Tantalizing, but the wrong lips. "I'll let you know when, though. I promise."

He left Gardner there in the shadows, and walked out into the cold night.

**

Johnny looked shaken when he came into Dan's. Henry had seen him in any number of moods, but this was a different one; it held an agitation Henry couldn't place. Johnny ordered a shot of whiskey and downed it in one gulp, then gestured for Sal to pour another. Henry took the seat by him.

He'd spent the day figuring out what had changed, what had stayed the same. Seemed like the fix was nowhere near as good as it had been during Prohibition—Mayor LaGuardia saw to that—but the police were still far more likely to ignore the cons than the heavy rackets. Henry thought he might play inside man a few times before hitting the rails again.

Maybe Johnny would come with him. There was something driving him, maybe the same restlessness that had driven him up and out of Joliet, or maybe something different. Johnny'd always played his cards close to the vest, but now he gotten clever about it too.

"The touch is tomorrow," he said when Henry sat down next to him.

"Yeah it is, kid, so lay off the sauce."

"I'll be glad when this one's done and gone."

Henry waved for his own glass. "Once you start getting a conscience, it's all over."

"It's not that. It's—" His eyes slid away from Henry's.

"He wants more than the con, huh? You having a hard time shaking him?" Henry could picture it. Johnny and the mark out at a bar. The mark makes a subtle pass—or maybe not so subtle—and Johnny has to play it off.

"Something like that. I don't know how you did it." Henry froze and Johnny gulped, backpedaling so desperately that Henry almost felt bad for him. "I didn't mean it like that—hey, I just meant—" he put his hand on Henry's arm "—some things are easier to roll with then others. I didn't want—it was just the wrong thing at the wrong time, coming from—he's a priest, you know?"

Johnny's eyes were wide and pleading, but Henry didn't know what he wanted. Some advice maybe. Maybe for Henry to say, "Just because they come onto you don't mean you're queer, kid," but Henry couldn't bring himself to do it.

"I don't like to advertise those days," said Henry, coolly. "There's money in it, but it's not the kind you can brag about later at Dan's."

"Yeah, well, I didn't go looking for it."

"You think I did?" Henry asked angrily, rising to his feet. This wasn't—this wasn't the fight they should be having—Henry didn't quite know what it was about, except he didn't want Johnny to sit there and look at him like that.

"No. Goddamn it, Henry, sit down. You're the one who told me a good con can't afford to be touchy."

"You might be right," said Henry. He drained his glass, but he didn't sit back down. "Think I'm gonna take a walk. Stay sharp tomorrow."

"Sit down, Henry," said Johnny, his eyes still pleading. Henry almost did it—Johnny was that hard to resist—but he couldn't just sit next to him and pretend. He pretended with everyone else.

But he softened a little and put his hand over Johnny's for a moment. "I need the fresh air, Hooker," he said mildly. "Take it easy."

Henry glanced back once he was outside. Johnny had already attracted new drinking buddies. No one from the con, of course, they would all be on their own tonight, drinking and whoring and dancing. Few would sleep. Henry didn't feel much like sleeping and it wasn't even his play.

It was a good night for a walk, unseasonably warm for November. No one would bother him, so long as he didn't venture up to Hell's Kitchen. He'd make his play for Snyder, then hightail it out of here. No point sticking around where he wasn't wanted. Or where he wanted too much.

The Tale.

Johnny didn't like to spend the night before the touch alone. At first it had been comfort, but now it was superstition. When he was alone the night before, the con didn't go right. Better to sleep with a trained assassin than sleep alone.

There was a waitress on Broadway who would end her shift early if Johnny showed up, and a pick-pocket named Louise who kept her door open to him. It was tempting, the idea of losing himself like that, and a better plan than drinking the jitters away.

He didn't want anyone he knew, though, not after Gardner, and Henry, and all the easy-to-find nancy bars in the Village had been shut down, so he wandered over to Madeira on 11th avenue. The house madam was a portly woman named Amber whose face was still beautiful, even with, or perhaps because of, her weight. Johnny'd come in here a few times but he wasn't anything like a regular.

Still, Amber was a good enough businesswoman to greet Johnny by name. She offered him Rose, the girl he'd chosen last time.

He was just about to go upstairs with her, when a heavy paw descended on his shoulder. "Hey buddy, watch it," he said, turning, and there was Detective Snyder, twice as ugly as Johnny remembered. He wasn't supposed to be here yet, but maybe he'd been leaning on Billie heavier than Henry let on. Well, they could

"I see your taste in women hasn't changed," said Snyder. He draped an unfriendly arm over Johnny's shoulder. "Don't you go rabbitting off this time, Hooker," he said, pressing down so Johnny's knees wanted to buckle.

"Snyder, what the hell are you doing here?" asked Johnny, not having to ape the irritation and disgust that Snyder would expect. "This isn't Joliet."

"I ain't a Joliet badge anymore, Hooker."

"Well you ain't a fed, I know that much, so what are you doing here?" Snyder started to swing Johnny into the wall, but Johnny managed to duck under his arm and put himself between the door and Snyder. If he ran now, he'd get away clean, but that wouldn't quite set the hook the way he and Henry needed.

"I'm on vacation. What do you think, Hooker? No one pulls a game in my town without me seeing a piece of it."

"And you came all this way to collect?"

"A little bird told me you and Gondorff were back here. Stupid move but what do you expect?"

Johnny didn't know if he meant Billie or him and Henry, but it didn't really matter. He let Snyder get close enough to him to wrap a hand around his bicep. "You and Henry are going to put me right or I'm going to sic the feds on you. How's that?"

There it was: an open invitation to take Snyder for everything he had. But if he made it too easy, Snyder might get wise.

"Fuck off," said Johnny, and took a run out of there. He dashed up the metal stairs leading to the highline. He heard Snyder's heavy footfalls behind him as he jumped the rail. He ran along the tracks until it wound close enough to a building that he could jump off.

He'd lost Snyder by the time he jumped onto the tracks, but he kept running along the street until his chest and legs were burning and he was within a few blocks of his hotel. He stopped long enough to catch his breath and dab himself off with his handkerchief before going into the lobby.

The clock showed it was just after 2am. And he was tired enough to sleep before the touch the next day, certainly. He retrieved his messages at the front desk. Father Gardner had the money, which Johnny already knew from the boy following him, but it was good to get confirmation.

