Dread Naught but Time

Andrew Wentzell

Andrew Wentzell

You wanna know the key to a good con? Honestly, it’s the same as the key to a good magic trick. You’ve got to have more information than everyone else in the room.

That’s it.

Sure, fancy gadgets help. And sure, assistants can be useful. But at its core a con is just a magic trick—simply a matter of my information versus yours. And I guarantee I’ll win every time.

Take right now, for example. I’m sitting at a small round table at the edge of the seating section in Club Flush. It’s a dark-lit place, but swanky not grimy. I’m not wearing anything conspicuous, nothing weird. No mask, no fancy cape, no sunglasses. I’m dressed to fit in with this upper crust crowd, and I think I look pretty good in my black slacks and button-down long-sleeve sapphire blue shirt. They complement my black hair and blue eyes. The visuals need to be perfect; after all, they always sell the performance. It’s why fishermen love using shiny lures. The visual sells, and the fish eat it up.

I’m watching the girls up on stage do their own kind of magic—getting men to forget their problems. From their make-up to their carefully skimpy outfits, they have set the stage like professionals. The black velvet curtains are brushed clean every night to a light gloss, and the soft lights from the stage floor highlight every curve, every line, and every breath these performers have.

The club pays top dollar for top performers, and I can tell. It’s amazing, the power of body language when you pair it with the scent of alcohol and the lure of s*x. These women know how to stand, their hips tilted just so. They know how to walk, that gentle sway that accentuates the gauzy lines flowing off of their asses, how to bend at just the right angle, so a viewer gets not too much, but not too little, of the forbidden fruit she represents. They know what to do, what move to make and when, to keep men’s eyes exactly where they want them.

To prepare for this magic trick, I’ve made myself known around here. I’ve been here enough times that I’m an established regular. I always have this table, I tip well, and I stay late. Most importantly, I don’t mess around or hound dog on anyone. I’m a good boy, I am, and they’ve all let their guard down a little bit. I’ve become just another piece of the background. It’s the old illusion trick. You show someone something over and over and over, until it’s set in their brain as a part of the scenery. Then when you show them the scene again, now without the thing, they have no idea what you’ve done until you point it out. Their brain fills in the missing piece out of habit.

It’s almost too easy.

Finally, around 11 pm, the Club Flush fills up. Maybe twenty-five or thirty men, all of them thirsty for a peek and maybe, just maybe, a tickle.

I’m still in my chair as part of the background, but I’m not a passive piece of scenery. I assess each and every patron as they come in. Two upper executives (fine bespoke suits and ostentatious watches) catch my eye, but the five older guys who wander in after, likely not knowing what they were getting into (frayed pant hems, a small stain here or there)—I immediately dismiss them. Nobody who has the means will come to a place like the Club Flush with anything less than immaculate attire.

The rest, though, are very presentable upper management business types, all with that same hungry, forlorn look in their eye. They want what’s in the Club Flush, but they’re like lost puppies still trying to find their way home. Silver and gold flash at their wrists like shiny lures in the ocean. Several make a scene of slapping down metallic credit cards, proclaiming to wait staff who could care less that they will open a hefty tab tonight. They know about the shiny lure, but they’ve forgotten that there are many different kinds of fish in the ocean.

Really, this is the perfect crowd. I can’t help but smile, just a little.

Another thing about magic—like real estate, it’s all about location, location, location. If you’re planning a big trick with tons of ice, a sauna is a bad place to play.

Similarly, if you’re targeting some big fish, a small pond just won’t do. The Club Flush is one of the best-kept secrets in the city. A dance club, strip club, and occasional brothel rolled into one nice little place, catering mainly to those who have the means to make such a club go through the effort of seriously flouting city ordinances.

I could do this trick at any strip club across the world: New York, Vegas, Monte Carlo, Paris. But I don’t want a meager take. I don’t even want a good take. I put serious effort into planning this bit of magic, and I want to be properly compensated. It’s not too much to ask, I think.

I warm up my fingers by drumming a staccato on the table’s edge, getting used to the quick, small movements this will require. I roll my shoulders just a little and do a quick brush-pass against my clothes to make sure the hidden pockets are accessible. If you watch magicians, they’ll always have little tells like this, as they check their props.

Everything so far is in line with my expectations. Again, the first rule—information.

I look at my watch. 11:34.

