The Long Chron Read online

  The Long Chron

  a novel by

  Adam Oster

  Table of Contents:

  Phase 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Phase 2

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Phase 3

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Phase 4

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Phase 5

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Phase 6

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Phase 7

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Also by Adam Oster

  The Agora Files

  Daddy of the Dead

  The Defenders Saga:

  The Legend of Buddy Hero

  Rise of the Fat Mogul

  Copyright © 2015 Adam Oster

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1505618624

  ISBN-10: 1505618622

  Cover Image by Amanda Obenhoffer

  Discover more books by Adam Oster at http://www.fatmogul.com

  To Mom, for teaching me to not fear adventure

  Phase 1: Foundation

  Set your stage, plan your story. Make sure you know your mark. Nothing more important to a con than a solid foundation.

  – Scammer’s Bible

  Chapter 1

  “Alright, kid,” he says. His smirk turns into that sickly sweet smile I’ve already learned to dread in our short time together. “Just one more test before you’re ready to give it a go.”

  “Okay,” I say softly, yet confident I’ve learned all he can teach me.

  “That’s my girl.” His smirk grows larger while he looks out over the second floor balcony we’re seated on. “Step one,” he says, gesturing to the hordes of people walking on the sidewalk below, “choose your mark.”

  “Easy.” I stand and immediately point toward the short fat man in the three piece suit sitting at a table in front of the coffee shop across the street. “Him.” I look at Griff and smile broadly, trusting my instincts have once again proven true.

  “You mean George Costanza over there?” he chuckles.

  “Who?”

  “Nevermind,” his smile fades. “Before your time, I guess.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “Not so fast, kid. First, tell me why you picked him. Because you think he has money?”

  “Why else?” I grin inwardly, knowing he wants me to take the easy bait. I decide to play with him a bit. “He’s wearing a suit to a coffee shop on a Wednesday morning. Look at the way he’s slowly sipping on his drink. That’s not a man who’s in a rush to get to his 9 to 5, that’s a self-made man, relaxed, during rush hour, in New York. You don’t come across many of them around here.”

  “Very observant,” Griff’s smile returns. “Rule #38: A man in a suit always has something to lose.”

  “Exactly,” I say, bouncing in excitement.

  “And you’re certain this is the guy you’re going for?”

  “It’s my final answer.”

  “Okay,” he beams. “Well, first, I’ll point you to Rule #27: The shoes make the man. Not only is this guy wearing brown loafers with a black suit, but those things look like they’ve seen the better part of the last century. Are you sure you want to continue?”

  “I saw the shoes,” I respond, still confident, still bouncing.

  “Fine. Next, like you said, it’s a Wednesday morning and he’s just sitting around sipping on a cup of coffee. It could say rich, but it could also tell us he’s too rich. Rule #42: A well-fed man is not a hungry man.”

  “But the shoes,” I disagree.

  “Of course, the shoes,” Griff says sarcastically. “You’ve, no doubt, noticed that he’s sitting there alone.”

  “No doubt,” I say in a mocking tone.

  “And that doesn’t bother you? Why would a man be dressed so well to just sit alone at the coffee shop?”

  “Because he’s waiting for something.”

  “Perhaps,” Griff says, tapping the balcony’s safety rail. “Or someone?”

  “Come on already, are you going to tell me if I’m right or not?”

  “Hey, this is your mark. You should be convincing me of why you think it’s the right guy. I’m just giving you every possible chance to change your answer from what is obviously a terrible choice.”

  “I’m not changing my answer.”

  “What about his drink?” Griff has now directed his attention away from the man and is staring me down, reading my reaction to what he must believe is a great question.

  “It looks like regular black coffee to me. I haven’t even seen him put in any cream or sugar.”

  “Exactly. This isn’t a man who’s using his money for comfort or luxury. He’s been drinking the same cheap black coffee for the past three hours. How much do you want to bet those refills are free?”

  “So?”

  “And look at his reading material. That’s not the business section of the newspaper he’s reading.”

  “Oh, I know,” I smile, deciding now is the time to make my case. “It’s the classified ads.”

  “And how is that a good thing? You think he’s looking for a new loft apartment on Park Avenue?” The sarcasm now dripping from his lips.

  “I think he’s looking at the job section.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yep,” I sit back, losing sight of the man. “The only reason I can see someone sitting in front of the same coffee shop for three hours in a suit is that he’s here for a job interview.”

  “Why wouldn’t he just stay at home until it’s time to leave?”