He didn't have to be at the store until 5pm, but he woke up in time to meet Henry in his hotel room for breakfast. "Snyder found me last night," he said, thinking what a throwback that sounded like. Well, two years ago he hadn't trusted Henry enough to tell him that. And now? Henry had been the one to tell him that he shouldn't con his friends. Give a little trust to get a little trust.

"Where?" Henry asked as he splashed water on his face. He was acting like last night hadn't happened, and Johnny was fine to leave it. He'd been foolish to try to talk to Henry about something like that.

Henry had put on his slacks, but his suspenders hung down over his legs, and he only wore an undershirt. He was slimmer than he had been two years ago, Johnny suddenly noticed—living on the road must not agree with him.

Johnny spread his hands and shrugged. "This place on 11th Ave. . ."

Henry grinned knowingly. "Did Snyder get you before or after, kid?" he asked, but before Johnny could answer or frame a denial, he added, "Don't answer that. What happened?"

Johnny gave a quick sketch of the night before, and Henry looked at him for a moment, thinking. "I think that'll work. We'll run him around for a while then deal him in."

"Think I need to go back to Madeira, let him see me?"

Henry turned back to the mirror. "I hope he's not that stupid. We'll see."

**

When Henry saw Johnny at Dan's the next day, he was full of the giddy good spirits of a con well played. He smoothed his hair down when he took off his hat, although it hardly needed it, and grinned at Henry.

"Well? How'd the blow off go? Or are you gonna touch him again." Henry grimaced slightly at the double entendre, but Johnny's spirits were too high to notice.

"I think he's good for another go, but we've got a new fish on the line. Got some right coppers to bust the joint. They dropped him off in front of St. Paddy's—thought it was a lark. They hate a priest on the take."

"You know that's church money you're crowing over," said Henry. He didn't care one fig who the money was from, and the church had more than enough to spare, but he couldn't help digging into this side of Johnny, the one he couldn't quite understand.

"Ah, I'll give it to the priest at St. Paul's. The priest there'll use it for something worthwhile. Better than blowing it all." He steered Henry in the open door of a saloon. "Now what about Synder?"

Henry looked around the place. There was something about the atmosphere tonight that hit him wrong. "You sure want in on that? He could get dangerous for you. He doesn't like you very much."

Johnny looked offended. "Course I do."

"I think we gotta find a new play for him. I've been thinking of this new game. Like the pay-off, but with art, not money." At Johnny's look he added, "Don't worry, there's money too. How'd the blow off go?"

"Beautiful," said Johnny. "He was sad that it didn't work out, but he made me promise we'd try it again some time. Well, until the cops came to shut us down." Johnny took a drink of his whiskey and his face went white as a lady's glove. "Oh shit," was all he said. "Henry . . ."

Henry didn't even look up. Johnny could mean only one thing: trouble, the government kind. He pulled the brim of his hat down lower over his head. "I thought the fix was good here," he whispered to Johnny.

A flash of panic still lit Johnny's baby blues, but he tamped it down quickly, and Henry felt a swell of pride in him, even with the panic Henry was feeling himself. "It is good," said Johnny. "But you can't never tell with the feds."

Leaving they'd be noticed, but just maybe, if the feds didn't know they were in the right place, they'd leave this back room alone. Henry heard his name mentioned, and the bartender shook his head.

"You think this is Snyder?" asked Johnny under his breath. "I thought his greed would keep him waiting a little longer."

"And I thought you had someone tailing him," Henry said.

The feds were almost out the door, and Johnny breathing a sigh of relief, when the taller of the two looked back. A flash of recognition lit his face. Henry was on his feet, moving toward the back entrance before Johnny even had time to grab his hat.

He put his hand heavily on the taller one's shoulder as he rushed back and said, "Hey, who're you looking for?"

"Get off, kid," he said, and pushed Johnny to the side. He ran out into the men's bathroom. He banged on all the stall doors. A window in the hall opened onto a back courtyard that connected to the street. The window used to fall closed when Henry was a young grifter. Now when he pulled it up and jumped out, it stayed resolutely open.

**

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, Johnny thought. The back alley behind Dan's had a couple exits. Henry should know them from his earlier days in New York, but what if things had changed? Henry said himself that he didn't recognize half the buildings anymore.

Johnny put a twenty on the table, and went into the john. He opened the window and made a dove call, the one they'd agreed upon as a signal back in Chicago, because of all the doves that lived up under the eaves at the merry-go-round.

He waited an agonizing minute, listening to the quiet sounds of the alley, but then a hand appeared over the window sill, followed by another, and Johnny pulled Henry up by the forearms, closed the window and hustled him into a stall.

Perching on the toilet together was a difficult bit of acrobatics. Johnny had to drape himself over Henry's back to stay balanced. He half expected Henry to tell him to beat it. "They coming back?" Johnny whispered.

"I ran out, then doubled back and hid behind some trash cans," Henry whispered. Johnny heard some rustling in the alley below and tensed, pulling Henry closer to him, but then the sound of footsteps faded away.

Henry breathed out a sigh of relief. He looked at Johnny speculatively. "Hey kid, you gonna let go of me now?"

"If I have to," said Johnny without thinking.

Henry went very still for a moment, but then steadied himself on the walls of the bathroom stall, and stepped down onto the floor. Johnny followed as Henry turned to face him. There was no room, so they still stood, almost touching, still breathing hard, though the pursuit was long gone.

"You gotta find a new place to stay," said Johnny, babbling and looking at the floor, "or maybe leave town. I'll play Snyder—he was always after me anyway—then I'll meet you on the road somewhere if . . ." he glanced up, meeting Henry's eyes for a split second before training them back on the floor, ". . . if you want me."

Henry put a couple of fingers under Johnny's chin and pushed it up so he had to look at Henry. Johnny didn't know what he was seeing there—pity, affection, no revulsion, thank God, but the others were almost as bad. "Hey. Kid, look at me."

Johnny turned away, although it was a useless gesture in this tiny stall with nowhere to go. He looked at the floor tiles, as though he could make them open up and swallow him if he stared hard enough. Henry had all but told him those days were over, and he didn't want reminders. He waited for Henry to leave, but instead he put his arms around Johnny. He was solid and warm. "I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly. "This is a big enough city I can lose the feds for a couple weeks if we can't get 'em fixed."

Henry let go, and Johnny turned back to stop him. They'd gone this far, Johnny could take one more step. He pulled Henry to him and kissed him until he felt Henry kissing him back, hard and possessive and hungry enough that Johnny knew that he'd been right all along, back in Chicago. Henry wanted him. Henry had always wanted him.

"Johnny . . .," said Henry when they broke for a moment. "This isn't the place for . . ."

