The Perfect Mark

I hoist my bag and head for the café across the street. My plan is to score hot coffee and a clean bathroom before the Laughlin-bound Greyhound lurches back on the interstate. But halfway across the street, there’s a streak of brown. Then I’m flat on my back, something gross and wet abusing my cheek.

“What the…?” The sound of my voice drives the mutt mad with delight. I struggle to my feet. “Shoo, dog, shoo!” But he just grabs my bag strap and tugs, his eyes shiny with glee.

Behind me, a bell jingles. “Dorothy?” The guy leaving the cafe has a sweet face and a take-out bag. Very nerdylicious though, with that plaid shirt and way-too-blue jeans.

“Dorothy Stevens! And you brought Jupiter!”

I point at the dog. “He’s not…” I’m about to say “mine” when the dog races to my side, dropping to a perfect sit.

The man shakes his head. “Wow, look at that. We are so lucky you were available.”

Now most people—honest people—would open their big, fat mouth and get everything straightened out. This isn’t my dog, I’m not Dorothy… that sort of thing. But that’s what I call a “narrow definition of the truth.” It’s more interesting to keep my mouth shut and see what happens.

“Yeah, me too.” Rule Number Two of a good hustle: let the mark do the talking.

“Where are my manners?” He wipes his palm on his jeans. Do I make him nervous? That could be worked into a sweetheart scam. “Dr. Neil Gordon, volunteer doctor with the search and rescue team.”

His soft hand matches his story. This guy was on the square for sure. But the doctor thing could be a problem. That means he’s smart.

“I can’t believe I’m talking to the Dorothy Stevens. With Jupiter! Wasn’t he was working the Houston fertilizer plant explosion?”

“He was.” I’m so out of my element. I specialize more in quick cons, like the stack of fake VIP passes I’m taking to Laughlin. Whatever is developing here, I’ve got to think fast.

We stand there like fools until his eyes widen. “Oh my gosh – the contract! I can be such a dunce sometimes.”

Gosh? Dunce? This guy was awesome. But does he have some bank? That's when Jupiter-the-Wonder-Mutt streaks off after a stray cat. I wave off Neil’s concern, eager to see the thick pack of papers. Contract for professional services…blah blah…Dorothy Stevens of Willowbrook Kennels…blah blah… one FEMA-certified search dog plus two days of handler training… blah blah… $25,000.

Hold the damn phone. People pay $25,000 for a dog? Man, I have got to up my game. That’s enough clams to score me a swanky apartment and replace the $1,200 my ex stole. I set my features into a confident pose. “Looks good. Let’s get some signatures, shall we?” But now I have a $25,000 problem: getting paid in cash. I’m not adverse to short cons here and there, but felony-level check fraud? No thanks.

First things first. Where’s that stupid dog?

#

Neil’s team uses a former lodge as their training base camp. The outdoor classroom is nice, with a deck that overlooks the gorge. But the squirrels and crows are driving Jupiter insane. My hands are raw from the constant tension of his nylon leash. Volunteers, wearing reflective vests and hiking boots, socialize before class. Opportunity knocks when Dr. Dweebie checks his watch. Deadlines make people like Neil nervous and more malleable.

“Should we start?”

“Absolutely.” Then, like an afterthought, “Oh, Neil?”

“Yeah?” His fresh-scrubbed, milk-fed countenance is unsettling. My marks are usually greedy for something I can exploit. But this guy is the real deal: honest and unguarded. Guess I found me a unicorn.

Thanks to the Willowbrook Kennel blog, I’ve got a semi-legit path to the cash payout. Dorothy’s been all out there about her new business venture: a training partnership with a German kennel. Maybe I can leverage this into an advance payment scam. “I’m traveling directly to Europe next week. It will be extremely difficult to access your funds while I’m overseas.” Don’t tense, flinch or apologize. “It would be most convenient if you could pay me in cash. Today.”

