Title: Playing Life to Win (#38, J ‘N B Series)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: Kirk, McCoy
Summary: Comment!fic based on this pic prompt at jim_and_bones; Chris P. in a suit always gives me strange ideas. Jim meets an opponent he would like to play.
Previous Parts: Another Day, Another Dollar, and a Daily Show? | Fight the Good Fight | Don’t Touch the Rock | A Tear Worth Gold | Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 2 | Pirates Read Too | The Case of the Mondays | Today’s Topic -Helmets! | The Case of the Mondays, Part 2 | Marked | Awesome Ideas Come from Awesome Brains | In the Keeping of a Spirit | The Case of the Mondays, Part 3 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 4 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 5 | Forewarned is Forearmed | The Case of the Mondays, Part 6 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 7 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 8 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 9 | Serenade | Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 3 | Tied to You | The Amateur Pigeon-Catcher | The Amateur Pigeon-Catcher, Part 2 | The Art of Beginnings | The Amateur Pigeon-Catcher, Part 3 | Two Birds of a Feather | The Beautiful Bay | The Man in the Shed | Bad Business | A Fortunate Friend | Blind to Love | The Westerner | A Plot Above All Others | We Fight to Win | An Intergalatic Fandom

It’s all about the look. Any proper con artist will tell you that. You can’t be too suave, and you can’t be too wholesome. A handsome face helps, of course, and perhaps more so if offset by something every day, average, like a pair of black-frame glasses.

Jim adjusts his spectacles and does a quick survey of the crowd as he pretends to drop a pen and retrieve it. He doesn’t have time for more than one mark tonight, so he’ll have to be judicious in his choice.

A redhead at a nearby table, ignoring the dinner companion seated opposite her, gives him an inviting smile and purposefully caresses the swell of her cleavage with the tip of her finger. She’s looking for a mark, too, but with a different kind of game plan in mind. Jim can’t fault her for that. If his need wasn’t urgent, he might be willing to indulge her game.

Then he sees the one: alone at the bar, the set of the shoulders indicating dismay and a little bit of tension. The cut of the clothes is delicate, expensive, sporting a sheen of newness; even the footwear is without scuff marks and would be worth a pretty penny. All clean lines and elegance trying to cover up the hallmarks of the harried life. Tonight, it seems, must be a break from the norm.

Jim picks up his untouched drink and slips across the smoky room, settling onto a bar stool three seats down so that the mark doesn’t feel crowded and, more importantly, does not feel as though someone is watching. A con can go south quickly if the mark is already suspicious.

Kirk knows he blends in well with this crowd of restaurant patrons. He doesn’t look poor, but he doesn’t look extravagantly rich either. The eyeglasses say he isn’t the perfect specimen, and the loose dark gray scarf at his neck, draped haphazardly to contrast with the immaculate, tailored look of his light gray suit jacket and white shirt (left unbuttoned at the top, no tie, but bearing cufflinks) hints to an observer he isn’t afraid to the bend the rules of the unspoken but understood socialite code of dress in order to please himself. All in all, coupled with the right kind of smile, at first glance Jim is the picture of a decent fellow, of a possible marriage candidate (women always notice the lack of a wedding band on his left hand), and likely the kind of person who has no ulterior motive.

Or so it should seem during the initial impression.

He takes a swallow of watered-down scotch and contemplates how he is going to catch the mark’s attention. The body language has poise but it’s under a tight leash. A direct approach such as flirting, the buy-the-mark-a-drink scheme, would be a poor choice. Jim uses the reflection in the mirrored wall of the bar to surreptitiously study the way one of the mark’s fingers taps a steady rhythm against a tall wine glass, one-third of its contents already drained. Without the tell, the mark could be spending a night indulging a drinking habit or on the prowl for some late-night fun like the redhead.

But she’s waiting for someone.