A ridiculous thought flashed through Johnny's head: that he was getting good at these bathroom seductions. At least Henry wouldn't try to kill him after.

"Come with me. We'll send a kid 'round to your hotel so you don't have to go back there." Johnny went out first, and when Sal said they were all clear, he knocked on the door for Henry to come on out.

**

They didn't speak much on the walk back to Johnny's hotel. Henry kept his hat pulled low and his eyes trained to the right and left looking for pursuit, but he couldn't keep the bounce out of his step. And as soon as Johnny keyed open the door and pushed it closed again behind them, he was pushing Henry's hat off his head, pulling his jacket off, and then his shirt, leaving them where they fell.

"Hey, kid, slow down," Henry said when Johnny let him. Much as he wanted to imagine this was the beginning of a long partnership, this might be the only time. Johnny might get cold feet. Or the feds might show.

Johnny gave him what might be classed as a pout if it had been on a less masculine face. "You called me 'Johnny' before."

"So I did," said Henry. "Johnny." And it was all there in his voice, a stupid amount of longing, enough to make him feel more naked than he was.

"Henry," said Johnny, kissing his neck, not brave enough to lay himself open like Henry had. Not that Henry could blame him.

And it didn't matter, not now, not when Henry could finally touch that golden skin, run his hands through that golden hair, and see Johnny make expressions he'd only imagined. That was enough.

**

"I do have someone tailing Snyder," said Johnny, as he sat next to Henry, smoking. Henry was still lying down. Johnny had an intense urge to leave the bed and go back to his own room, but it didn't seem friendly enough, and this was what he'd wanted all along, right?

"I know, kid," said Henry. "Give me a cig?"

Johnny reached over and shook another one out of the pack. Henry sat up next to him. "You ready to run?" he asked, not looking at him. "It's okay."

"Hah," said Johnny, choosing not to misinterpret it as running from the feds. "How'd you know?" Now he looked at Henry sidelong.

"You're pretty easy to read."

"Hey, I—"

"Doesn't mean you're not a good con, kid."

"What are you going to do, Henry?"

It was Henry's turn to look away. "I can dodge it for a little while, but . . ."

"Yeah."

"I'll see this one through. If you're up for it."

He grinned at Henry. "Oh yeah, I'm up for it."

Henry didn't precisely grin back, but his eyes sparkled as he took a drag on his cigarette.

**

Johnny put the word out to the fixers to tell the badges to leave Snyder alone, let him get what was coming. The New York police were a clannish bunch, and they might, if left to their own devices, drive Snyder out to some unpleasant swamp in Yonkers and leave him by the side of the road like a dog a family didn't want anymore. And Snyder probably find a way to blame Johnny for that.

It took time to set up the two stores they'd need for this con, so Henry spent his time laying a trail out of town. He went to Chicago and ran some short games, long profit, high risk so the feds would place him there again, then came back to New York.

Johnny set up the stores. No one had heard of what Henry had planned before, and everyone was laying odds on whether it would work or not. Of course, Henry kept a few things so close to the vest that Johnny'd had a hard time worming them out of him.

They didn't have to look for Snyder. Instead, Johnny let the New York boys gently steer him, a word here, and a word there, until a few weeks later, Snyder showed up at the Stork Club when Johnny and Henry were there.

They'd gotten the word through one of the waiters. Snyder tried to bully his way past the boys at the door, and he never would have gotten in if Johnny hadn't nodded to the maitre d'.

"This is a class joint, Snyder," said Johnny when Snyder came over to join them. "Dress the part next time, will ya?" Snyder looked down at his rumpled suit and then over at Johnny's impeccable dinner jacket. Never show up a mark, Henry had told him, but Snyder was a different case. He lived for his petty jealousies, his offended dignity. Johnny'd rubbed salt in the wound that brought him to New York in the first place.

"You knew—"

"Yes, I knew you were coming. My mother knew you were coming and she's been dead for twenty years."

Snyder didn't sit. "Well, then she probably also knows that you're under arrest."

"Oh, sit down," said Henry. "Stop making a spectacle of yourself." Snyder sat. "Now let's get to it, so we don't have to spend any more time together than absolutely necessary."

Henry leaned forward. "Now, we know that you can make our lives . . . unpleasant, but you should know we can make yours a lot shorter."

Johnny, taking his cue, held up a hand. "Come on, Henry, none of that. I don't want to be making threats."

"Hey, I just want what's coming to me," said Snyder. "You cleared what, a hundred grand with that Lonnegan job—"

"It was only fifty," Johnny cut in, not because he thought Snyder would believe it, but because it was what Snyder expected him to say. Interesting that Snyder got the number so low. Usually touches grew over time. The Chicago boys must have been really scared of Lonnegan.

"Don't care, Hooker. My end's twenty-five."

"Not gonna happen, Snyder. Best I can do is ten, and that's only if you get out of town and forget my name." Henry cleared his throat. "And Henry's."

Here was the delicate part. Snyder could take the ten grand and leave, or he could dig in and make a profitable nuisance of himself. Johnny honestly wasn't sure which he wanted, but Henry had that sparkle in his eye like he was out for blood. He'd risked everything for Luther before, and now it looked like he wanted to do the same for Billie.

Henry gestured for the waiter to bring him another drink. The waiter glanced at Snyder, and Henry shook his head. Snyder heaved an aggrieved sigh.

"I know you've got a line on something here. My sources say the two of you haven't been in one place together since Chicago. I'll take that ten grand and then I'll be back for a piece of whatever you got going on." He banged his fist on the table. "I can still call the feds."

Johnny stiffened at that, but Henry made like it was nothing. Johnny envied him that—still, the threat made it seem like it wasn't Snyder who'd set the feds on them. Maybe they really had found Henry on their own.

Johnny shared an exasperated glance with Henry. It wasn't much of an act. "Fine. Come by Pete's Tavern at 19th and 7th tomorrow after three. Don't know as there's much to cut you in on now, but maybe we can talk about some things."

Snyder stood. "You better not be giving me the run around, Hooker."

"Why would I lie to you?" asked Johnny sarcastically.

**

Johnny came by Henry's hotel late the next morning. He was buttoned up and polished within an inch of his life. No more rumple-headed and half-dressed Johnny hanging over his cards at Billie's. Henry missed that so hard he could feel it in his chest. This Johnny was armored.

He sat and read the papers, and drank Henry's coffee—Johnny who'd never read more than the sports page when Henry met him. Henry shook his head as Johnny put down one stock page and picked up another. It was good to know if you were running stock scams, but still.