  “He’s from out of town. Probably just flew in this morning, considering the fact that he’s still got his luggage with him. You can see it hiding under the table. It’s still too early to check into the hotel, which is also why he’s wearing those ugly shoes. No one wants to wear a pair of shiny new shoes on a plane. You want a comfy, reliable pair. Those things look like they’re so worn in its almost like wearing nothing. Definitely his favorite pair.”

  “Good deductions, kid. Still don’t see why you think he’d be a good mark. If he’s here for a job interview, doesn’t that mean he’s out of a job?”

  “That’s if you assume he’s here because he needs the job.”

  “Yeah?” Griff asks.

  “If the man came into town for an interview, why would he be looking for other job openings?”

  “Becau
se he needs a job,” Griff answers simply, knowing he’s leading me to my next point.

  “In New York, in this economy? If you’re not living here, there’s absolutely no reason you’d want to be living here if you didn’t have to. You know, unless you’re some stupid artist wanting to make a name for yourself or, of course, if there’s a really good job offer on the table. He’s too old to try making his way as an artist. No, he’s a man who likes to live comfortably and reasonably, made obvious by his shoes and his drink choice.”

  “I’m sorry kid, you’ve lost me. Why’s he looking at the classifieds if he’s not trying to find other jobs to interview for?”

  “Because he’s not the one looking for a job, he’s the guy hiring for one.”

  “Oh?” Griff says. He cocks his head to the side. “And what makes you think that?”

  I laugh in reply.

  “Come on now, kid. You can’t get this far in and not lead me to the finish line.”

  “Are you saying you haven’t figured it out yet?” I ask.

  “How do you know that this guy is the one trying to do the hiring, instead of trying to get hired?”

  “Easy,” I laugh. “The way the waitress keeps coming out to serve him. Have you ever known that coffee shop to have their barristas come serve people at the outside tables?”

  “No,” Griff frowns. “Of course, we haven’t been here that long, so it’s possi—“

  “And the way she reacts to him, checking on him constantly even though he’s only got the black coffee. Either she is the best server this city has ever seen, or she finds it in her best interest to keep this guy happy.”

  “Maybe she just noticed the same thing you did, that he’s got money to give.”

  “For three hours?” I laugh. “I don’t care what kind of tip she thinks he’s giving, she’d give up well before those three hours were up.”

  “So,” Griff says, waving his hand to urge me to continue.

  “So, he owns the shop. Well, maybe not just the shop, the chain. And maybe not owns, but is definitely high up on the pay scale, someone that the employees know to take care of. He’s here, probably to hire someone new to run this actual store. He’s not only got money, he’s got tons of it.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why he’s looking at the classified ads.”

  “I’ll admit that threw me off at first, too. Then I realized that if he were in charge of hiring, perhaps he’s from the HR department. If your job is to get quality people to work for you, one of the things that might be of most interest to you is to see how other companies are listing their open jobs.”

  “Hmmm,” Griff says while stroking his chin. “That’s not a bad conclusion. I mean, a little weak at points, but not bad.”

  “There’s one more thing I can tell you about him.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s totally trying to pick up chicks.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why else would he be sitting outside a coffee shop, one that he holds a vested interest in, no less, on a windy day like today reading a newspaper?”

  “He’s from Chicago and misses home?” Griff laughs.

  I give a light smile in return before pressing for an answer. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So, am I right? Is he a good mark?”

  Griff stands and looks out over the balcony again.

  “I am right, aren’t I?” I ask, feeling agitated that he’s stretching this out for so long.

  “Kid,” he says, looking over his shoulder to me, “I think you’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” he grins wider. “Come on.”

  “Wait,” I say after he disappears within the hotel room. “Was I right?”

  Chapter 2

  In case you’re wondering, no, I am not sleeping with Griff, nor have we ever even slept in the same room. In fact, although one may expect differently from a man who picks up fifteen year-old runaways and takes them across the country while teaching them the ways of a confidence man, he has always treated me like an absolute gentleman would.

  That being said, if I knew then what I know now, I definitely wouldn’t have gone off with the man who offered to pay for my train ticket to New York on that fateful day two months ago. I would have kept on waiting at that train station for my intended ride out of town, which would have only taken me a few miles away, not across the country.

  Instead, I’ve spent the last sixty days on quite the adventure while learning the ways of the scam. And Griff treats like I’m his daughter or something, but without all that judging and punishing or whatever. And he spoils me rotten, which is made really obvious by the room he’s set me up in here at the Waldorf Astoria. Sure, it’s not the Presidential Suite or anything like that. Not that he couldn’t get the Presidential Suite, he just hates being up any higher in a building that he has to be.

