Chapter 18 Fantasy Always Wins #2
Curiously, Kim only had glowing reviews about Teo.
“Yes, he was gone quite a bit. But I travel for work, too. It never bothered me. When we were together, he was so solicitous, so generous. Gifts and experiences and beautiful sex and kindness. Teo never gave me a reason to think he was anything but in love with me. Honestly, I miss him.”
It struck Wes how sharp, intelligent, and professionally accomplished Kim was.
Her profile was uncomfortably similar to Sasha’s.
Would such whip-smart women fall for a scam?
Love grifters were usually attracted to down-on-their luck, vulnerable women who centered men in all things—and whose hunger for love blinded them.
Kim didn’t seem like the type. And Sasha definitely wasn’t.
In her own words, she was forcing herself to be romantic, to take a chance on a wild card.
If Teo was a grifter, it seemed that Sasha and Kim would’ve sniffed him out.
Except that love blindness was a real thing.
And it infected people, indiscriminately.
It didn’t matter how successful or accomplished you were.
Anyone could be starved for affection, or willing to believe anything to find it.
You could be brilliant at work, at life, in friendships—but not have the defenses necessary to avoid being preyed upon by a manipulator.
In many cases, the heart overrides the brain. Was that what was happening with Sasha?
And to that end, something about the postcards bothered him. He couldn’t figure out what.
God, Wes hated Teo. He’d never hated anyone so intensely.
He loathed that he knew he was a bad guy, but didn’t have enough information to prove it.
He hated that this snake oil salesman had Sasha’s attention.
But, worse than anything, he hated the chance that Teo was dangerous.
Sasha had hired him to find Seat F, but for him, the goalposts had changed.
Now, he was trying to build a case for Teo being a fraud.
With a groan, he reached into his fridge and pulled out a beer.
Vendors were forbidden to drink alcohol at Pig Island, but Wes wasn’t going to make it through this gray, slow day without a beer.
Really, he just needed one sip. He took a healthy chug.
Glumly, he sat with his head in his hands, elbows on his counter.
He tapped his fingertips over his cheekbones, peering with envy at the lines at the more established trucks.
I hate everything, he thought, and downed the whole beer.
Wes couldn’t get a handle on Teo. Earlier that morning, he’d put in a call to a connection at United States Bank, Luchini Lou.
He’d gone to high school with this guy, a bored teller trying to save for a summer house.
It cost a pretty penny to get info out of Lou, which was a cost he’d ordinarily bake into his detective fee.
But Wes couldn’t bring himself to charge Sasha anything but the bare minimum.
So he reached into his savings for this one. Hopefully, it’d be worth it.
Just then, a customer appeared at his window. Lost in thought, it took him a second for his vision to adjust to her presence. Then, his spine straightened and he offered an affable smile.
“Rainy enough for you? What are you in the mood for?”
“I’m not here to eat.” A thin-lipped, older woman wearing salt-and-pepper dreadlocks, jeans, and a blazer squinted at him and gestured with a clipboard. “I’m an inspector from the New York City Department of Health.”
Shit. Now he recognized her—it was Marianne Ralph, the legend.
Every four months, the Department of Health checked in on all trucks with no warning, just ambushing them at festivals and competitions or curbside.
The element of surprise struck the fear of God in all the pros that Wes met in the business.
And Marianne Ralph was one of the toughest inspectors.
She’d brought the hot dog guy outside of the Metropolitan Museum of Art to tears, and he’d been in the game since the Reagan administration.
Luckily, Wes had never been dressed down by Marianne, but he supposed he was due.
Good thing he’d followed the vendor and DOH rules to the tee.
“I’m Marianne Ralph,” she said unnecessarily.
He turned on some dimply charm. “Can I see your badge?”
She didn’t laugh. “What are you selling here today, uh, Mr . . .” She turned a sheet on her clipboard and then nodded. “Mr. Dane.”
“Not much, really just brisket. It’s my signature dish.”
“Do I have your consent to enter the truck? I need to inspect the food.”
Before he could properly respond, Marianne Ralph was inside his truck, peering into a pot of brisket simmering on the stove. “How was this prepared?”
“I smoke the brisket and pork prior, of course. It takes about ten to twelve hours to smoke. Then I just transport them here in these containers.” He showed her his glass containers. “And I let them simmer on the stove.”