"I never saw you sit still that long in my life before." Thought we could do something else to pass the time, he wanted to say, except if Johnny was gonna pretend it never happened, so could Henry.

Johnny flipped a page. "Well, two years is a long time."

"Not that long, kid."

"Long enough for me to learn patience."

"Yeah," said Henry doubtfully, turning back to his paper.

But he felt gratified when Johnny stood up and looked out the window, down onto the street below. "When do we go over?"

"Half hour late, at least. Let 'im stew." Henry looked Johnny up and down, this time evaluating him for the con, and not for anything else, or so he told himself. "You're a little overdressed for Pete's."

He walked over and stood close, to see if Johnny'd let him. "We gotta mess you up a little."

Johnny flushed. Henry loved that he could still blush after everything, so much that he threw away caution and caught Johnny into a kiss. Johnny didn't resist; he kissed Henry right back. Henry guessed those morning-after jitters had faded quickly.

"How mussed did you have in mind?" Johnny asked.

Instead of answering, Henry undid Johnny's belt suspenders so his trousers fell to his ankles. "Now your pants are wrinkled," he said.

Johnny unbuttoned his jacket and let it fall to the floor. "Now that's wrinkled."

Henry grinned and steered Johnny over to the bed. Johnny wouldn't have an unwrinkled piece of clothing when he was done.

**

"That's better," said Henry, looking Johnny up and down after he got dressed again.

"Hey," said Johnny. His hair was mussed and his lips bitten red. It was a good look for him. "I do alright for myself." Henry could only agree.

When they got to Pete's, Snyder was two beers down, and giving pugnacious looks to a man across the bar. Pete's wasn't the fanciest place in the city, and the two empty glasses sat in front of him, sudsy and sticky.

"Where've you been? You know I can—"

"Yeah, yeah, call the feds on us. Here's 'your' ten grand. You gonna leave Billie alone now?" said Johnny.

"What do you care?" Snyder asked. "She's Henry's girl."

"You gonna leave her alone now?" Henry asked.

Snyder fanned out the bills to count them and then tucked them into his pocket. "That was only part of the deal."

"Well—" Johnny glanced at Henry, aping hesitancy. They couldn't look too eager to deal Snyder in, or he'd know something was up. "I'm not sure you'd be interested . . ."

"Stop giving me the dog and pony show and tell me what it is," said Snyder.

"It's an art con," said Henry.

Snyder laughed shortly and Johnny picked up his hat and said to Henry, "See, I told you he wouldn't be interested. Philistine."

"I know what that word means," said Snyder.

"I'm impressed. Do you want to know more, or am I wasting my time?" Johnny replied. The bartender came over and looked at Johnny and Henry, while they stared down Snyder.

"I'm interested, I'm interested," said Snyder after a couple beats. Johnny motioned for two more beers.

"Okay, here's the game," said Johnny, pulling up a seat. "It's a little complicated. I'm working this thing with a gallery owner, and Henry's got the auction house side. We've got this artist, Jan Mecklenburg—doesn't know how good he is. Henry gets him to sell his stuff at auction, and he appraises it for a low value. Then I turn around and sell it at the gallery for ten times as much. I get a cut. The gallery owner gets a cut, and Henry gets a cut."

Snyder nodded along, and Henry picked up the thread. "See, the thing is, even the low prices are getting a little steep for us to get the cash together. Plus, it doesn't look right, the guys we know, placing the bid. They don't look the part. So all you gotta do is go into the gallery and bid on the piece we tell you to. Then have it delivered to your hotel. A boy from the gallery will pick it up, and once we sell it. We divide the profits and do it all over again, if you want."

Snyder tipped his head to one side. "Who's the mark?"

"That's the beauty part," said Johnny.

"There's not one mark," Henry explained. "So no one person can figure it out. The artist gets cheated when the painting sells for so low, the auction house gets cheated of its cut."

"And every sap who comes into the gallery and thinks that a painting is a good thing to spend half a million dollars on," Johnny added. "They're the biggest marks of all."

Snyder looked back and forth between them, but he'd started smiling when Henry'd started talking, and he broke into a grin when Johnny mentioned the money. "I'll do it," he said. "What's the plan?"

The Convincer.

Johnny had done a masterful job setting up the auction house shop. Henry had been by when it first got set up, but it still looked like a dark theater to him then. You never knew how a store was gonna look until it was full of shills acting their parts.

They'd told Snyder the painting to bid on—this time a relatively cheap one, just to whet his appetite.

A doorman in a dinner jacket held the door open for him. Henry doffed his hat and scarf, and handed it to the boy, who nodded correctly, and put it in the cloak room. The carpeting was thick and rich under his feet. On the walls, paintings that Henry knew had been sitting in some starving artist's studio days before now looked like old masters, wrapped in burnished frames.

Hidden wall sconces lit the hallway that led to the main auction room. A susurrus of voices became a loud clatter when he opened the door to the salon. It was mostly men, but a few women too. Henry recognized some faces from the dance halls and vaudeville shows. Probably a few girls were here from Johnny's Madeira, too.

Henry looked at his watch. Johnny would bring in Snyder any minute now to see the con in action, and Henry had to make it sing.

They'd been lucky to get JJ to be the auctioneer. If he could do horse-races, he could do this, and Snyder hadn't gotten a look at his face during the Lonnegan wire.

Henry nodded to JJ, who cleared his throat, silencing the room. They'd do a few paintings before Snyder came in, to get the feel for it.

At the front of the room, JJ had started his shtick. He went through a few paintings and then said, "Lot 23, 'The Cliffs at Etratat' is a painting by a relatively unknown artist, Jan Mecklenburg, working from his upstate studio. The bidding will start at one thousand. Do I hear one thousand?"

Henry watched the action until he thought it was convincing enough. It wouldn't work with anyone who actually understood art auctions, but Henry wasn't worried about Snyder catching on. The doorman came to tell him that Snyder was here. Henry nodded to JJ, who made a signal of his own for the shills to start bidding it up higher.

"Ten thousand, do I hear ten thousand? Eleven thousand, yes? Twelve thousand, going once—"

"Twenty thousand," spoke a voice from the crowd.

"Twenty thousand," JJ repeated, "Do I hear twenty-five? Twenty-five thousand."

Snyder walked in, shaking off the doorman who was plucking at his hat. Henry cut his eyes sideways to glance at Snyder. This was an important part of the convincer—letting the mark see all the money flying around. In an auction house they couldn't just have stacks of cash sitting around—a weakness of this con, and something Henry would have to think about—but at least Snyder could hear the big numbers and salivate over them.