  And even more important is all I’ve learned since I’ve met him, most specifically, the art of the con. I can’t say that I’m all that interested in spending my life scamming people out of their hard-earned money and stuff, but there’s some great people skills that come along with the territory. Of course, maybe I don’t have a choice in the matter. Maybe the whole reason he’s taught me all of this stuff is so he can use me as his shill for forever. I mean, you never really know with someone named Griff, a name I’m sure isn’t even his real name based on Rule #1 in the Scammer’s Bible, “Never give your real name”.

  He walks through the luxurious hotel room interior and exits on the other side without another word. I’m left to follow behind him. I grab my backpack off the edge of the bed as I pass and pray he’s planning on returning soon to pick up the rest of my stuff.

  I catch the door just before it closes and step into the hotel’s lush hallway. Oh, yeah, I should also mention, there’s no way he actually paid for this room. Griff hasn’t even paid for lunch in years, unless it’s part of an In and In, you know, where he is certain to get a better payout in the end. I wasn’t around when he pulled the game that got us these rooms, but I would guess it’s one of his old basics, like his supposedly patented version of the Badger Game.

  The Badger Game is an old con man standard. Basically, you get a woman to approach a man, usually married, and convince him to go with her to a private location, a hotel room or something. From there, you can probably guess how things move forward. Somehow pictures end up appearing of the night, and the man finds himself being blackmailed. It’s a pretty easy scam to pull.

  Griff’s version, which he likes to call the Bucky Badger, is designed in such a way that he doesn’t actually have to get people into compromising positions, but convinces them that he caught them in one anyways. Usually a few vague comments about recent nights out drinking can do the trick. He’ll just go from manager to manager at one of these hotels until he finds someone who bites and gives out the comped rooms. If it’s really necessary, he finds one of the girls who work the bars in these places. They’re always good for pointing out the employees who get into the most trouble.

  Anyways, like I said, I step into the hall and there Griff is, arms as crossed as the look on his face. He loves this pose. He seems to think it will somehow get me to move faster. It never does. It’s really hard to manipulate someone in ways like this when you’ve already taught them all your tricks.

  “You ready or what?” he asks, his smile returning.

  “Jeez, Griff, just go already.”

  He strides down the hallway to the elevators only fourteen feet away. He turns his back to the gleaming metal doors and opens the one marked STAIRS. Stupid coward can’t stand elevators. Another one of the reasons we’re on the second floor instead of lapping it up for real in one of those penthouses.

  Griff bounds down the stairs with an extra bounce in his step. He’s not usually a slow man by any means, but he’s obviously eager to present me with whatever surprise he’s got. I have to
admit, it brings my own anticipation to an even higher level.

  Once we exit at the ground floor, he continues his driven path to the front exit of the building, choosing, of course, the standard-style doors to the left of the revolving glass doors in the center. Another one of his eccentricities. I’ve found he has quite a few. I decide to take the revolving ones, just to show him I am still my own woman.

  Finally, we’re on the street and he’s hailing a cab. Of course, he gets one almost immediately, something that is unheard of in this city, unless you’re Griff. I’ve never seen the man even get asked for payment inside of a cab in this town and yet they’re always right there waiting for him.

  We’re inside the vehicle and driving away before he speaks again.

  “500 block of 13th street.” He almost seems to giggle.

  “Sure thing, boss,” the cab driver of questionable ethnicity responds. “Have you there in a jiff.”

  “13th Street?” I ask. “I know I’m still pretty new to New York and all, but couldn’t we have just walked? I don’t think that’s too far.”

  “We could have,” Griff says, staring out the window, “but today is a special day and I don’t want to waste a minute of it.”

  “Says the man who won’t take the elevator,” I mock.

  “Oh, come on, the amount of time waiting for an elevator to arrive is way longer than going down a flight of stairs.”

  “Whatever you say,” I reply, turning my focus outside.

  I’ve been here for almost a month now, mostly on Manhattan, but I still can’t get enough of the city’s atmosphere. No matter what time of day you’re making your way around the island, there’s always something amazing happening just outside your window. Like right now, the sidewalks are fairly empty, but there’s still so much to see, like the man crossing the street at the light ahead. He’s got two small plastic bags tied together over his shoulder, filled with what looks to be just a couple of apples. He’s talking on his phone and animatedly waving his arms in front of his face. It may not seem like something worth noticing to you, but just think, this guy developed a method for not having to use his hands to carry those two apples, purely so he could wave his arms in order to communicate with someone who can’t even see him.