Modern Cons

By Des Zamorano

What would it feel like to be raised by a skilled con artist? Would you know when she was pulling a con on you?

Twenty-seven-year-old Jackie Paz knows too much about her mother’s life to trust her, which is why she’s struck out on her own, as a straight, a drone. Her mother, Maida, has tracked Jackie down to a small town in southern California, trying in her own way to set the past right, at just the wrong moment in Jackie’s life.

Jackie is a complete disappointment to Maida. She’s got a calm steady job transporting troubled kids to and from institutions with her partner, Graham. She enjoys making her way as an honest citizen. Maida would rather slit her wrists than live this way. But when Maida gets out of jail she wants nothing more than to try to patch things up with her last living relative – and run one last great con while she’s in town.

Only the reunion starts off all wrong: Jackie and Graham lose their jobs when their last teen transfer turns up dead. Now Graham is sliding fast into a bottle while Jackie is stretching the last of her money without taking any of her mom’s con cash, while at the same time trying to unravel the death of the teen that cost her her sense of purpose and belonging. Maida’s struggling to tie up a grand con that is unraveling faster than she can stitch it back together. When the dead boy’s parents end up equally dead, the sister missing, Jackie, Graham and Maida all find themselves drawn into a family drama that dwarfs the one between Jackie and Maida. Before the two women can even begin to find some neutral ground between con and confidence, they’re going to need to use their skills and their connections just stay alive, let alone out of the hands of the police.

And one of them is going home with Graham.

Modern Cons is a character-driven novel of suspense targeting several distinct but often overlapping markets. Suspense readers can follow the crime, while others can be absorbed by the tension of secrets buried between mothers and daughters. The world of cons enthralls on TV and the movies: “The Riches,” “Catch Me if You Can,” and Mamet’s “House of Cards.” The schemes in Modern Cons are for those who’ve lapped up every word regarding the Madoffs, as well as those who have wondered what those kids are doing selling overpriced boxes of candy door-to-door. Through it all is also a daughter to root for as she distances herself from her mother, and finds herself in the process.

Désirée Zamorano, a Pushcart Prize nominee, has sold fiction and nonfiction online and in print. Her short story “Mercy” was published by the Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine while Amy Tan was the fiction editor; her plays have had Equity productions and toured for four years. At Occidental College she runs a center similar to Dave Eggers’ 826 NYC. Désirée also knows her way around family drama, secrets and manipulations. While she won’t confess to any specific cons she does understand the personal dynamics and possibilities of the game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Des Zamorano
• Release date: Nov 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781939051523

Des Zamorano

Desiree Zamorano has wrestled with culture, identity, and the invisibility of Latinas from early on. Her commentaries have appeared in the LA Times and NPR's Latino USA. She delights in the exploration of contemporary issues of injustice and inequity, via her mystery series featuring private investigator, Inez Leon. Her novel THE AMADO WOMEN, is about four women, linked by birth, separated by secrets. Spring, 2014, Cinco Puntos Press. A lifelong reader, writer and educator, she is proud of having co-authored with her sister two plays commissioned by southern California's Bilingual Foundation for the Arts. Equity productions, "Reina" and "Bell Gardens 90201" toured for a total of eight years. A Pushcart prize nominee, and award-winning short story author, her novel MODERN CONS will soon be released as an ebook from Lucky Bat Books. MODERN CONS: "Family inflicts the deadliest cuts in this compelling psychological thriller. Desiree Zamorano is a writer to watch." -Dianne Emley, L.A. Times bestselling author

Book preview

Modern Cons

Des Zamorano

What would it feel like to be raised by a skilled con artist? Would you know when she was pulling a con on you? Jackie Paz in Modern Cons knows too much about her mother’s life to be comfortable with her, which is why she’s struck out on her own, working for a family business safely escorting troubled teens to their designated facilities. Her mother, Maida, has tracked Jackie down to a small town in southern California, trying in her own way to set the past right, at just the wrong moment in Jackie’s life.

Family inflicts the deadliest cuts in this compelling psychological thriller. Des Zamorano is a writer to watch.