“Mr. Dane, are you aware that brisket needs to be vacuum sealed and in a specific environment?”
“It’s sealed, see?”
“Not vacuum-sealed. And did you write down the temperature you smoked it in?”
“Well, no . . . but the last inspector didn’t mention writing down the number.”
As his heart thudded, she handed him his container. Scowling, she scribbled a few notes on her clipboard and then dropped it in her oversized bag.
“Mr. Dane, this is an extremely FDA-regulated space. It brings me no pleasure to tell you this. But your brisket and pork need to be stored in a very specific environment. Your last inspectors were cutting corners.”
“But I didn’t know, Ms. Ralph. I’m relatively new to the business. Can I get a break? Pay a fine?”
She held up her hand, cutting him off. She dumped the contents of all the containers and pots into the garbage. With a dour expression, she pulled a half-gallon bottle of bleach out of her tote bag.
“Wait.” Immediately panicked, he held up his hands in a don’t shoot gesture. “W-wait, what are you doing? No, no, no, no . . .”
Slowly, she poured the bleach in the trash.
“You killed my brisket.” In shock, Wes’s words ran together. Youkilledmybrisket.
After Marianne left, Wes sat down, hard, on his wooden bench by the grill.
The loss was staggering. With entry fees, and the price of ingredients, he’d just wasted almost five thousand dollars.
Without even any hope of placing, because now he was disqualified.
This competition would’ve brought him sponsorships, cash prizes, and further acceptance into this competitive world.
And his food was delicious. This was a waste.
Wes wanted to give up. Set his truck on fire.
But unfortunately, he loved this fucking business.
He’d get it right, he’d just have to come back stronger and sharper at the next competition.
One day, he’d tell the story of this wildly aggressive, punitive bleaching on the Afros + Knives podcast, and it’d be a colorful anecdote on the way to success.
Besides, no one said it’d be easy. Nothing was easy. He cracked open another beer.
Motherfuck.
He needed a win.
While Wes was packing up, mentally counting the thousands he’d lost today, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was an unknown number.
“Wes Dane, here.”
“What’s good witcha, playboy?”
It was Luchini Lou, his contact at United States Bank. Because of the precarious content of their call, he couldn’t identify himself to Wes, or call from a traceable number. And they needed to talk fast.
“What you got?” asked Wes, sitting up straight and grabbing one of his Wordle journals.
“Sent you the report via locked email. You know the password.”
Wes checked Gmail on his phone. “Got it. More later.”
Wes clicked off and pulled up the email.
Attached was a PDF of Teo D. Scera’s latest bank statement.
It wasn’t anything too out-of-pocket. There were charges from Milan, C?te d’Azur, Johannesburg, Paris.
He was obviously a world traveler. He didn’t own his condo, he paid monthly rental fees.
There were a few odd things, though. He had several charges at hotels.
If he was a luxury hotel inspector, wouldn’t the charges be on a corporate card?
Or comped? He shouldn’t be paying for rooms, meals, Wi-Fi—or anything.
And then, there was the fact that there were five people listed on his business savings account.
All men, or people with traditionally male names.
Were they all him? That was a possibility.
Wes searched all five names and came up empty.
There was no information on any of them—except for Sam Canter.
His profession was unknown, but he was apparently the head of a charity called Two Tunics.
A quick search showed that it was a charity to raise funds for the unhoused. Taken from the Bible quote: Whoever has two tunics is to share with him who has none, and whoever has food is to do likewise. He also saw that the charity was sponsoring a gala at the Pierre Hotel that Friday.
In a flash, he slid the truck window closed and called Two Tunics.
“Good afternoon. Yes, maybe you can help me. I’m researching my dissertation about corruption in American charities. Two Tunics’s reputation is crystal clear, though. Is there anyone I can talk to about the day-to-day operations? Pick their brain?”
“Of course, who are you looking for?”
“Sam Canter. If he’s available.”
“Oh, Mr. Canter is rarely available. He’s an extremely busy man. This charity’s just one of his many projects. He’s hosting a huge event on Friday, so he’s meeting with event planners all day. Call in a few weeks.”
“Well, thanks for your help! Maybe I can catch him at the gala.”
“It’s not open to the public. Besides, Mr. Canter never attends, himself. He’s the brains behind the operation. But he’s always well represented by the entire Canter family.”