Suddenly the mark shifts her position in her chair, reminiscent, Jim imagines, of prey in the wild tensing at a change of scent on the wind when a predator is near. It is a subconscious nervousness born of an innate instinct, despite that years of society have worn down the urge to shy away in humans. For people like Jim—the grifters and the players, those called the confidence men—dulled instincts are the reason they are so successful at their business.

If Jim hadn’t dropped out of school at the age of seventeen, he figures he could have spent some time studying human nature in a prestigious college. As it stands, though, the lack of education doesn’t hinder his ability to read people. He can read them better than most. He has to; otherwise working somebody would be like a blind man trying to play poker.

Jim drains the rest of his scotch and orders a gin and tonic partly to keep the bartender occupied and partly to set the stage for his introduction to the mark. Then he stands up, shifting just enough to catch the mark’s attention. The mark’s gaze follows him as he passes her by, tracking his progress toward a nearby restaurant employee. Silently he congratulates himself on a perfect first hook. (Small or big, a con is always a matter of pride.)

Jim asks the hostess if the restaurant has received a call concerning his party of two, projecting his voice without making it seem like he is talking loudly. The conversation will carry back to the bar for anyone who may be listening, hopefully his mark.

“What’s your name, sir?” the young woman asks.

“Cartwright,” Jim tells her, “Jim Cartwright.” The hostess flags the maître-d for information on the evening’s reservations.

It’s not his real name, of course. No grifter goes by an identity that can be traced back to him; but the skilled and arrogant con man uses the touch of truth in his game, too. A con which is built on all lies, Jim believes, folds as easily as a house of cards. The foundation has to be made of something other than air, someone once told him.

He was born James so he uses Jim as his first name. Cartwright is the last name of a mark from a long-ago big score—his first one. Years later, word on the street is Cartwright still has a price on his head.

Jim couldn’t care less. Cartwright has no right to be upset. The man was already embezzling millions of dollars from his company, and Jim only lightened his load by a few hundred grand. But even crooks hate to be conned, though they’re some of the easiest marks because they are too busy cheating others to realize they are a victim of a scam themselves.

The hostess returns to a hopeful-looking Jim, shaking her head. The hope in Jim’s face dies. He makes a show of checking his watch and scanning the crowd of incoming patrons. “Damn,” he mutters, sounding heartfelt, and runs fingers through his short hair.

The hostess is endearingly sympathetic. She promises to alert him immediately if the other half of his party arrives or contacts the establishment. Jim thanks her and stuffs his hands into his pants pockets, trailing back to the bar. His arrival is well-timed: the bartender is done mixing the gin and tonic (the gin bottles are kept nearest the mark, which is why he choose it). Jim lifts a hand to beckon for the drink as if he cannot wait until he returns to his seat to have it. Then he slugs back part of the liquor in one gulp and leans against the counter, steadying himself.

“You want another one?” the bartender asks, eyeing him with an expression that says he hopes Jim is an alcoholic and a big tipper.

Jim hesitates, playing at considering it, but shakes his head. The bartender is disappointed. Sliding the rest of the gin and tonic back toward the young man, Jim says, a hint of misery in his voice, “Pitch that, will you, and just give me the check.” He glances at his watch and sighs through his nose. “I think I’ve been stood up.”

The bartender mutters something about tough luck and sweeps the glass away. Hopefully he will be disappointed enough to take his time putting together the bill. Otherwise, Jim will have to improvise and stall.

But contrary to the bartender’s belief, luck is on Jim’s side tonight. The mark, who had fixed her attention on her wine glass when Jim reached for his drink, turns to look directly at him. Her voice is soft as she says, “It seems it’s a night for being stood up.”

Jim gives her a startled look. “You too?”

“Yes.”

“I’m truly sorry then,” he tells her. “I wouldn’t want anyone to know what a wretched feeling it causes.”

The mark lifts her chin slightly (she chooses brazen, that will be useful later on, thinks Jim) and leans toward him, offering her hand. “Jocelyn Darnell,” she introduces herself.