And hear them he did. Snyder's mouth hung open when the bidding went up past fifty thousand, and his eyes had narrowed to avaricious slits when JJ wrapped up the auction at seventy-five.

They went through another painting, just to make sure Snyder's larcenous instincts were primed, and then to the painting that he'd been told to buy with Johnny's ten thousand.

"Lot 27, 'Girl at the Seaside' by Leonard Terrance. The bidding will start at two hundred."

Snyder put up his paddle. Henry'd planned to let it get up to a thousand, and leave Snyder with the extra nine grand to keep. They'd have to at least double what Snyder put in to make it convincing.

Around eight hundred, Henry nodded to JJ, and Snyder won it, right at a thousand. Then he turned right to Henry and said, "When do I get it?"

Henry fixed him with a cool stare, and said, "Excuse me?" He widened his eyes slightly. Not that it mattered if Snyder shouted from the rooftops that they were in cahoots, not when the whole shop was filled with shills, but couldn't Snyder at least try to play along?

"Oh," said Snyder, getting it. He nodded conspiratorially, and Henry rolled his eyes. This was a little fun—usually you didn't get to let a mark know how little you thought of him, but this time, it was part of the con.

You get a receipt, Henry and Johnny had told Snyder earlier. God, he wouldn't have to remind Snyder, would he? Finally when one of the auction boys came up to Snyder he remembered what he was supposed to do and took the receipt.

As soon as Henry got the signal that Snyder had gotten in a cab, he nodded to JJ, who ended the auction half way through a bid on a nude mermaid statue.

"Nice work," Henry told the mob. He reminded them to be ready for the next stage of the game before hightailing it back to the hotel to tell Johnny how it went.

**

Henry looked pleased with himself when he arrived. Johnny's veins were singing with the same crazy energy of the Lonnegan con, even though this one didn't have nearly the potential downside of the last one. Sure, Snyder could set the feds on them, but that was the extent of his muscle. Henry and he had lammed it before, they could do it again.

"Only problem with this gig," Henry said as he loosened up his tie and poured himself a drink, "is we have to man the shops all the time. Too much like having an honest living."

This was what they did, the ropers and inside men, when they weren't actively playing a mark they talked about how to play him better, refinements and variations to the game. There wasn't anything else but the game, and the dead times in between. Henry was supposed to make that different.

Johnny frowned. "I don't think that's a weakness of the game, I think that's the problem with playing someone like Snyder, who knows the rackets. Another mark's not likely to check up on us. We have the gallery on evening hours. That's good enough."

"You're up next," Henry reminded him.

Snyder came to the gallery the next day to see the painting being sold. He and Henry had toyed with the idea of telling Snyder they were selling it privately, and skipping the gallery entirely, and maybe that would work the next time they pulled this con, but the gallery was insurance—it made the con that much more real.

Johnny had wanted Kid Twist to play the rich art buyer, but Henry thought it would be even better if their imaginary buyer sent his secretary, so instead they found a young, clean cut man to play that part. The purchase went off without a hitch, and although Snyder argued about splitting the money, he eventually took his half and went off to spend it on show girls, Johnny's tailer following a discreet block behind.

**

"You've got your money," Johnny told Snyder when they met in at Franco's Deli on 30th street. "Time to go back to Chicago."

"Yeah, Hooker, I thought you said there was real money in this game. Two grand is shit."

Johnny slid into the booth and motioned for Snyder to keep his voice down. Henry was supposed to give Snyder this bit of the tale, but with the feds after him, Johnny had convinced Henry to lay low.

"We have a bigger prize coming in," he said quietly. "Much bigger. Henry's got an investor already, though." Johnny made a face, as if he didn't think much of this investor.

"What's the take?"

"Could be as much as three million," said Johnny. "But we have to put up seventy grand, and Henry and I can't scrape that together."

He and Henry had consulted long and hard about how much to get Snyder to put up. Henry's contacts in Chicago said Snyder pulled down five grand a month from bribes and shakedowns, and he gambled. He wouldn't be able to put up much more than what Henry and Johnny had already given him.

"I can get that," said Snyder around a bit of sandwich.

"I told you, we already have an investor."

"Not anymore you don't. You've got me."

It was a truism of the big con that once you had a mark roped, you could send him to the ends of the earth to get his money, and he'd come back to you like a golden retriever with a stick. Johnny had doubted it at first, but time and again he'd seen marks jump through all kinds of hoops to lose their money. It boggled the mind.

Snyder wasn't an ordinary mark, though, so Johnny telegrammed some boys in Chicago to keep an eye on him.

**

"How long does it take to get sixty thousand dollars in Chicago?" Johnny asked after a week of silence.

Well, not quite silence. Henry's contacts had telegrammed to let him know that Snyder was going to the usual loan sharks, hat in hand, and being turned down.

"I had to call in a lot of favors for this one," said Henry, "but no one is going to loan it to him. He's gonna steal it, and he's gonna get caught."

They were at the Cub Room tonight, for a change from Dan's. It was the kind of fancy place Johnny probably wouldn't have thought of going into a year ago, but now he acted like he belonged, just like Henry taught him. The sight of Johnny in his dinner jacket, acting like a real swell, made Henry want to burst with pride. As if he'd done more that show Johnny a few tricks and let him shine. Johnny did belong, always had.

"You know how silly this racket is, right?" said Johnny. Henry raised an eyebrow, but Johnny continued. "I've been doing some reading, and art prices are always published. The artist knows how much his work is selling for. If Snyder did even a little digging—"

"But he won't," said Henry. On this he could speak with perfect authority. "The right mark never does. It would be admitting his own ignorance. Plus, a mark never wants to pierce the illusion. He's got too much more invested in believing in it."

They ordered drinks and watched a female singer in a revealing white dress take the stage. Johnny's shoulders relaxed when she began singing, and a smile began to play over his lips when she leaned forward and showed her cleavage. Watching Johnny enjoy himself was a treat that Henry never got tired of. And it might not last any longer than this con.

As if reading his mind, Johnny turned and asked carelessly, "What's next? After Snyder?"

"I haven't really thought about it," said Henry. No, he hadn't been thinking about it, except every time he looked at Johnny. Two years was way too long.

The song ended, and the singer walked around the room, draping her boa over male members of the audience, and gracing Johnny with a special smile.

"I was thinking of going on the road again," said Johnny. His voice held a breathy note, but whether from the singer's attention or something else, Henry didn't know.