“Hmm. What’s the price of admission?”
“You said you’re doing your dissertation?”
“Yeah.”
“No offense, but you can’t afford a ticket on a student’s salary. The gala’s for top donors and media. And family members of the board.”
Long after Wes hung up, he stared at the bleached-out meat in his garbage, thinking.
He’d bet a year’s salary that Teo would be at this gala.
He hoped Teo would be at this gala. Because then, Wes could wrap this case up.
His job was to find him and deliver Sasha’s letter inviting him to meet her—and he could do it, there.
But first he needed a ticket. Easy, all he had to do was impersonate a hedge fund douche calling to RSVP. And he knew a guy.
Adrenaline racing, he called Digital Dayquan Dotcom. D3 could build a website in a pinch. If he’d taken his mood stabilizers that day, he could do it in under an hour.
“D3. It’s Wes. How you feeling?”
“Emotionally regulated. What’s good?”
“I need to impersonate a hedge fund guy to get into an event on Friday. What’s a good asshole name?”
“Roland Weiss,” he said with no hesitation or explanation.
“Bet,” said Wes. “I’m Roland Weiss. Now, I need a personal brand website.
Add some fake client testimonials and, listen up, ’cause this is important, I need a quote from a financier called Sam Canter.
Link some fake financial articles to the site, too.
Also, I need a fake Roland Weiss LinkedIn profile. Have your usual bots follow it.”
D3 yawned. “I gotchu. It’ll be four hundred dollars.”
Wes paused before answering. He was sitting in front of a garbage can full of dead brisket. Thousands down the drain. Four hundred dollars? He wasn’t even willing to part with forty.
He thought fast.
“Your mom still pushes Mary Kay?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’ll cater her next party, free. All-you-can-eat barbecue. And I usually charge five hundred dollars.”
“How that benefits me, though?”
“D, you live in her basement and don’t pay rent or cook. You’ll benefit by eating.”
He paused for five seconds. “You got a deal, dog.”
Two hours later, Wes redialed Sam Canter’s office—posing as Roland Weiss’s assistant.
“Good afternoon, I’m calling to RSVP to the Two Tunics gala,” he said, his voice sounding tinny and uncanny through the voice changer he held to his mouth. (In his truck, Wes kept a small briefcase full of detective-y gizmos and disguises.)
“Roland Weiss? W-E-I-S-S? I’m afraid I don’t see him on the invite list.”
“It’s understandable. Mr. Weiss was due in Qatar with . . . with Sir Luther VanDrossian on the evening of the gala, but he had a scheduling hiccup, so he’s now available. I understand Mr. Canter invited Mr. Weiss to sit at one of his family tables.” He paused. “Comped tickets, of course.”
“I think you’re mistaken, sir.”
“Mr. Canter and Mr. Weiss are old associates. We’re a hedge fund based in Denver. Check our site.”
Through the phone, Wes heard the receptionist tapping on a keyboard. “Ahhh. LeBron James and Steph Curry are clients? Dope.”
Fucking Dayquan, he thought. Always taking it too far.
“I see. My intern must’ve made a mistake. Mr. Weiss and a plus-one are good to go.”
Thank God. He was in, and hopefully he could convince Sasha to come. She could watch Teo from afar, from a safe distance, and get a sense of who he was—without wearing wine-and-Xanax goggles. And with Wes there to monitor all of this, ensuring her safety.
He’d refrain from giving Teo her letter until she okayed it. Either Sasha would want to move forward with Teo, or she wouldn’t. But Wes would be done with it.
Suddenly, he was compelled to pull one of Teo’s postcards out of his messenger bag. Why did these bother him? He read over the love note:
Io non ho paura. Di quello che non so spiegare.
According to Google translate, this meant:
I’m not afraid. Of what I can’t explain.
They were the lyrics to a 2011 Italian pop song, “lo Non Ho Paura.” Wes wondered if Kim knew these were song lyrics and not original thoughts. Corny motherfucker couldn’t even write his own love notes.
That’s when it hit him. Teo hadn’t mailed any of these postcards to Kim. He physically handed them to Kim. They weren’t postmarked. Which led to only one explanation. He didn’t want them postmarked—because then, his true whereabouts would be exposed.