Oh man, my heart is about to burst through my rib cage. This is way harder than hustling a drunk trucker at pool. But no matter what, I do not break eye contact. There’s a reason we call this a confidence game.

His eyes narrow. For the first time, he looks displeased. “This is most irregular.”

Rule Number Three: never apologize. It makes me look weak. Instead, bite back, just a little, and he’ll fall right in line.

“The Department of Homeland Security didn’t think so.” Dorkboy might be smart, but he’s still a guy. How can he resist being on the same playing field as the big boys?

He sizes me up from head to toe, then purses his lips. “Tom Peterson is the president of the credit union. He’s also a volunteer. I’ll see what he can do.”

Neil takes his place behind the lectern. “So, let’s get started with the training for our K9 SAR certification. It’s been a long road, right?” Volunteers laugh and clap. He recounts dozens of fundraisers over the past three years. I smile and clap on cue, but I don’t want to think about how they raised the money. I just want to make it mine.

“And now, Dorothy Stevens of Willowbrook Kennels!”

I stand and smile, trying to look like an accomplished professional. But Jupiter thinks we’re going squirrel hunting. In a flash, he shoots down a narrow aisle, knocking drinks over and body-slamming volunteers. I have to wrestle him back to the lecturn with thirty pairs of eyes boring into my back. “Hello! I’m Dorothy and this fella here is Jupiter, a Belgian Malinois.” I just made that up. A Karen-type in the front row throws me a serious frown. “Mix!” I add quickly. “A Belgian Malinois mix. We got him as a puppy.”

A man next to Karen raises his hand. “But I thought your facility specialized in adopting shelter dogs and training them for SAR work.” Great. Now we’ve got Ken on the job.

“That’s right.” Never disagree. Especially when you’re in over your head. “But sometimes, we find puppies at shelters, and raise them for SAR work.”

Jupiter is screwing up my concentration. He keeps lunging at the volunteers, big slobbery tongue lolling out of his mouth. In clear despair, he throws his head back for a raucous howl. Man, I cannot think straight. Then I spot Neil’s tee shirt with a logo for a local gym. “Exercise! We start our dogs…”

Owwowwow!

“On an elite exercise program to get them in the best…”

Yowowowow!

“…shape possible.” Neil’s not helping either. When he shrugs off his windbreaker, his shirt rides up to reveal the pronounced ridges of his muscled abdomen. Geek boy, yes, but kind of hawt too.

A volunteer gets me back on track. “Can you show us the training pile?”

“Of course!” What the heck is a training pile?

“Yes!” Neil enthused. “Could we use chairs as the rubble?”

Knock yourself out.

Twenty minutes later and we’ve recreated one of Dorothy’s signature training exercises: the simulated rubble pile. Her facility uses earth-moving equipment to set recycled concrete into piles of rubble, recreating the search conditions of an earthquake or explosion. I pick this up as Neil explains the exercise to a volunteer. “But Dorothy adds lots of temptations, like grilled steak and cat toys. The dog fails if he gets distracted.”

I look down at the canine delinquent next to me. We are in so much trouble.

“What do you think?” Neil asks, indicating the pile of chairs.

“We need more.” As in, I need more time to make a plan. A volunteer in the second row scrolls his phone, sandwich in hand. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “This is a team effort!” After he leaves, I look both ways before taking his sandwich.

“Wait,” Neil says before I climb into the pile. “We need something with your scent.”

“Right.” I tug off my scarf and hand it to Neil. Our fingers graze and instead of pulling away, he surprises me by clasping my hand. Well, well—the guy’s got some game. I feign shyness and cast my gaze downward. Nice. Virginal even.

But soon enough, I’m back to terror. Hiding in the chair pile, I come to grips with my situation. As soon as they unleash that dumb dog, he’s going to bolt. My only hope is a corned beef on rye sandwich.

Neil gives the command. “Jupiter, find!”

We got nothing but crickets, folks. I wave the sandwich near an opening while whistling softly. Let’s hope no one but the dog can hear me. My heart squeezes with relief when a snotty muzzle plucks the sandwich from my grasp.