~Dianne Emley, L.A. Times bestselling author

A Lucky Bat Book

Modern Cons

Copyright 2013 by Des Zamorano

All rights reserved

Cover Design: Simone Rein

Published by Lucky Bat Books

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with other people, please purchase additional copies. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My deep gratitude, appreciation and thanks

To the Coffee Gallery Regulars, whose support and humor nourished my through the dry spells.

To my wonderful first readers: Kathe, Linda Dove, Lisa Callow, Lucia Francis, Sheila Laco, Stefane Zamorano and Petrea Burchard: your celebrations of my novels have kept me writing.

To Lucky Bat Books! Who ensured that this book would light up multiple e-readers.

To my delightful artist, Simone Rein, who always manages to capture the essence of ideas.

To my family, for their enduring patience.

To Marsha Schnirring, whose generosity gave me sharp eyes and a careful reading to keep me on point-—

And to you, gentle reader, for taking a chance on this novel.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

About Des

More by Des

Human Cargo

The Amado Women

In memory of a dear friend, Donnie Dale, who helped me tease out Jackie Paz and her story.

CHAPTER ONE

Claire

Nobody had noticed she was pregnant. If that didn’t prove you see what you want to see, you see what you expect to see, nothing did. Maybe she carried it in the right way, maybe she dressed to camouflage just right—it didn’t matter.

She hadn’t realized that she had missed her period. She really hadn’t paid much attention to it, she was just giddy and crazy and her body was electric for all of the time she spent with Tristan. Everything was about him and the time they were together. There was an entire week of parent teacher conferences for her grade level, but not her stepbrother’s, and she spent most of the week in her room with Tristan while everyone else was out. Tristan liked to strut around her home as if it were his, then despising the decoration, the ornamentation, the silk fabric on the sofas, the silk fabric shrouding the windows. He was a snob and she didn’t care because of all the ways he made her feel. Everywhere he made her feel.

When it became apparent that there was a parasite within her, she just assumed it would resolve itself. A miscarriage, an accident, some intervention. It just seemed so ludicrous, so ridiculous. About five months in Tristan got sent to wherever they send bad boys, and she wouldn’t be seeing him for a few months, he said. And that parasite inside her, like a bad case of gas, wouldn’t go away.

To hell with it, she thought. She would will it out of her body, and if that didn’t work, she’d just go along like nothing of any import was happening.

Trouble was, at six and seven months she was incredibly in the mood, and Tristan was not available. That chemistry professor, Mr. Willems, Ben, she saw the way he looked at her, or tried not to look at her.

His guilt afterwards was wonderful, wonderful! Like a dated drawing room comedy, like something in a black and white movie. She didn’t understand it one bit. It was all furtive and complicated and he never did get to see her completely naked, not once, so that was convenient. During her eighth and ninth months she didn’t dare display herself in any erotic form.

And her friends were distracted by their own infighting, back-stabbing, and sleeping with each other’s boyfriends. In comparison, Claire was clear minded, a rock. They all told her that. She’d give them advice and they’d go around and do it. It was kind of strange when you thought about it; so she didn’t.

She and her group were waiting to having a kick-ass senior year. And of course the parasite planned on popping out in September. How annoying was that? How ridiculous, and presumptuous. No one wanted it. She didn’t want it. And the thing about an abortion was that really, she never thought the pregnancy would continue. She really didn’t. She assumed her mind would will it away and out of her body.

Tuesday night on the cement floor of her family’s garage it had willed itself out of her body. What a disgusting, mewling mess it was, and it didn’t end with the parasite escaping, a wave of horrible stuff followed.

She had laid newspapers down, her yoga mat, an old blanket from her room. She wrapped it all up, the waste, the bloody blanket, the newspapers, the thing, and put it in the trunk of her car.

There were tracks on the garage floor. There was still blood. She threw more newspapers on top of it and went inside, thinking perhaps she should spill a jar of oil on it or something.

She found a beer in the refrigerator, and finished half of it with a few gulps. Then water, then aspirin. She wanted to shower, change, then throw the waste in her trunk out.

Her stepbrother stood in the doorway. What the hell is this, Claire? He clutched a clump of blood sodden newspapers.

