Read Online The Big Scam by Paul Lindsay - Free Book Online

knew that his supervisor understood these photographs far better than anyone. After all, his empathy had created them. He looked back at Vanko’s face and, in the stinted light, froze it in a single-frame image. It explained Vanko’s understanding and fraternity with the men and women on the wall. He too was an outsider, once by birth and now by the residue of tragedy, more enduring than most. So was Kenyon, sentenced to this unfamiliar world as every member of the squad had been—immigrants, castaways all.

6
    TRUE TO HIS WORD, MANNY HEADED STRAIGHT FOR Brooklyn. He had the perfect guy to sell the first set of plates to—an Arab who owned a convenience store. He was a known fence in the neighborhood. Baldovino had once sold him fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of stolen food stamps. But the Arab was a tight bastard, giving only ten cents on the dollar.
    As always, he was behind the counter where he could observe every square foot of his store. Manny walked in, put the box on the counter, and shook hands. The smell of brewing coffee hung thickly in the air and mingled with the scents of Middle Eastern spices that filled large scoop bins. The store owner’s grip was strong, but his eyes gave no indication of friendship. They shifted to the box suspiciously.
    Baldovino said, “Have I got something for you.”
    The Arab smiled slyly. “Not cake?”
    Manny opened the box. “Not cake.”
    The Arab’s eyes widened as he turned the plates in his hand, running his fingers along the edges, then inspecting the backs for any detectable flaws. “These counterfeit?”
    Just then a man in his thirties walked in and went directly to the snack aisle. He was wearing a windbreaker and sunglasses.
    Manny lowered his voice. “These are the real deal. They’re as good as the plates on your car. They’re made by the state. Foolproof.”
    â€œOne hundred dollars,” the Arab offered.
    Manny smiled with some satisfaction at having the upper hand and put them back in the box carefully to suggest their worth. When he started tying the string, the Arab countered, “Two hundred.”
    â€œA thousand.”
    â€œTake them and get out.”
    Manny rationalized that the Arab would be a more difficult sale than the rich white people he would sell the rest of them to, but right now he needed some walking-around money. “Okay, eight hundred.”
    The storekeeper ignored him and raised his voice to the customer. “Can I help you find something, sir?”
    The man was inspecting the nutritional information on a bag of pretzels. Looking up, he said, “Ah, I’m looking for something that’s not loaded with fat. Do you have a health food section?”
    â€œSorry, you’re looking at everything we have right there.”
    â€œFive hundred,” Manny countered.
    â€œTwo fifty, end of discussion.”
    â€œOkay, okay.” Manny took out the plates and handed them back to the store owner, who was smiling the same malicious smile he had used when he’d bought the stolen food stamps. The Arab handed two hundred-dollar bills and a fifty across the counter.
    The customer said something in a low voice. Unable to make it out, the Arab assumed he was reading another label to himself. He set the plates on a shelf under the cash register.
    While only getting a quarter of what he hoped the plates might sell for elsewhere, Manny walked out feeling like he had fought the cheap Arab to a draw. For him, not a bad piece of negotiation.
    As soon as he got in his car, a gun was pointed at his face. “FBI!” Another agent was standing at the passenger’s side with a gun drawn. Two more men ran into the store. Manny was pulled out of the car and handcuffed.
    After they searched him, one of the agents took the box from the front seat and opened it. “They’re in here.” He took the plates out and started counting them. “Nineteen