“That was amazing!” Neil says, helping me to my feet.

I brush myself off. “Years of practice, Neil.”

#

Nightfall finds us still on the deck, just Neil and me roasting marshmallows over the fire pit. I’m as beat as the dopey dog snoring at my feet. I check my email—a Seattle apartment community confirms a one-bedroom vacancy. Seattle seems nice. Close to the water where people can earn an honest, hard living on the sea.

Neil is watching me. “Sorry.” I tuck the phone back in my pocket.

“No worries. I’m sure your husband misses you.”

That’s pretty funny. Me as the missus. “Oh no, I’m not married.” Rule Number Four: never miss a trick. The guy likes me, so I want to keep that advantage. But some small, foreign part of me wants him to know I’m single.

He’s got a curious look on his face, like maybe Dorothy’s not. “Anymore!” I add.

“Oh.” He looks down at his marshmallow, charring in the fire. “I’m sorry.” But his tone says otherwise.

I shrug. “Things happen. You know how it goes.”

“Not really.” Delivered with an aw-shucks grin.

Which is weird. Neil’s cute, clean and employed. How is he not a great catch? As if reading my mind, he explains, “Small town. Small dating pool.”

Ah. So, he hasn’t found the right net. “What about online dating?”

“Tried that. But everybody pretends to be someone else. I don’t get it.” His marshmallow is on fire now. “Why can’t people just be…real?”

Easy for him to say. This guy’s worst offense was probably parking in a fire lane. I’ve got to be honest here. Imagining his expression when he realizes he’s traded the town’s donations for an obedience school dropout makes me feel squirmy.

I look at my shoes. “Maybe some people just… don’t feel good about who they are.”

His marshmallow falls in the fire. “It’s okay. I work too much for a serious relationship anyway.” Then he shakes his head, embarrassed. “Geez, listen to me complain. You travel all over the world helping total strangers in need.”

“But you’re a doctor. On a search and rescue team. That’s a big deal.”

His sigh is heavy. “Nah. The rock jocks do all the dangerous stuff. I just hang out at base camp till’ I’m needed.”

I don’t know what to say. He’s different from my status quo—open, honest, trusting. The perfect mark. So why am I avoiding his gaze?

“Oh!” He straightens. “I almost forgot. Tom’s headed back to town. He wasn’t happy about the cash payment, but I talked him into it.”

Holy cow, this is working. But only because of Neil. If it weren’t for his spotless reputation, there would have been more questions. He’s going to lose more than money when I close this deal.

I reach for my marshmallow stick, bumping hands with Neil again. He laughs a little, nervous-like, but doesn’t pull back. My stomach is fluttering like a schoolgirl when I tickle his hand with my pinky, testing his reaction. His body goes rigid so I make it easy, guiding his face to me. Most men study me like a wolf, deciding where to land their first bite. But there’s something I don’t recognize in Neil’s eyes.

“You are so… “ I wait for it. Beautiful. Sexy. Hot.

“Wonderful,” he finishes.

Now that’s not fair. What is he doing to my head? We need to lighten things up fast. But the fantasy of being a good person, worthy of Neil's respect, is too tempting to ignore. I should walk but instead, I close my eyes.

“Kiss me,” I say. Before I change my mind.

#

The next morning finds me with bruised lips and a plan. I need to scatter everyone on the trail under the pretense of a training exercise. While they hide and wait for Jupiter to find them, I can hike back to the interstate. I'll be riding shotgun with a trucker before they get smart.

I’m explaining the hunt while Jupiter whoops and howls like crazy.

Karen rubs her temple. “Must he do that?”

“Do what?” I am not in the mood for her nonsense. Finishing a job usually makes me prickly with nervous energy. But I just feel heavy. I can’t stop thinking about Neil. He’s going to feel stupid when I take off with the money. But here's the thing: none of my marks were stupid. Just lonely, afraid, or hopeful. Vulnerability is my skeleton key.