One minute more, and it’ll be showtime. I don’t know exactly who’ll be here tonight, but I know exactly what type of person will—

CRUMMMPPPTTTTTTT!

The walls shake as my package bomb next door explodes. The ceiling cracks and a thin jagged bolt runs halfway across the ceiling. Dust, grit, and ash filter down through the cracks and into the air. A few of the women on stage shriek. The lights go out. That’s my cue.

In that instant, I make my first move. Before you can say “King me,” I’m up and moving through the crowd. I get the take from four men, slipping watches and wallets into various pockets.

When I get to guy number four—a round-ish guy—I pull out the hypodermic I stashed in my sock. As I move away, I prick him in the back. He grunts, but I’m five feet away.

The emergency lights flicker on. The whole place is lit by a ghastly yellow wash of light. Not enough to see everything clearly, but enough to find red-lit exits.

“What the hell is going on?” I shout, letting some panic slip into my voice. Everyone knows nothing is more contagious than fear. It just needs kindling to turn a spark into a blaze.

On cue, my man begins to seize, saliva frothing at his mouth. His nose, big and russet in the stale yellow lights, begins bleeding; a trickle, but enough that it’s a bright stain against his lip-covering froth of bubbly, white saliva.

“s**t! There must be something in the air!” I shout helpfully.

And like that, the spark kindles into a bright flame. The men are backing away from the guy on the floor, covering their mouths with napkins, shouting and feeding the fear.

I don’t know if you’ve ever paid attention to people and their watches. Look around, look for the watches around you. Which hand are they on? I guarantee they’re on the non-dominant wrist. I don’t know why, but it’s just how it is. Helpful, right?

These executives in Club Flush, so stressed about holding their napkins to their faces with their dominant hands, they completely forget about the other hand. I slip through the crowd like a snake through grass, taking their valuables with ease.

The two bouncers around the door begin to take charge of the situation.

“Clear a path,” the biggest one shouts, his keg-sized chest pushing through the mess of panicky customers. “Everyone calm down! Sit down, relax, and wait!”

Their presence starts to settle the customers down, and the shouts slowly subside into fearful complaints.

There’s only one more part to my little magic trick. I look over at the women on stage, huddled together in fright, catch the eye of a particular woman, and tug at my ear.

Right on cue, she coughs, loudly. Her white-sequined pasties flash at each cough. “Tommy,” she rasps. “Tommy, bring me a gin and tonic, will you? Please?”

From behind the counter, holding a napkin over his mouth and nose, the bartender twitches out of terrified paralysis. “Sh-s**t! You ok, Suze?”

She nods and feigns another cough.

I’m up at the bar. It’s Tommy, the same bartender as every other night I’ve been here. Tommy’s a bit of a people-pleaser and likes to say yes when he can. He’s the perfect patsy for my next move.

“Tommy!” I shout. “Tommy! This is nuts! You ok?”

Tommy’s hands are trembling so that the gin is sloshing over the rim of the low ball, stops pouring and looks at me with terror in his eyes. “Peter! I’m-m ok.”

“That girl doesn’t look good—that cough sounds f*****g terrible.”

Tommy’s nod is full of shakes. “I’ll be right back.”

“My throat feels—” I cough loudly. “Feels like s**t! f**k! I’m going to get myself a shot, ok?”

Tommy barely acknowledges me, he’s so worried about the woman on stage. “Sure, man, whatever!”

I nod.

As soon as he’s out from behind the counter, I’m reaching over to pour my shot. What with all the chaos, I’m ignored by everyone, and it’s a quick movement to get to the little box that has all those nice metallic credit cards that hold those nice big tabs.

By the time Tommy is back behind the counter, I’m leaning up against the bar downing a double of vodka.

I cough at the alcohol’s dull burn and slide away into the crowd.

Fifteen minutes later, the round guy is being carried out of the club, and I’m by his side, telling the EMT guys how he fell down right after the explosion. Once I’m outside, I promise I’ll meet the EMT guys at the hospital.

And like that, I climb into my car. Suze thinks she’s meeting Peter later on at a motel 20 miles from town to split the take. A take, I might add, that will run into the tens of millions of dollars before those wonderful platinum, gold, onyx, and diamond cards are cut off.

But I’m not Peter. I don’t have black hair, or blue eyes. I don’t live in this town, and I’ll never step foot in that motel.

I’m the Jack of Hearts, the smoothest magician you’ve never met.

Death’s Embrace