She’d already noted that the bets left on the table had vanished the moment she started speaking. And she knew exactly where they’d gone. The tosser was good, reacting to the situation instantly and taking control of the only thing that mattered: the money. The crowd fled without bothering to argue about their missing cash.

The muscle took a hesitant step toward the intruder but then froze as her gaze cut into him.

“Don’t even think about it, because they just love fat boys like you in the federal swamp.” She looked him up and down lasciviously. “They get a lot more meat for their dime.” The muscle’s lip began to tremble even as he fell back and tried to fade into the wall.

She marched up to him. “Uh–uh, big boy. When I said clear out, I meant you too.”

The muscle nervously glanced at the other man, who said, “Get out of it. I’ll look you up later.”

After the man had fled, she checked the tosser’s ID, smirking as she handed it back to him and then made him stand against the wall for a pat–down. She picked up a card from the table and turned it around so he could see the black queen. “Looks like I win.”

The tosser stared unfazed at the card. “Since when do the feds care about a harmless game of chance?”

She put the card back on the table. “Good thing your marks didn’t know how ‘chancy’ this game of chance really was. Maybe I should go and enlighten some of the bigger guys who might like to come back and beat the crap out of you.”

He looked down at the black queen. “Like you said, you won. Why don’t you name your payoff?” He took a roll of cash from his fanny pack.

In response she took out her creds, slipped the badge off her belt and dropped both on the table. He glanced down at them.

“Go ahead,” she said casually. “I have no secrets.”

He picked them up. The “creds” didn’t authenticate her as a law enforcement officer. Behind the plastic shield was a membership card for the Costco Warehouse Club. The badge was tin and engraved with a brand of German beer.

His eyes widened as she slipped off her sunglasses and recognition instantly came. “Annabelle?”

Annabelle Conroy said, “Leo, what the hell are you doing cooking monte with a bunch of losers in this crappy excuse for a town?”

Leo Richter shrugged but his grin was wide. “Times are tough. And the guys are okay, a little green, but learning. And monte’s never let any of us down, has it?” He waved the wad of bills before stuffing them back in his fanny pack. “Little dicey pretending to be a cop,” he scolded mildly.

“I never said I was a cop, people just assumed. That’s why we have a career, Leo, because, if you have enough balls, people assume. But while we’re talking about it, trying to bribe a cop?”

“In my humble experience it works more often than not,” Leo said, fishing a cigarette out of a pack in his shirt pocket and offering her one. She declined.

“How much you making on this gig?” she asked matter–of–factly.

Leo glanced at her suspiciously as he lit his Winston, took a drag and blew smoke out his nostrils, neatly matching at least in miniature the fetid clouds coming out of the smokestacks overhead. “The pie’s split up enough as it is. I’ve got employees to take care of.”

“Employees! Don’t tell me you’re issuing W–2s now?” Before he could answer, she added, “Monte’s not on my radar, Leo. So how much? I’m asking for a reason, a good one.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the wall waiting.

He shrugged. “We usually work five locations on a rotation, about six hours a day. Clear three or four thou on a good one. Lotta union boys ‘round here. Those guys are always itching to lose their cash. But we’ll be moving on soon. Another round of factory layoffs coming, and we don’t want people remembering our faces too well. It’s not like I have to tell you the drill. I get the sixty split of the net, but expenses are high these days. Saved up about thirty Gs. I’m looking to double that before winter. It’ll hold me for a while.”

“But just a while, knowing you.” Annabelle Conroy picked up her beer badge and Costco card. “Interested in some real money?”

“The last time you asked me that I got shot at.”

“We got shot at because you got greedy.”

Neither one was smiling now.

“What’s the deal?” Leo asked.

“I’ll tell you after we run a couple shorts. I need some seed for the long.”

“A long con! Who does that anymore?”

She cocked her head and stared down at him. In her high–heeled boots she was five–eleven. “I do. I never stopped, in fact.”

He noted her long red hair. “Weren’t you a brunet the last time I saw you?”

“I’m anything I need to be.”

A grin eased across his face. “Same old Annabelle.”

Her gaze hardened slightly. “No, not the same old. Better. You in?”

“What’s the risk level?”

“High, but so’s the reward.”

A car alarm erupted with eardrum–shattering decibels. Neither of them even flinched. Cons at their level that lost their cool under any circumstances became either guests of the penal system or dead.

Leo finally blinked. “Okay, I’m in. What now?”

“Now we line up a couple other people.”

“We rolling all–star on this?” His eyes glittered at the prospect.

“Long con deserves nothing but the best.” She picked up the black queen. “I’ll take my payment in dinner tonight for pulling the lady out of your ‘magic’ deck.”

“Afraid there aren’t many restaurants worth eating at around here.”

“Not here. We’re flying to L.A. in three hours.”

“L.A. in three hours! I’m not even packed. And I don’t have a ticket.”

“It’s in your left jacket pocket. I snaked it there when I was feeling you up.” She eyed his flabby midsection and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve put on weight, Leo.”

She turned and strode off as Leo checked his pocket and found the plane ticket. He grabbed his cards and raced after her, leaving the card table where it was.

Monte was on vacation for a while. The long con was calling.

Chapter 3

Over dinner that night in L.A. Annabelle laid out parts of her plan to Leo, including the two players she was looking to bring on.

“Sounds good, but what about the long con? You haven’t told me about that.”

“One step at a time,” she answered, fingering a wineglass, her gaze wandering around the swanky dining room automatically searching for potential marks.

Take a breath, find a chump. She flicked her dyed–red hair out of her face and made momentary eye contact with a guy three tables down. This jerk had been ogling and overtly signaling Annabelle in her little black dress for the last hour while his humiliated date sat silently fuming. Now he slowly licked his lips and winked at her.

Uh–uh, slick, you couldn’t even come close to handling it.

Leo interrupted this thought. “Look, Annabelle, I’m not going to screw you. Hell, I came all this way.”

“Right, you came all this way on my dime.”

“We’re partners, you can tell me. It goes no further.”

Her gaze drifted over him as she finished her cabernet. “Leo, don’t bother. Even you’re not that good of a liar.”

A waiter came by and handed her a card. “From the gentleman over there,” he said, pointing to the man who’d been ogling her.

Annabelle took the card. It said that the man was a talent agent. He’d also helpfully written on the back of the card a specific sex act he’d like to perform on her.

Okay, Mr. Talent Agent. You asked for it.

On the way out she stopped at a table with five stout guys in pinstripe suits. She said something and they all laughed. She gave one of them a pat on the head and another, a man of about forty with gray temples and thick shoulders, a peck on the cheek. They all laughed at something else Annabelle said. Then she sat down and talked with them for a few minutes. Leo looked at her curiously as Annabelle left the table and walked past him toward the exit.