"I'm dangerous to know, kid," said Henry.

Johnny, God bless him, just rolled his eyes at that. "Yeah, well, too late. I already know you. I'm gonna go on the road again. Am I going alone?"

The singer sang some line about her heart being locked in a box. "Not if I can help it," said Henry.

The Touch.

Johnny got no warning that Snyder was coming back into town except a note left at Johnny's hotel, demanding a meeting or Snyder would call the whole thing off. Johnny's stomach sank when he read it. He was twelve grand into Snyder now, and while it was worth the price to make him go away, Johnny wanted some return on his investment.

He went to meet Snyder.

"I don't buy it," said Snyder. He had a plate of pastries in front of him and a cup of coffee that he'd drained three times in the fifteen minutes Johnny had been sitting across from him.

"What's not to buy?" asked Johnny. "You don't want a piece, you don't have to play. I was never keen on sharing."

"Where's your friend? Thought you two never left each other's side." Snyder barked out a laugh and reached for a donut.

"He's busy." Johnny shrugged, although he wanted to reach across the table and throttle some answers out of Snyder. Did you set the feds on him? Are you that stupid? Except it wasn't stupid, it was a lot smarter than getting mixed up with Henry and Johnny again. It would probably make Snyder's career.

"Where're you gonna get the money, if you cut me loose? I got the money right here." Snyder patted the pocket of his coat.

"We have another investor. If you don't want in . . . " He jerked his chin up at Snyder. "You're the one who asked." He put his scarf around his neck and made as if to slide out of the booth. This wasn't what Henry wanted, but if Snyder went back to Chicago ten thousand richer and laid off Billie, that would probably be enough of a win.

"Come on, Hooker. I didn't say I couldn't buy it, just that I didn't yet. How do I know that someone really wants to buy the paintings for that much? You coulda had a shill in to buy that painting. I want to meet someone who's really bought a painting from you. You don't look like much of an art dealer."

Johnny swallowed. Snyder'd come pretty close to the meat of the con. But all he said was, "Sure, Snyder, and you know art."

"You're friends with all these rich guys now, or this thing wouldn't work. I want to meet a real name who's bought something from your gallery. A Vanderbilt. Or a Carnegie. Someone like that."

"I'm not best friends with them or anything, Snyder. Don't be a dope."

"Okay, then, how 'bout I tell the NYPD who's operating in their city?" Snyder narrowed his eyes threateningly, but Johnny could still see greed in them, warring with his desire for vengeance.

As long as it's just the NYPD, Johnny thought. "I might know someone," he said, stalling for time. "There's a fellow, uptown, he's thinking about selling one of his Picassos through the gallery. He's hanging the one you bought before. The Terrance." Johnny was glad for the hours he and Henry had spent thumbing through art magazines in the tobacco shop so he could pull out a name like that. Snyder might not even know the name, but in case he checked on it, it would hold up.

"Okay, yeah, let's see it."

"He's not a Vanderbilt, so don't get your hopes up, but he has money, and plenty of it. I have to set up an appointment. I'll leave a message at your hotel." He left Snyder to his sweets.

**

"So he wants us to introduce him to some bigwig who's bought one of the marked down paintings," Johnny finished.

Henry sat back on the bed. He wanted to erase the worried creases off Johnny's forehead with his fingers, but Johnny was jumpy and skittish enough Henry didn't want to fright him further.

It's enough if he . . ., Henry told himself, but he couldn't even finish the thought. Henry would take whatever Johnny wanted to offer, but it wasn't enough. Not even close.

"I coulda cut him loose," Johnny continued. He ran his hands through his hair. "Do you think—I mean, he wanted to—but he could run to the cops, or he could have been the one who called down the feds in the first place. Although Davey B said that he never talked to no one he shouldn't, but maybe Davey was off his post. Or maybe Davey's in on it."

Henry had stood during this speech and now arrested Johnny in his pacing with a hand on his shoulder. "Come on," he said, and then yielded to temptation and smoothed back Johnny's hair. "You never used to—"

"I never had to worry that I'd call the law down on you either."

Henry raised his eyebrows, and Johnny spread his hands. "Okay, maybe I cared a little less about that then. I didn't think I had anything to lose." His eyes flashed up at Henry's, electric blue in the daylight coming in the sheer day-curtains, and Henry stopped breathing.

"So is it worth it this time?" Johnny asked.

"We play it through, same as before." Henry stood up and paced along the floor.

"This is good, I think . . . I think Snyder just gave us the perfect blow off. We still have Tommy play the assistant for Mr. Bishop, but now Mr. Bishop comes into the gallery and decides to buy something else with all that money."

"That's what we were always planning to do," said Johnny.

"No, it's different because Snyder will have met Mr. Bishop, and seen his beautiful well appointed home, so when he says 'Oh, sorry, we've started collecting some other artist. I don't think the Mecklenburgs are worth quite what we've been led to believe.'" Henry finished with a plumy accent.

Johnny had started nodding along, but now he frowned. "Won't he wait around and hope someone else buys it?"

"We let it linger for a few weeks, then, if Snyder hasn't been hauled back to Chicago under embezzlement charges, we have another auction, sell it for a couple grand and send him on his way."

Johnny nodded, and touched his fingers to his lips. "It could work, but aren't you worried about sticking around that long with the feds out hunting."

"You can wrap it up if you have to. It might look better if I'm not there at the auction, like my services are no longer required as art appraiser."

"Where will you be?" Johnny asked. "Can I . . .?"

Henry touched Johnny's mouth to stop him. And then they didn't have to think about the con for a few hours.

**

"You know, we still need a house," Johnny had said when he smoked a cigarette afterwards.

Henry did something distracting to his neck and when Johnny mind caught up with the sensations, Henry had stolen his cigarette. "I know a guy. He'll be happy to hear from me."

Johnny looked at him sidelong. "I've heard stories."

"They're not all true," said Henry. He lay back down, and blew a smoke-ring at the ceiling. "That one is, though."

Johnny felt jumpier than cat in a lightning storm a few days later when he brought Snyder to the house. It was in the East 70s and had a view of the park. A uniformed butler answered the door. Johnny had to force himself not to crane his neck to look around the vast, wood-paneled foyer. He didn't want to know what Henry had done or promised to get access to this house. He didn't know houses in New York could look like this. He'd imagined them, out in the woody distance beyond the Hudson, or in Chicago, ringing the lake, but here in the heart of Manhattan, it seemed as if he'd stepped into another world.

