Nobody Does It Better

Devin jerked away. “I run a pub. That’s not my world. And when I hired you, you promised me it wasn’t yours anymore.”

“I’m clean, man. I been straight over a year, ever since you hired me. But you need that money, and opportunity just strolled by. You can’t tell me you didn’t think of it. You’re a chip off the old block, eh? And your pop was among the best.”

“I’ll get the money, Jerry,” Devin insisted.

“What? In two weeks? How? This place is mortgaged to the hilt, buddy boy, and I know you don’t got any spare cash tucked in a drawer somewhere. What’re you gonna do? Call Derek?”

Devin grimaced. His older brother had been more than happy to follow in their father’s footsteps. On the night Devin moved out, Derek had told him in no uncertain terms that he was a loser, would never make it in the legitimate business world, and would come crawling back with his tail between his legs. Every cruel word was a prophecy Devin had no intention of fulfilling.

“I’ll get it. Without Derek and without pulling a con.”

Jerry held up his hands in surrender. “See, this is what I been talkin’ about.” He gestured to Devin and then back to himself. “You and me, we ain’t communicatin’. I’m not talkin’ ’bout conning nobody. The thought never even entered my mind.”

“Sure, Jerry.”

“Honest. A simple business deal. You do something for diamond-lady, she does something for you.”

Twenty grand weighed on Devin’s shoulders. If Jerry really did have an idea, didn’t he owe it to himself to listen? And if Jerry’s idea wasn’t legitimate, he could just walk away.

Fighting against his better judgment, Devin looked into Jerry’s eyes. “You’ve got five minutes.”

JERRY LET OUT a low whistle. “Man, you are gonna knock ’em dead. If this were a movie you’d be a shoo-in for an Oscar.” He was sprawled in the middle of Devin’s tattered but comfortable couch, the major piece of furniture in the tiny, rent-controlled apartment. Piles of paperback novels teetered on either side of him. Index cards and empty cans of soda littered the glass-topped coffee table, replacing Devin’s financial magazines that were now scattered across the floor.

Devin chuckled. “Yeah, well, thanks for the vote of confidence. But I’m not interested in anything beyond the girl. She’s where my head is tonight.”

“The girl’s money, you mean,” Jerry said, slapping a sticky note inside one of the books.

“Of course,” Devin lied. First rule of the con—always keep your eye on the ball—and he’d already blown it.

His head knew the money was the only reason he’d finally agreed to this little scam. Unfortunately, his heart and certain other parts of his body were preoccupied with the thought of seeing Paris again. Of getting close to her. Talking to her.

Touching her.

His head was planning a scam, and his heart was planning a seduction.

Wonderful. His first con in over ten years and he couldn’t even focus. The woman had really thrown him for a loop.

But for the most part, he wasn’t worried. Jerry’s instinct was right. As a teenager, Devin had worked the streets enough with his dad to know he had a knack for playing whatever role needed to be played. Once he got the old rhythm back, Devin could practically sleepwalk through a con and pull it off.

That thought fostered another. Why not combine some not so pleasant business with some very pleasant pleasure? As long as when all was said and done he had twenty grand in his pocket, he might as well make the most of it. And other than paying off his dad’s debt, about the only good thing that could come out of the whole mess was the chance to spend a little time with Paris.

He moved to the apartment’s one bedroom and studied his reflection in the full-length mirror. He’d never really thought of himself as the suave, sophisticated baccarat type. More the jeans, T-shirt and poker type, actually. But he had to admit he looked the part. All it took was a close shave, some hair dye, and a double-dose of attitude and he was in like Flynn.

How easy it was to fall back into old habits. Bad habits.

His stomach churned and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Dammit. What the hell was he thinking?

He ripped off the suit jacket and threw it on his bed, then stormed out of the bedroom, determined to rectify this mistake before it went any further.

“Forget it, Jerry. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not conning her.” No matter how much he needed the money, he wasn’t going to scam Paris. He’d walked away from that life the day he turned eighteen. And not even the prospect of seeing her again could entice him back into that role.

Jerry closed a paperback crammed full of yellow sticky notes and stood up. “You’ll be doin’ her a favor, buddy boy. You heard the lady. She needs an Alexander.”

He tossed the book to Devin. “And here you are, a walkin’, talkin’, breathin’ solution to her little problem.”

Devin studied the sketch on the back cover. The artist had been careful not to include anything too specific in the loose drawing. But even so, the resemblance was there. He could pass for Alexander. Easy.

“Your diamond gal’s up a tree. You heard ’em. Don’t you think she’d pay twenty grand to find the perfect Alexander?”

“She probably would,” Devin agreed.

“Well, then,” said Jerry, as if he’d just resolved some mathematical theorem.

“But she didn’t hire me. I’m crashing the party, remember? That’s how we know it’s a con and not gainful employment.”

“For cryin’ out loud, Devie-boy. Where’s the harm? I mean, we’ve already decided she’d pay it, right? And it sure ain’t no worse than the con she’s got going.”

That lost Devin. “What con?”

Jerry spread open his arms. “Everything. The whole shebang. Letting the world think this Alexander dude exists. That he’s smoking cigars and driving fast cars and sidling up to the ladies, when really he’s a chick, fussin’ over her hair, painting her toenails and taking bubble baths.”

A pounding at the front door jerked Devin’s mind away from images of Paris lounging in a tub full of bubbles.

“Expecting someone?”

Devin shook his head, frowning. His Manhattan apartment might not be in a high security building, but nobody was supposed to be able to enter without first being buzzed in. “Probably a neighbor.” Still, he had a bad feeling…

He looked out the peephole. Nobody. The mailman had probably left Devin’s mail in Mrs. Miller’s box again. He’d given her his phone number three times, but the poor old thing just kept on risking a coronary by trotting up three flights of stairs and leaving his mail under the welcome mat.

When he opened the door, instead of his mail he found a small package, neatly wrapped in white paper and tied with string. A very bad sign.

Jerry looked over his shoulder. “They got your number, man.”

With some trepidation, Devin picked up the package and dropped it on his kitchen table. Using a steak knife, he cut the twine and loosened the paper. A wave of nausea swept over him.

A cow’s tongue. Fresh from any butcher shop in the city.

“It’s a warning, my friend.” Jerry’s voice was lower and more serious than Devin had ever heard. “If you don’t pay up on time, it’ll be your tongue. Or your dad’s.”

Devin nodded, fighting back the urge to fly down the stairs and comb the streets for the punk who’d left that little gift. But that wouldn’t help. It would only up the stakes.

Pop had always been small-time. Little cons. Just enough to pay rent and put food on the table. But his damn gambling habit had mushroomed. First the track, then Atlantic City.

His dad’s biggest mistake had been placing a bet with Carmen’s boys, then letting it ride, double or nothing, when the pony lost. Carmen and his cronies had sucked the old man in like quicksand. And mob-backed bookies weren’t quick to forgive. Forget interest rates, it was the penalties that really got you.

“It’s your choice, man. Either call Derek or…” Jerry’s voice trailed off as he glanced toward the books on the sofa.

Trapped, Devin shut his eyes. Jerry was right. There was no way in hell he was going to call his brother. He’d run out of choices. He’d do this.