His face looked hot and flushed; and he had an odd look in his eyes. Rage? Claire had never seen him look anything but laid back, cool, insolent, but immobile. That’s right, he was angry. How long had he been there? What had he seen?

I give up, she said. What is it?

What did you do?

There was definitely menace in his voice. Like it came easy to him.

I give up, I said. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

What kind of person are you? Who are you?

She was dripping blood. She could feel it; she hadn’t meant to be standing for very long here in the kitchen, she had intended to go straight to her shower. She hovered where she was, not wanting him to notice anything at all.

You’re out of your mind, he said, slamming the door to the garage.

Claire froze and listened. In a minute she heard his car rev on the street. She reached down to wipe up the blood on the floor, but a different thought occurred to her.

She grabbed a clump of paper towels, got into her car, and drove to a restaurant a few blocks away. It was early, four thirty in the afternoon, so not even the happy hour clientele had shown up. She waited, making sure he wasn’t around, making sure no guests or workers were watching. She unlatched the trunk. Christ it looked like a crime scene. She took the armfuls of waste and threw it into the dumpster.

She drove home. Returned her car to its spot in the garage. She walked into the kitchen and picked up her cell phone.

Mom? her voice was just right, she could hear her own tears in it.

What’s wrong, Claire, what’s happened?

It’s your fucking stepson. He’s lost it, he’s totally lost it.

What did he do?

He hit me, mom. There’s blood everywhere. I don’t know what to do.

Don’t you move. I’ll be right there. Hang on, baby, I’ll be right there.

Now there was blood smeared on the kitchen floor.

She stood at the door to the garage. She grabbed the door knob with both her hands and with all of her force pulled the door towards her, smashing herself in the face until she heard a sickening crunch.

There, that would explain the blood. He had done it.

~*~*~

Jackie

Judas must have kissed Jesus in the same way, once upon a time, Jackie thought as she watched Mr. Creighton lean over his sleeping son, pat his shoulder, and kiss him on the cheek.

Quinn, you need to wake up now.

The boy shook his sleeping head.

Now. Come on. Again the father patted the boy’s shoulder. It’s going to be a busy day, and I’ve got people to introduce you to.

Quinn’s eyes bolted open, then he registered the three adults in his bedroom.

What the fuck is going on? He gathered himself up, ignoring his father, and glaring at Jackie and her partner Graham.

In a low, calm voice, Elliot Creighton said, You know this has been a long time coming. We’ve talked about this, and talked about this. And now I’m done talking.

This is the moment of crisis. Jackie recognized the pattern. When she and Graham came to guide a client, or to transport someone against their will, this is when all the tension of the situation will explode or implode. She and Graham quietly stepped closer to the teen’s bed.

Quinn’s left arm shot up, as if to slap or strike his father. Graham, faster than Jackie, intercepted the arm and held it still. Quinn had swung out open-palmed, which told Jackie he’d never been in a street fight, or, if he had, he’d never lasted long.

Son, Graham said, We can do this easy, or we can do this hard. Jackie heard that at least once each time they picked up a kid. She practically knew Graham’s script by heart. It followed: You can hate your family as hard as you like, and that’s no skin off my face, but I do have a job to perform, and unless it gets done, I don’t get paid. We have, he glanced at his watch, slightly twisting Quinn’s still arm in a way which he knew would suggest pain and encourage compliance, ten minutes to get you out of here, into the car and on our way.

Where am I going?

To Jackie the kid’s voice was cold metal.

Graham said, South Dakota.

Quinn flopped back onto his wooden headboard, Graham dropped his arm. The boy shook his head and said, You will never know just how much I hate this family. They hate me. They drug me. The kid looked at his father and said, You and your wife are fucking animals. Don’t even get me started on my sister. It’s all smoke and mirrors, secrets and lies.

Graham spoke over him, Now my friend Jackie here is gonna give us some privacy so you can get dressed. And then we’re gone.

Jackie followed the father out of the room, pausing at the screensaver of the kid’s laptop. It took her a moment to figure it out, but someone had photoshopped faces onto The Simpsons.

