Read Online Con Academy by Joe Schreiber - Free Book Online Page B

hoping tonight is no different.
    My mission this evening is simple: figure out how Brandt is cheating, and cheat better. I’ve got five of the most popular decks stashed in my pockets—Bicycle, Maverick, Bee, Streamline, and Aviator—matched up with the cards I’ve heard he’s most likely to use. It’s actually not particularly important that I don’t get caught, and at some point I pretty much want him to know that I’m cheating—just not right away.
    After that, things are going to get
really
interesting.
    I can already hear the hip-hop music and laughter coming from the corner room. And I wonder, what must it be like to be neighbors with Brandt Rush? Or did the housing office just give him his own wing?
    I get my answer when the door opens.
    The dorm room is actually three singles with the walls knocked down, creating one spacious suite overlooking the quad below. It’s already packed with students, thirty of them at least, gathered around the tables, talking and sipping drinks, savoring the occasion as if they were the European crème de la crème in the golden age of the French Riviera.Some are actually wearing tuxedos, and the girls have on cocktail dresses and heels. I find myself thinking of the Sigils. I’m assuming most of the students here belong. Is there some kind of secret handshake?
    Nobody so much as glances up when I walk in. I make my way through the crowd, until I find myself face-to-face with Brandt.
    â€œYo, bro.” Grinning, he grabs my hand and shakes it. “Good to see you. I’m totally stoked you got my invite.”
    â€œThanks.” I don’t know if I’m more shocked by the warmth of his greeting and its ostensible authenticity or by the fact that somebody actually still uses the word
stoked.
Apparently we’ve come a long way from him sending me out to get his coffee.
The miracle of money,
I think, and smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
    â€œYou get in okay? Any troubles at the door?”
    â€œGeorge let me in,” I say. “But I think I interrupted his reading time.”
    â€œYeah, dude’s a trip, right? Thinks he’s Sophocles or something.”
    â€œHe never gives you any trouble about curfew?”
    â€œWho, that guy?” Brandt says, and rolls his eyes. “He’s lucky to have the job. His son’s a student here, and the tuition assistance is the only way he’s able to keep the kid out of public school. He does as he’s told. Anyway . . .” Brandt grips my elbow and steers me hard to the left. “You want a drink? Bar’s over there. Epic Phil can hook you up with the beverage of your choice.”
    â€œGreat.” I follow him over to a long freestanding table full of bottles, where another student—the guy who helped me in our Global Risk class—is making three drinks at once, both arms blurring like an adrenalized octopus above a small forest of crystal stemware. “You know Epic Phil, right?”
    â€œHey,” I say, and the guy stops for a second to stick out his hand, which is cold and slightly damp from the martini shaker. His real name is Philip Van Eyck, but I guess he goes by a different moniker when he’s slinging martinis. “How’s it going?”
    â€œEpic!” says Epic Phil, which I suppose must be his trademark. “What’re you drinking?”
    â€œHmm.” I make a big deal of perusing the selection. “Do you have Pepsi products?”
    Phil and Brandt exchange a glance and then they burst out laughing, and Brandt pounds me on the shoulder so hard that I feel my sternum pop. “Good one, bro!” he hoots, and tosses a sidelong glance at Phil. “Get him whatever he wants, on the house. He’s my guest tonight.” Then he grabs my elbow again and steers me toward a table. “Hope you brought your rabbit’s foot with you,” he says. “Word around the