Chapter 32

 

Frank slept late the next morning and woke with a vague unease about his latest marks, the Andersons. Had he managed to keep his British accent firmly in place all evening? The lobster dinner had gone well. Somewhere around ten o’clock, he’d tired of pretending to be drunk from his water martinis and had switched to the real thing. Tom Anderson, of course, was well in his cups by then, and Danielle had begun rubbing Frank’s leg with her bare foot under the table.

He’d managed to slip her hotel key card from her purse when she left it behind on a trip to the ladies room. Not that he intended to use it for what she had in mind—it would come in handy for his own plans later.

The three had hung out in the bar until well after midnight, Frank playing it cagey about his investment advisor. Anderson persisted—what would it take for him to get in? Well, I don’t know, Frank responded, it was a pretty exclusive group and the really hot deals didn’t come up very often. The whole thing became almost hilarious, with Tom practically drooling into his late-night Drambuie and Danielle sending seductive glances which became more pathetic since the woman could barely hold her head up.

If either of the marks had noticed Frank’s accent slipping, they wouldn’t remember it this morning. He tossed the sheets aside and stared out his balcony window at the peaceful blue water. The beach curved around the small lagoon where the hotel sat, a few miles away from town. Palm trees waved in the gentle breeze and already the bikini set were beginning to spread towels on lounge chairs and rub oil into their already-bronzed skin.

Yeah, he thought with a sigh, I could stay awhile and really get into this lifestyle. Except he never settled very long anywhere. If everything fell into place today, he would be taking his leave sooner rather than later.

He took a quick shower and dressed in tropical-weight pants and a flowered shirt, the all-important money belt with the necklace in it strapped securely to his waist. The room phone rang as he picked up his sunglasses and cell phone. He ignored the noise. Damned front desk, no doubt, wanting to pester him again about that credit card situation. He walked out.

At ground level, he paused beside the stone wall where he’d begun the play yesterday with Tom and Danielle Anderson. He surveyed the beach, ignoring the relentless swoosh of the waves—too boring to keep his attention—and focusing on the people. He spotted them almost right away, Danielle’s upright posture and proud bosom next to Tom’s shuffling gait, about a quarter mile in the distance and heading his direction. Frank smiled and stepped out into the sunshine.

He raised his cell phone to his ear, walking along to a spot where there were no loungers nearby, gesticulating and talking as if he were on the most important call of his life. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Tom Anderson had spotted him. He turned his back to the couple and paced a few steps the other direction, turned again, paced toward the waterline, still gesturing, still ignoring Anderson.

When the mark moved within earshot, Frank went into the play.

“Archie, I’m on an island, for god’s sake!” Pause. “Yeah, yeah, well sure there are … let me think …” Pause. Definite interest from Anderson, although the man had half-turned away in a gesture of offering privacy. “What time is it there? Okay, I’m on it. I’ll get to the bank immediately. You watch for my transfer and make sure you get me into this thing today!”

He snapped the phone shut and pretended a startled reaction as if he noticed the Andersons for the first time.

“Oh! Tom, Danielle, I was hoping to run into you. Have you had your breakfast? I’ve been considering the brunch buffet inside …” He waved vaguely toward the hotel. “Then it turns out I can’t. Just got a call … listen, must rush.”

He started to turn away.

“That was your advisor guy, wasn’t it?” asked Tom. “Sorry, I heard you call him Archie. That’s the one, right?”

“Well, yes. I’m afraid he’s just given me the most brilliant tip. You’ve heard the copper market has been in the crapper for months now? At any rate, the market closes in London in about an hour. It’s Friday, you know.” He punctuated his words with quick little gestures. “If I don’t get to the bank in town this very minute, I completely lose out.”

“Wait—can I get in on this one too?” Tom asked. The hunger on his face was a sweet thing.

“Oh, Tom, I don’t know. It’s such a limited offering …” He counted three silent beats. “Look, ride along and we can discuss it in the car.”

“What about brunch, honey?” Danielle whined.

“Get whatever you want,” Tom told her, pulling a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. “Have a little fun in the gift shop too.”

Frank was already five paces ahead, aiming for the pathway that bypassed the lobby. The flash of cash—what a rookie move—to prove he could afford to play with the big boys. Tom caught up, puffing slightly to match Frank’s rapid stride.

A Rolls Royce limo sat at the curb. The hotel had several of them for their VIP guests and the driver barely glanced at Frankie’s gold room key before he opened the door to the back seat. Unless Tom knew about the perks of the penthouse suites, he would likely assume this was the private car of Woodsworth Coddington IV. Frank was not about to burst that delightful little bubble.

“First Cayman Bank,” he told the driver. “As quickly as possible, please.” Good, polite Englishmen always said please.

The limo glided down the driveway and onto the island’s main road. Frank jabbered on about copper futures and the price of gold and how all those things were such an integral part of the jewelry business. As the airport appeared on their right, he happily spotted several private jets parked near the fencing.

“Ah, they’re taking good care of my baby,” he said, waving vaguely toward them.

“Is yours the one with the blue tail?” Anderson asked, saving Frank the potential disaster of not knowing the various models. Plus, it was the biggest one.

“Yes, the Kristina. I called her after my dear fiancée who was tragically swept away in a riptide on Bali, only days before our wedding.” Careful, Frankie, not too many details.

“Oh—so sad,” said Tom, averting his eyes from the plane.

Ten minutes later the car pulled up outside a turquoise and white building. “Here we are, sir,” said the driver.

“Wait here,” Frank told the man. “I shouldn’t be long.” Under his breath he said to Tom, “Quickest ten-fold return I’ll ever make.”

“I’m coming along,” Tom said. As they approached the ornate brass-trimmed doors he added, “I really want in on this investment, Woody.”

The rope tightened. The man was his.

“All right then. Let’s do some paperwork.”

Frank strode to the counter for international transfers and explained the need to move funds from his account at this bank to someone in London. The attractive black woman handed him a simple form and he began filling in account numbers. In the space for Amount of Transfer he wrote $1,000,000.

Tom’s eyes widened. “I, uh, don’t have quite that much to put in. Is a lesser amount okay?”

Frank stiffened. “How much less?”

“Afraid I can only go two-hundred grand.”

“I’m sure that’s fine,” Frank assured him. “I began much smaller as well.”

“I’ll need those forms too,” said Tom to the teller. “I assume with the right routing numbers I can move money from my U.S. account as well?”

She smiled. Accommodating the quirky needs of wealthy people kept her employed. Tom wrote his own bank account number from memory, then copied the “Send To” account number from Frank’s form and filled in the amount, $200,000. The teller took their forms and began inputting data into her computer.

“Your receipt, Mr. Anderson,” she said with a smile, handing over a slip.

Anderson stared at it a moment, put it in his pocket and let out a long breath.

The woman looked at Frank. “I’m afraid you forgot to sign your form, sir.” She pushed it back toward him.

“Oh, that was inattentive of me.”

The one place where Anderson could catch on to the whole scheme, if he was watching. Frank stole a glance and saw that his mark had turned toward the door. He dashed off the actual name on the account, his own, and passed it quickly to the woman. If she saw he was transferring money from his Cayman account to an identically registered one in Switzerland she gave no indication.

Five minutes later the two men walked back out to the Rolls.

“All right, old chap,” said Frank in his most jubilant Woodsworth voice. “All we have to do now is lounge around our lovely hotel, enjoy the beach and wait for the market to open Monday with news of our coup. I have a feeling your Danielle will be ever so grateful to you.”