It was one of those kinds of homes that had always fascinated her: long corridors with framed photographs artfully hung, carpeted stairways, sunken living rooms whose windows had elaborate treatments. Down the corridor, down the stairway she noticed a family portrait which included a much younger Quinn, a younger sister, and a young mother. These were the faces on the screen saver. Okay. Quinn wasn’t scowling, but he wasn’t smiling either, compared to the dental display of the other three.

She waited at the foyer for Graham and Quinn. For most of these kids, Graham just needed to touch them once, just so they could feel how firm his grip was, measure his strength, and realize he meant what he said. They’d be down in five minutes.

Elliot Creighton stood next to her, too close, but not out of lechery, out of anxiety instead. His hair was a gray brown, unbrushed, his gray face was taut and unhappy. His wire-rimmed glasses emphasized the redness of his eyes.

Jackie’s experience had taught her that murmuring a meaningless Oh, it’ll be okay, invited scorn and contempt. Not that either response bothered her, simply on principle she disagreed with handing out invitations to be despised. So, instead, now she waited, and listened, because that, as she learned over these past two years, is what they really wanted, as well as forgiveness from some unseasoned stranger for their decision. The client’s family usually can not wait to talk. Like now.

I don’t know what they tell you there, but two days ago he tried to kill his sister. There’s nothing, nothing that prepares you for something like that. So you listen to your clients’ stories, but you try not to listen too close. In fact, you don’t want to be standing this close to your client where you can smell the nervous sweat, see the tension in his stance, see him as a confused human being. Too many of those around. You want to be at the distance, of, say, looking at this house from the street. Viewing it as large, luxurious and impenetrable, leaving enough to the imagination so you can just picture the perfection of the interior details. That’s what Jackie was trying to do right now, recall the house’s exterior. And you also try not to think about your own family.

I’ve heard good things about that place in South Dakota, Jackie said.

I wouldn’t know. It was the only place that would have him.

Did you want his mother to say goodbye?

Stepmother. She’s too upset to be here right now.

Graham carried a duffle bag over his shoulder and guided Quinn down the stairs. Quinn stared past his father.

Goodbye, son, Elliot Creighton said. Take care.

His son snorted.

I have your numbers, I have the paper work, Jackie said. I’ll give you a call when your son is signed in. Thank you for trusting your son to us.

That was the line Owen, the owner of Family Guides for Troubled Times, had written and insisted they repeat each time they picked up a troubled client. Jackie had been saying it so many times it’d gotten to the point where she almost meant it.

You’re doing what you think is right, she said to Mr. Creighton. You’re doing the best you can. That’s all you can ask of yourself. Jackie caught up with Graham at the van. Graham drove and Jackie sat in the back with Quinn.

CHAPTER TWO

Jackie glanced at Quinn then out the window, keeping his profile in her peripheral vision. The sun was coming up and she could see just how pale he was, and how drawn. A face like his father’s. Could be the jagged way his bangs fell across his face, but he looked like he wasn’t eating enough. His nails were bitten so far down it made Jackie wince. He leaned into the corner, against the cup holder. She couldn’t sense rage, or resignation. He was just letting nothing out whatsoever.

Jackie knew plenty of ways to intimidate people, interesting how the most effective were often the simplest: stance, proximity, eye contact. She knew being a big girl helped, but she also knew there were plenty of big girls who just got mocked or ridiculed. Not this one, not Jackie. Graham could get kids in line by reaching out to steady them; Jackie used a step forward, a game face, and the kids got in line.

Contact. Pick up. And then the transport itself with its various legs. She always found the first leg the most tense, and she and Graham kept it quiet so their client could adjust. They didn’t want to bother him, get him any more defensive than he already was. She had been in a six-week training course for this stuff, but she thought it was something any human being should be able to figure out. On the plane, she and Graham would make conversation and try to include the client, and by the time they drove to their destination, everyone was relaxed and more or less comfortable, if not old friends.

As it turned out, Quinn didn’t say a word to them. Not during the drive to LAX, the flight to Rapid City, or dinner at a coffee shop in the airport. Graham ordered for him, but Quinn just sat in the vinyl booth between the two, gnawing at his nails. Jackie counted a total of two fries that he ate.

