Chapter 15

 

 

Foster liked to count the money right after the service each evening. It helped him to keep track of the take, plus he always slept better. Melissa loved his mood afterward, always amorous after a good show with hefty proceeds.

They remained in the bus long enough to change back to their resort wear and for Foster to feed the cash through the money counting machine. It had been a generous crowd tonight, and his mood was high, even though he admonished her for not quite leaving the big boxes of cash neatly tucked against the side wall of the bus.

“What was that earlier, one of the Macks saying something?” she asked as she slipped her white dress onto an empty hanger in the closet.

He shook his head, wanting a moment to separate checks from currency in the lockbox he’d carried out of the auditorium. “Which of the Macks was that?”

“How do I know? They all look alike—it’s why I call ’em all Mack.”

In every city they hired new helpers and part of the selection process was the unspoken criteria: Big, dumb, unambitious, and willing to do as they were told. All they had to do was dress in the outfit, look like private security, be intimidating enough to scare anyone who might be tempted but not conniving enough to want to help themselves to the money that passed by them every night. In return, they were paid well at the end of each week. All cash, all off the books.

Foster placed another stack of bills onto the machine and watched them feed through with a satisfying flutter. He paged through the checks, laying them out in a spread on the table so he could deposit them with his phone.

“Hey, here’s a nice one—thousand bucks,” he said.

“People are so generous around the holidays,” Melissa said with a warm smile.

“And they’re scrambling to get year-end tax deductions. Great for us.” He took the counted stack of twenties, banded it, and set it aside while he placed a batch of tens in the machine. “So what were you asking a minute ago?”

“Oh, one of the Macks took you aside right after you came off stage. What did he want?”

Foster’s expression hardened. “Thought he saw some clown palm some money out of the basket. Wanted to know if he should chase him down.”

“What’d you say?”

“Same as always. Just watch for him in the crowd, see if he comes back, put the fear into him if he tries it again.” He pulled out his phone, brought up the banking app, and began snapping pictures of the checks for a mobile deposit.

Melissa gathered the banded stacks of cash and brushed past her husband to reach the cardboard boxes under the table. One was full to the top already, but the other had some space and she arranged the stacks that had become disheveled and added the new ones. Before they finished their season here in Arizona, every nook and cranny in the bus would be filled with the beautiful green stuff.

Ironic, she thought, how the losers all ended up next door believing money was a scarce commodity. It certainly came easily enough when you had the right pitch. People would give you all you needed. She indulged in the vision of her dream home, a huge place, somewhere with a coastline.

Would there come a day when even an enormous villa wouldn’t be enough to satisfy? A tiny wrinkle crossed her brow. What if she and Foster built the villa, had enough piles of cash to do anything they wanted, and it still wasn’t enough?

She thrust the thought aside. So what? It wasn’t as if there was an end goal in life. They loved the adventure, the con; the show itself was enough, as people stared up at them with adoring eyes and gave generously to their causes. And there was always a cause—this year they’d worked the houses-for-homeless-people angle. Next year it might be clean water for African villages or food for overpopulated India.

It was easy to find heart-wrenching photos of skinny kids with big eyes and flies buzzing around their heads. The internet had loads of images to grab and make it look as if you’d actually been there, crying over their plight. Come back to an affluent society and make it sound like you had all the answers, that you could fix it all if only you had the money. So simple. No one ever followed up to find out what was real and what wasn’t.

“You about ready?” Foster asked, gathering the checks into a rubber band and jotting the deposit date on top. “The resort has a late supper and there’s a dance band tonight. I’m starving.”

She squeezed his hand, ignoring the irony of his statement. They both automatically looked around the bus to be sure nothing was out of place.