Long White Con: The Biggest Score of His Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

tellers servicing lines of clients in the bustling interior vastness.
    He hit a blow of crystal dust behind his handkerchief. He lit a cigarette and waited for Trevor to show. After several minutes, he got restless. He stepped out to the sidewalk to window shop a swank boutique for fluffs adjacent to the bank. The corner of his eye snared Christina Buckmeister alighting from her pink Excalibur a bit down the stem.
    He glued his eyes to the jewelry display mirror inside the boutique window and studied Christina. She was gazing his way, still-lifed on the sidewalk like a statue of Aphrodite in heat. Her long tapered fingers were frozen on the swung out door of the Excalibur. He could almost hear her ticker booming as it sprinted against his own. She has the incandescent hots for me all right, he decided. She slammed the Excalibur door and pranced his way.
    As she passed, her contralto voice and Paris Lilac rode back on April zephyrs, “Good afternoon, Mister O’Brien.”
    He turned his head her way and sent on return winds an indifferent, “Good afternoon to you, Miss Buckmeister.”
    He turned his eyes back to an exquisite jade necklace that hevisualized caressing Pearl’s plum-hued throat. Satan’s voice rattled him as it encored, purring mockingly at his side.
    “Mister O’Brien, forgive me if I’ve startled you, but I couldn’t help noticing on passing that you appear as famished as I am. I’ve ordered a bountiful late lunch from Antoine’s and I should be delighted to share bread with you . . . and show you our fabulous bank.”
    Their eyes dueled in the display mirror for what seemed like eons. His cocaine arid throat was paralyzed. Steamy time suspended. His tongue flicked irrigation across his parched lips.
    He croaked to her reflection, “Thanks, but I’ve had a late lunch.”
    She tossed her head to flop an errant forelock from her eyes. The sun exploded golden Roman candles from her mane of spun silk hair.
    Irritation laced her voice. “Then I insist that you have an after lunch cocktail.”
    He felt like a lopeared mark sensing from the sultry amusement in her hooded orbs that she knew she was shaking him up. He’d have to turn and face her, he thought, seize control of the situation with his usual refrigerated composure. But he was afraid she’d tip to his hatred, to his pulse flogging desire.
    Trevor’s voice cut him loose from her rack. “Chris! Johnny!”
    They turned to face him. Trevor glanced at his wristwatch. His blue eyes twinkled knowingly. “Johnny, I’m sorry to be late. Shouldn’t we be getting along?”
    She said, “I’ve been holding Mister O’Brien hostage for cocktails. Now, as usual, you’ve spoiled the fun.”
    She just stared up into his eyes as he held her extended hand. Trevor cleared his throat. They disengaged.
    She said, “Bye until the next time, Mister O’Brien.”
    He replied, “Until next time Miss Buckmeister.”
    She turned and whipped her Grable props down the sidewalk into the bank. Trevor and he went to the limo and pulled it awayto pick up Speedy. On their way to the suite Folks shared with the mark, Speedy pulled into the far corner of a sprawling supermarket parking lot.
    Folks disguised himself as millionaire artifacts freak Alex Remington, as Stilwell knew him. He covered his blond hair with a curly black wig. He camouflaged his blue eyes with dark brown contact lenses.
    Trevor disguised his youthfully handsome face with heavy horn-rimmed glasses, a gray wig and appropriate wrinkles with materials from his banker’s briefcase. He would play the rather minor but exacting role of Folks’ business manager and curator of artifacts and other prizes of antiquity.
    Since they had privacy on the back seat with a glass partition between Speedy and themselves, Folks decided to ask Trevor a personal question. He had been aching to ask the question ever since Kid and himself had yielded to Trevor’s persistent requests to learn and play the big con.
    Finished