Snyder didn't try to hide his awe. His voice even lost its belligerent edge when he greeted Kid Twist as "Mr. Bishop." Henry's . . . friend had cleared out of the house for the day on only Henry's say so. Johnny desperately wanted to get a glimpse of him.

"Mr. Snyder wants to see the Picasso," said Johnny. "He's in the market."

Snyder looked at him like he was crazy, but Johnny gave him the "play along" face, and Snyder was cowed enough by the surroundings to go along with it.

As they walked up the stairs behind "Mr. Bishop" Johnny pointed out the Terrance that Snyder had bought. "You bought that from my gallery, didn't you?"

"Oh yes, Leonard Terrance, of the New Hudson School. He is a treasure." Twist's accent wasn't quite British, but it had edged into some upper crust tones that Johnny couldn't place. He hoped Snyder couldn't either. "Now, the Picasso is in the upstairs study."

Twist showed them into a large, leather upholstered study. Books lined the walls and tall, many-paned windows overlooked Central Park. A painting that looked like every picture of a Picasso that Johnny had seen hung on the wall above the desk. "I've been collecting more realists lately, so I'm thinking of letting this one go."

"Uh-huh," said Snyder.

"You see, Mr. Snyder, this is an excellent representation of his Blue Period," said Johnny, hoping like hell he was remembering that correctly.

"Uh-huh," said Snyder again. Johnny elbowed him in the ribs. "Yes, I can see. It's very—" he sketched some indeterminate shape in the air with his hands "—uh . . . blue."

"Are you interested in purchasing this piece?" Johnny asked him.

"Uh, not today," Snyder said. "But I'll think about it. My Chicago house could always use more . . . err . . . art."

The butler showed them out—God knows what Henry's friend had told him--and once they were out on the street, Johnny asked, "So, real enough for you?"

"How did you meet a guy like that?" Snyder asked.

"Through Henry," said Johnny with perfect sincerity. "You'd be surprised about the circles he runs in."

**

They met up with Twist and JJ that night at Dan's.

"The house impressed him," said Twist.

Johnny's eyes widened. "That house would have impressed anybody." He gave Henry a glance, but Henry figured Johnny could learn to live with this mystery. The part of the story that no one knew is that Henry had given Jeremy his money back, and some other considerations. And now he counted Jeremy a friend. That getting out really would ruin Henry's reputation, even more than the rumors of his fancy habits. Someday he'd tell Johnny, when he was more certain Johnny's restlessness wouldn't get the better of him.

The night before the payoff the whole mob gathered. Henry raised a toast, and gave some last minute instructions, along the lines of "don't get drunk tonight, and don't forget your lines" and then turned back to the booth.

"Henry," said JJ, leaning forward. "I heard something."

"Feds still sniffing around?" Henry asked. JJ only made that face for feds and dead bodies.

"They were asking back here again, and I talked some info out of the younger one. Seems a priest named Gardner knows some Chicago politicians," said JJ. He glanced at Johnny. "Talked about a Johnny who'd been known to hang 'round a con man named Henry. Someone put two and two together."

"Aw, shit," said Johnny. "This is my fault. That was my touch. I thought the cops woulda scared him off."

"Don't worry about it," said Henry mildly. "Could have happened any number of ways."

"Yeah, but it happened because of me."

JJ had turned away by now to give them space to have their argument. Henry gripped Johnny's forearm. "We finish the con," said Henry, same as before. "Thanks for the info, JJ. I don't think it can be fixed, but let me know if you hear anything."

"Henry," said Johnny when they were back on the street. "I'm sorry."

"They've been dogging me for four years, kid," said Henry. "And next year the warrant expires. They would have found me again some time."

"Yeah, but a priest," said Johnny. "Seems like . . ."

Henry had to laugh at that. "Are you upset you almost got me pinched, or upset because you think you pissed off God."

Johnny squinted at him. "Both?"

"Yeah, well, maybe steer clear of priests for a while. They always want what they can't have."

Johnny's mouth quirked up at that. "If I'd given him what he wanted, he wouldn't have been able to tell. I could have blackmailed him."

"I'm glad you didn't," said Henry, pulling Johnny in close.

**

Johnny spent the night with Henry before the touch, worrying all the while that it might be a jinx. He'd never spent the night with someone from the mob before, and he was as superstitious as any con. So much could turn on a shift in the wind.

He woke early, just after dawn. Henry woke soon after. He was leaving for California on the noon train, and Johnny would catch up with him later. They'd argued about it, but Henry didn't want to be in a federal pen anymore than Johnny wanted him there, and eventually Henry gave in.

"I'll catch up in a couple weeks," said Johnny.

Henry kissed him goodbye thoroughly enough that Johnny thought Henry might want another go before his train ride, but he broke it off with a grin. "Later," he said, fixing Johnny with a look. Henry still didn't trust there would be a later, but Johnny didn't mind. He'd have plenty of time to prove Henry wrong.

At the door, Henry turned back with one hand on the knob and said, "I got you a present, Johnny." Johnny opened his mouth to ask, but Henry cut him off saying, "You'll know it when you see it. Good luck today."

**

Johnny arrived early at the auction house. Some of the mob had already gathered. He walked through the crowd, fixing ties, directing a few to the bathroom to erase the signs of late and sleepless nights. No one slept well before the touch.

They took their places around 10:00 AM. Snyder was set to arrive at 10:30, but he could arrive early. At 10:15 JJ started auctioning off a suite of pieces Henry had purchased as props, limbering up his voice, speeding his delivery. The mob performed perfectly, bidding and talking in low voices.

Snyder arrived at 10:25, and Johnny hid himself behind a curtain. Without Henry here there was nothing to guide Snyder through, but Johnny had coached him well.

"Lot 473, 'Lakeside Picnic', by Jan Mecklenburg. The bidding will start at ten thousand, do I here ten thousand?"

A placard went up. "Fifteen, do I hear fifteen?"

The bidding went apace until the number reached seventy, Snyder competing with a few others. At seventy, Johnny walked behind the seated crowd and nodded to JJ. Run him up to eighty, the signal said. Snyder was good for it.

And Snyder did raise his board, so caught up in game. At eighty no one else would compete, and "Lakeside Picnic" was Snyder's.

**

The best cons, Henry had told him, combined the touch and the blow off, so the mark felt that he had lost his money through misadventure but knew there was no way to get it back. This con lacked that, and Johnny was going to have to keep Snyder on the string for a few weeks until Snyder was made to realize he'd made a bad bet.

