Chapter 14
COLE
There’s a reason men like me don’t get married.
We don’t have the patience for self-aggrandizing fathers-in-law who are more intent on throwing around their literal and metaphorical weight than they are worried about the welfare of their daughters. Or their wives. Or their illegal organized-crime kingdoms.
Barry Lynch and I are standing in his home office. Sunday lunch sits uneasy in my belly—a reaction formed in equal parts by the heavy food and Tarasov’s presence at the table. I’m made substantially more uncomfortable by the clouds of cheap cigar smoke billowing from the captain of the Canton Crew.
I never bother feeling guilty for business decisions, even ones as debatable as giving Tarasov access to Lynch’s crypto files. I choose the best option given the facts at the time, and I move on.
But watching Lynch’s utter disregard for the bratva kingpin he’s welcomed into the heart of his household scrubs away any lingering concerns I might have had about sacrificing his files.
Kate’s fury is one thing; I regret triggering her.
But Lynch deserves whatever happens to him and his misbegotten crew.
He’s swirling brandy in an over-size snifter as he surveys his scraggly back yard.
Tarasov and Breagha are walking beside a dry fountain, with Orla a calculating three steps behind.
Even at this distance, I can see the awkward angle of her neck, concentration evident in every muscle of her body as she strains to eavesdrop on her favorite daughter.
Kate watches the courtship ritual from beside a massive stone-encased barbecue grill. The soft lines of her borrowed clothing don’t fool me. I’m certain she’s calculating how much damage she can do with a stainless-steel spatula and tongs.
My money—all of it—is on my wife. Tarasov would be wise to stay at the far end of the property until Kate and I leave.
“I have to say, son,” Barry Lynch says after a deep pull on his stinking cigar. “I expected you to have more irons in the fire for me by now.”
“Irons?” I ask, because that’s more socially acceptable than driving his letter opener into his eye for calling me son.
“Projects. So far, you’ve spent all your time shooting down every idea I’ve brought to you. I’m beginning to think you just don’t know very much about money.”
“Money?” I repeat.
He claps me on the shoulder like we’re friends. Or like he wants to remind me he owns my time. “I know you have your millions. Billions. Whatever. But to actual businessmen like myself, it’s important to move fast. Seize the day.”
I wonder if Lynch even begins to understand the difference between a million and a billion. One million seconds was eleven and a half days ago. I was still waiting for Kate to come home, praying to a God I don’t believe in that she’d give me a second chance.
One billion seconds was almost thirty-two years ago. Kate wasn’t born yet. Me either, although Shannon had probably tested the waters with some long con or other, trying to snare a baby daddy with deep pockets.
“Day,” I echo, to keep the conversation going. I wonder what Shannon would think of Barry Lynch.
Actually, I don’t have to wonder. I know she’d try to hit him with every con in the book.
An Irish mob boss, with a million times more money than sense?
Shannon Wolf would have to be dead or in prison before she’d give up feeding off his bankroll.
And if she ended up behind bars, she’d do her level best to string him along until she was released.
“Yes, son,” Lynch says, forcing my fingers into tight fists. “Seize the day. Carpe diem, as the good book says.”
I bite my tongue to keep from asking exactly which version of the Bible he thinks he’s read.
“Strike while the iron is hot,” Lynch says. “The early bird gets the worm. Fortune favors the bold.”
I wonder how many more motivational posters he’ll quote if I don’t say a word. But he finally seems to have reached his point because he gulps the last of his Hennessy.
Pointing the rim of his glass toward me, he proclaims: “I don’t have time for any more lectures on why this crypto opportunity is a scam and why that one will cost me a fortune. With your brains and my wallet… By now, son, we should be printing money.”
“Money,” I say again.
When I was a kid, Shannon used to tell me bedtime stories. No Goodnight Moon or Winnie the Pooh or Where the Wild Things Are for her, though. Instead, Shannon told me about her favorite cons.
The Pig in a Poke—an ancient one, selling someone a worthless cat in a burlap sack instead of the valuable pig they expect to put on their holiday table.
The Dropped Wallet—accusing a good Samaritan of stealing money when they return a purposely dropped wallet, playing on their fear of police involvement so they pay up.
The Stranded Grandchild—pretending to be a helpless kid trapped abroad, desperately in need of wired funds.
But the best story Shannon ever told me was the Money Box. Night after night, I made her tell me the details, piling on exaggeration after exaggeration until we both collapsed into helpless giggles, overwhelmed by the motivating power of a clueless mark’s greed.