“That! He’s been howling all weekend.”

Ken pats her shoulder in sympathy. “Shouldn't an elite SAR dog be better trained?”

It’s so important to keep the upper hand. “And how many SAR dogs have you trained?”

Another volunteer pipes up. “I looked at your website. Jupiter is a German Shepherd mix. This dog is clearly a Malamute.”

Neil steps forward. “Perhaps there is more than one Jupiter at her kennel.” Wow, did he just have my back? I could get used to that. But then Neil turns, his brow wrinkled. “I am curious though. Do you always use corned beef for the find exercise?”

Uh-oh. The con was breaking down. That left one option: turn on the mark. I need to go after Neil until he feels bad for ever doubting me.

“Dorothy?”

His gaze is different. He knows something is wrong. I’ve seen that look my whole life. Who am I kidding? Neil respects Dorothy, not me. The perfect alter-ego I created for him.

I set my game face and aim one manicured nail his way. “So, this is how you roll, Neil? After all I’ve done for you.”

#

The Greyhound’s air brakes hiss before it pulls away from the bus depot. I've stuffed the envelope, thick with cash, in my waistband. I find Jupiter around the corner, waiting outside the cafe. Behind me, a bell jingles. I sigh and hand over the money. Neil thumbs through the bills. “Do I need to count it?”

I flinch. Now he knows me. “I took $20 for lunch.”

He tucks the envelope in his jacket. “What’s your real name?”

“Brandy.” That gets me an arched eyebrow. Damn, he’s getting good. “Fine. Elaine.”

He nods, then takes my arm to stroll me down the street.

“Where are we going?”

“Library. We’ve got some background work to do.”

I stop in the street, forcing him to follow suit. He looks different in skinny jeans and a leather jacket.

He plucks aviator sunglasses from his pocket. “When the SAR foundation heard about your little swindle, they donated a replacement dog.” He slides the glasses up with his index finger. “I did not expect that.”

“So, now you have the money and a SAR dog.” That should be good news but something feels wrong.

“Check out the SAR dog marketplace.” It's a website where every dog advertised fetches at least fifteen grand.

"That's a lot of bones.” I couldn’t resist.

“Even more when selling overseas. Parlez-vous francais?” I shake my head. “Then you can be the wealthy American buyer who drives up the bidding.”

Dr. Innocent might be a genius. “You’re not a volunteer doc on a SAR team?”

“Not anymore. Medical school is expensive. I took side gigs to pay off my loans. Things got…creative.”

“But…me and Jupiter. That was a total fluke.”

“Serendipity for sure. I was just planning to wash the SAR’s check to Dorothy and split. But your fortuitous appearance expanded my options.”

“Dorothy was never coming?”

“Nope.”

My brain quick-calculated all the scenarios. If I were him, I would have called me out on the scheme, then promised not to call the cops if I surrendered the money. “Which, of course, I would believe, thinking you’ve got the feels for me.”

He tips an imaginary cowboy hat. “Now, darlin’, that part is true.”

I stuffed down that warm, hopeful part of me.

“But your demand for cash? Brilliant! Had I asked in advance, Tom would have been suspicious. Thanks to you, I could blame it on that crazy dog lady.”

“How did you know I’d come back?”

He cocked his head when he smiled. “You were ready.”

Of course. Rule Number One of a good hustle: read the mark. “Why didn’t you run when Tom gave you the cash?” I pull his shades down so I can see those true-blue eyes.

“Maybe I need a partner.”

The man is a total surprise, but that look is familiar. Like I’m still…wonderful. He offers his arm, a throwback to the gentlemanly alter-ego he created just for me. I could walk. For the past week, I’ve imagined a different life. Nice apartment, steady job, paying taxes on time. It could be good. I look pointedly at his proffered arm. “I prefer working alone.”

“No, you don’t.”

Damn. Being read like a book feels good. I take a deep breath, then tuck his arm in mine. “All right, let’s go.”

Before I change my mind.

###