The gallery kept evening hours, so Johnny went back to his hotel to change, but he couldn't stay still. Snyder could easily turn ugly tonight when he realized his painting wasn't going to sell. Johnny could always go on the run, and let Snyder's creditors catch up with him, but it lacked the finesse that usually accompanied the end of a con.

"Conning Snyder is gonna be different," Henry had reminded Johnny at the beginning. "He knows us, and he's never gonna trust us enough to go quietly. He's the kind of man who doesn't believe he can lose." He'd grinned at that. "He can, though."

The gallery opened at seven, and Snyder was there. The mob for this one was smaller, people to mill around, but not an army to fill all the chairs like the auction house. Snyder stationed himself right next to his painting like a proud father, until Johnny shooed him away. "You're keeping people from seeing it," he told Snyder. "And you look like an idiot." Snyder scowled, but moved on.

At eight, Kid Twist arrived as "Mr. Bishop" with his secretary in tow. Johnny greeted him at the door, glad-handing him like he was royalty. "What do you have to show me?" Twist asked.

Johnny wasted no time and steered "Mr. Bishop" over to Snyder's painting. "We have a new Mecklenburg," he said.

Twist pressed his lips together. "Don't I already have one of those?" he asked Tommy, the boy playing secretary.

Tommy consulted a notebook. "Two," he said. "One hanging in the foyer and one on the stairs."

Twist turned back to Johnny. "I've been hearing about a fellow named Waterman. Does tremendous lily paintings. Do you have anything of his?"

"Why yes, if you'll follow me." He took Twist over to a corner, and carried on a foolish conversation with him while watching Snyder out of the corner of his eye.

Twist paid for the lily painting with stacks of blank bills wrapped with hundreds on the outside. Johnny wrapped the painting in paper, and Tommy carried it out of the store.

Snyder came up to him, glaring furiously. "That wasn't—that wasn't my painting. That was some other painting."

"I couldn't sell him a painting he didn't want to buy, Snyder. Someone else will pick it up." Johnny let some of his nervousness show. Let Snyder start to realize that the game was unraveling.

Snyder picked up on it. "If you've screwed me, Hooker, you'll never hear the end of it. I will set every law enforcement agency in the country against you. I will—"

"Will you keep it down, Snyder? I'm trying to run a business here. Now why don't you go back to your hotel and I'll send a messenger when—"

A commotion at the front entrance interrupted him. All heads turned to look. A pair of burly NYPD officers walked briskly into the room. One consulted a notebook in his hand. His eyes widened in recognition when they landed on Snyder.

"Detective Snyder of the Chicago PD?" he said. The press of shills around Snyder retreated nervously away from the police. "Seems you're wanted back home," the cop added, voice heavy with sardonic amusement. He put a heavy hand on Snyder shoulder and made as if to direct him outside.

Snyder shook him off. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh, I think you will," said the cop. "Mayor Kelly doesn't like to hear the word 'no'."

Snyder opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He started backing toward the door. When he had a clear shot, went for a lumbering, but surprisingly quick, run down the hall and out the door. The cops gave chase.

The mob murmured a bit, but settled down quickly enough and turned back to the paintings on the wall, and the glasses of champagne on the sidebar just as if they had never been interrupted. As if they were the swells and fops they pretended to be. Johnny made a mental note to give them all an extra bonus. This was performance was above and beyond—usually it was every man for himself when the coppers showed up.

Johnny waited a good hour before calling it. Snyder could have lost the cops and come back here, looking for blood. Tempting as it might be to go dark and avoid that, Johnny knew that cooling him out for a while would be better in the long run. But after the clock struck ten Johnny said, "Looks like he's gone for good, boys. Come to Dan's later for the payout." He walked off whistling.

**

Johnny spent a few more days in New York, keeping his ear to the ground, but Snyder had truly disappeared. He divided up the spoils, paying JJ and Twist healthy percentages, and wiring a chunk of the money to Billie. He'd taken bigger touches, but this one was as satisfying as any of them.

Henry had forwarded his messages to Johnny's hotel, and about a week after the blow off, Johnny found an item in from a Chicago paper. A detective Snyder charged with embezzlement. The DA promised to get a heavy sentence. No mention of him or Henry, just an effusive paragraph about Mayor Kelly cracking down on graft. Yeah, but only when someone twisted his arm, Johnny thought.

He took the next day's Trans Continental to San Diego. He played a couple marks at short cons, station games, just for the fun of it, but he didn't try to rope anyone going to San Diego. Time enough to see what Henry had going. The money from the Snyder con was a nice little lump to buy them into the next game, and for once it wasn't burning a hole in Johnny's pocket. Henry could figure out what to do with it.

Johnny found Henry in a beach chair near the pool at the Hotel Coronado in San Diego. In February most of the natives though the weather was too cold for sunbathing, but Henry sat there with his sunglasses on and his shirt off, baking bronze. After the cold of New York, Johnny could well understand.

He pushed up his sunglasses when he saw Johnny. "Johnny," he said, standing up. He shook Johnny's hand, because they were in public, but held it for long enough that Johnny knew he was welcome here—would always be welcome wherever Henry was. He didn't even try to hide his a grin.

"Those police—they were my present?" Johnny asked.

Henry put a finger to his nose and smiled, his eyes sparkling. "Sometimes that's the best kind."

"Were they real?" Johnny asked.

Henry raised his eyebrows. "Did they look real?"

"Yeah."

Henry patted his arm. "Then let's say they were."

"Awwww, you aren't gonna tell me?" Johnny set down his suitcase and took off his jacket. Perspiration made little dots of sweat on the cloth that dried quickly in the sea air.

"I gotta keep some of my secrets, kid." He met Johnny's eyes. "The blow off for that one needs work. I couldn't have you waiting around while Snyder got more and more pissed."

"What would you do differently?"

"Well," said Henry, looking up at the sky, "you can't always bring in badges." He thought for a moment. "There's always the dodge of having them bid on the wrong painting, like the wire, but that's a harder sell." He waved it off. "I'm sure JJ and Twist will refine it."

"Nice place you got here," Johnny said.

"Yeah. Think I'll stay for a while. There's a little store operating on Balboa," said Henry. "Could use a couple of inside men."

"What's the game?"

"Well, did you know . . . ?" Henry slid his sunglasses back on. "Everyone who comes to California wants to be a movie star. The ropers bring 'em in in herds."

"Oh yeah?" Johnny settled onto the chair next to him. "So what's the racket?"

"I got a couple ideas," said Henry. "Get a drink and I'll tell you about them."

The End.