According to their map, they had to drive a loop through the Badlands to get to Safe Teen Net, near Kyle, South Dakota. Graham drove. But because it was already dark, all they saw were the occasional tail lights or headlights of other cars, and the stars that surrounded them.

Graham pulled over for a comfort stop, came back and said to Quinn, If you look up, I think you’ll figure it was worth the trip. The three of them sat there for a moment, silent and cold, staring at more stars than Jackie had ever seen.

Graham said, Given the choice, what would you worship, the sun or the stars?

Stars, she said. Most definitely.

Me, too, Graham said, starting up the car and pulling off onto the lightly paved road.

How ‘bout you kid?

Quinn said nothing.

Since Safe Teen Net apparently blazed stadium lights at night, they spotted it from ten miles away, as they headed towards Kyle. They followed the map onto an unpaved road, just heading towards the lights. Besides the sky view, Safe Teen Net appeared similar to many of the other facilities Jackie and Graham had transported to or from. The architecture was industrial efficient—no effort wasted on landscaping to soften the blocks of concrete. They parked in front of the lobby doors and stepped out of the car.

You can’t park here, the security guard said.

Jackie said, You waiting for someone else?

You can’t park here, he repeated, then pointed, Parking for check in’s over there.

Graham and Jackie exchanged a look. Come on, Quinn, Jackie said, I’ll help get you settled.

Jackie followed and watched Quinn; he walked through the entrance, his movements were fluid and dignified. The lobby was as austere as the exterior suggested, and empty. A moment later Graham joined them, handing Jackie the sheaf of paperwork.

Glancing around at the empty lobby Jackie said, I hope this doesn’t mean we’re spending the night, too.

A woman rushed in. Her gray blonde hair was pulled back in a neat pony tail, and she held out her hand at each of them as she apologized.

I am so sorry—when it rains it pours, everything always happens at once. You must be Quinn Creighton? Quinn did not respond. She spoke to Jackie, Can I offer you a soda? Restrooms are just in the back corner there.

We’re just fine, thank you. I just want to go over our paperwork before we leave.

I understand perfectly. Come over here.

At the counter, Jackie realized the woman was older than she had first thought, perhaps mid-fifties. Jackie handed her sheet after sheet, which she signed. She gave her half the stack for her own records.

Now if you don’t mind, she said, I’d like to get him in his room before our curfew. Best to start the routine right away. She smiled at Graham and Jackie, then focused on Quinn.

Without looking back at the adults who had brought him, Quinn stood and followed her through the door she had first entered.

Let me drive to Rapid City, Jackie told Graham. You need a break.

Graham slept all the way to their hotel outside of the airport. That night, through the hotel walls, Jackie could hear the rumble of sports commentary on his TV set.

~*~*~

Back in her tiny one bedroom home, smashed against the foothills of Sierra Madre, Jackie opened her mail and retrieved her messages; then her cell rang.

Is this Jacqueline M V Paz? Full name with initials was never a good sign.

Who’s calling?

Equinox Bank and Credit Services.

She’s out, can I give her a message?

Tell her to call us. It’s about her credit limit.

Fuck you very much, Jackie wanted to say.

Jackie’s mother, since the time Jackie and her brother Alec were born, had been using their names and social security numbers in varying permutations, leveraging loans, credit cards, even equity lines of credit. The first time Jackie had tried to rent an apartment or buy something on a payment plan at Circuit City, she found out just how much was owed in her name, and how she was marked as a shamble of a credit risk. For eight years now, she’d been fighting the agencies, monitoring her credit, and most importantly having any credit activity frozen, without her written and verbal consent, using a code word.

And yet, somehow, her mother had found this all easy to maneuver around, even while she was in prison.

A voice in customer service told her the balance was $52,375.78

This was her mother’s way of getting back at Jackie for living the life of a straight, a drone.

To Jackie, it was a pain and a huge inconvenience that her mother had managed to bring herself some kind of money and time by once again pawning Jackie’s name and information. It was annoying, but Jackie had experience with this and would rant and rave and yell and send letters and emails, and ultimately a lawyer, so it would resolve, however slowly, in her favor. Even this, however, was tremendously less painful than the thought that her mother might be out again soon. It was a few months