The original Money Box was a real con, worked by an actual swindler on honest-to-God victims in Texas, around World War I.
Viktor Lustig (“Uncle Viktor”, Shannon called him) convinced his targets he owned a box that printed actual money on blank sheets of paper.
Uncle Viktor was always reluctant to demonstrate his incredible invention, but if a mark begged hard enough, the con man would give in.
He instructed his target to wind a crank, pulling a genuine hundred-dollar bill into a sealed box.
Inside that box, the machine took six hours for the ink.
After the wait, another crank was wound, and two hundred-dollar bills emerged.
Uncle Viktor never wanted to sell his invention. But if a mark begged hard enough for long enough Viktor gave in—in exchange for a small fortune. His record was one hundred grand taken off an especially greedy fish.
The genius of the con was that six-hour wait.
Salting the machine with ten of his own hundred-dollar bills, Uncle Viktor bought a four-day head start on anyone determined to track him down and make him pay.
And most of his victims were too ashamed to go to the authorities.
That’s how a lot of cons work. People are too embarrassed to admit their greedy na?veté.
Lynch is still rumbling on about how I’ve failed him, about how the Canton Crew should be rolling in funds due to my hacking skills. But I interrupt him, saying for the third time: “Money.”
“That’s right, son. The Canton Crew isn’t running a charity. We need money.”
The plan I’m thinking of is risky. But if I play the game right, Lynch will stop his constant phone calls. I’ll be able to run Lone Wolf in peace.
I gaze out the window. Tarasov is standing too close to Breagha, who has crossed her arms over her chest. She’s leaning away from the Russian, and even at this distance, it’s clear she isn’t a totally besotted fiancée. I wonder if his breath still stinks of onion, the way it did in my living room.
My Money Box scam can get Lynch off my back. And if I play my cards right—and I always do—I can take down Tarasov as well.
It will take a while to build the actual machine. Mine won’t print money. I’m a computer genius. So my Money Box will work computer miracles.
“Son,” Lynch asks, exhaling a metric ton of rancid smoke. “Are you listening to me?”
“Of course,” I say.
“So what do you have to say for yourself? I’ve paid a lot for your time. When will I see something for it?”
I make a show of being uncomfortable. Cons only work when victims think they have the upper hand. “I’ve had an idea for a long time now, but it… No. Never mind.”
“What?” Lynch demands, his eyes glinting as he takes a step closer.
“It’s too dangerous. The feds have a whole task force devoted to… No. Forget I said anything.”
“Danger is my middle name,” Lynch says, puffing his chest like a pigeon. It isn’t, of course. His middle name is Aloysius, which I didn’t know until he railroaded his own mother out of his dining room.
I don’t fully understand the game Lynch is playing, pawning off his younger daughter onto a Russian mobster. But I know for sure that Lynch’s actions aren’t just putting Breagha in danger. They’re hurting my wife.
And for that, Lynch will pay. Pay until it hurts. Pay until he doesn’t have anything left to give.
“If I tell you,” I say. “You have to promise it will go no further than the two of us. If this tool got into the wrong hands…”
Of course, Lynch looks out at Tarasov. Orla has planted herself between the happy couple. Her fingers look like claws on her daughter’s bare arms. She’s displaying Breagha to the bratva brigadier like a flank steak in a butcher’s shop.
“You can trust me,” Lynch bluffs. “This idea. It stays between the two of us.” The two of us and Tarasov, he means. Just the way I want it. “Just tell me what it is.”
“It’s been a dream of mine for years.” I bite my lip. Look away. Shake my head.
“We’re family,” Lynch pleads.
This time, he doesn’t bother looking out the window. He doesn’t notice Kate standing all alone. He doesn’t see the strain in every one of her muscles, the killing instinct that vibrates through her as if she’s a hunting hound, ready to launch herself at the man who hurt her years ago.
But I do.
I see everything.
So I set the hook and pull it hard, defining Viktor in terms a layman like Lynch can understand. “It’s a decoding program. The most complicated project I’ve ever attempted. It takes any encrypted website and turns it into plain text.”
Lynch’s eyes turn glassy as he surveys his domain. “Any site?”
“Any site,” I confirm. “Banking. Telecommunications. Military.”
“All the information?”
“All the information.”
“Passwords? Bank accounts? Crypto ledgers?”
“All of it,” I lie.
His voice grows hushed. “I want it,” he says. “I need it. You and me, together… We’re going to own it all.”