“James Cartwright,” Jim returns amiably, shaking her hand rather than kissing the back of it. This woman is looking for honesty, not a charmer.

“Mr. Cartwright, may I buy you a drink?” Jocelyn asks, only to add quickly, “As consolation.”

“Jim, please. Mr. Cartwright was my father. Unfortunately, Ms. Darnell, I have already had more than my fair share of drinks tonight. But—” He smiles. “—allow me to buy you another glass of wine, and you can commiserate for the both of us.”

“You can call me Joss, Jim.”

Jim leans across the counter, catching the bartender’s attention once again and asking him to give the lady another Merlot.

Jocelyn is surprised. “How did you know I’m drinking Merlot?”

“The color,” he tells her.

“Oh, are you a wine connoisseur?”

“Not a connoisseur” is his humble reply. “It’s just a… hobby.” In actuality, he perused the label of the wine bottle nearest her and took a gamble. Jim loves it when those gambles pay off. He hopes his next gamble is lucrative, too. “So, Joss, who is the idiot that left a lovely woman all by herself?”

“My—” Jocelyn pauses. “Someone I’m seeing.”

She wouldn’t meet a husband without her wedding ring on; thus Jim deduces Jocelyn is not certain how to label this particular someone, not even as a boyfriend. Lovers, no doubt, but probably casually so. The lack of deep romantic attachment is a relief for Jim. He has broken up a couple or two in the process of landing a score, but it never sits entirely right with him afterward. Well, the ruining-young-love part, not the stealing part, that is.

“He might be caught in traffic,” Jim offers, donning the role of the good guy with ease.

She shakes her head. “No, I think I should have seen this coming. He’s in a line of work that means he works long hours. Tonight was his time off—or should have been.” She glances away. “I could call his pager, I suppose.”

No dishonesty in the body language, only hesitation. She’s been stood up before by this person.

Perfect.

Jim lowers himself onto the bar stool beside her. They watch in silence as the bartender refills her glass of wine. Jocelyn swirls it before taking a small sip. He unwinds his scarf and places beside him on the counter and then plants his elbows. Jocelyn’s eyes linger on the exposed hollow of his throat, track along the open vee of his shirt, before she averts her eyes and sips at her wine again.

Now he has not only caught her curiosity, but her interest as well. Phase two can commence: make the mark feel comfortable.

The bartender places the bill for Jim’s drinks—plus the wine—at the counter’s edge. Jim pulls out his wallet, chooses the credit card using the alias of Jim Cartwright and slips it into the pocket of the bill holder with its end showing his last name, Cartwright, sticking out. A quick glance in the mirror confirms Jocelyn looks at it.

Start by confirming identity. Check. Jim congratulates himself.

Jocelyn glances at him. “Jim,” she asks, “what do you do?”

Wallet still in his hand, he extricates a business card and hands it to her.

She reads his job title. “Financial analyst?”

He grins a little. “Boring, right?”

“Oh, oh no,” the mark assures him. “I’m just not certain what a financial analyst does.”

Jim has a good spin on that. But before he can tell it and thereby coax her into laughter (and into a more relaxed state), a displeased man’s voice interrupts him.

“Joss, what’s this?”

Jocelyn gives a small gasp and, looking over Jim’s shoulder, stiffens. “Leonard!”

For a moment, just a tiny second of one, Jim’s fingers curl against the bar counter. (Fuck. Fuck.) When he turns to look at the mark’s thither-to errant lover, however, his posture is casual and unconcerned. After all, he is a nice guy having a nice chat with a sympathetic party.

Jocelyn recovers from her surprise quickly, not abashed and not looking as if she has a moment’s guilt over talking to a handsome stranger. “Leonard, this is Jim Cartwright. Jim, this is Dr. Leonard McCoy, the man I was telling you about.”

So, she has a touch of the con in her too. Jim can be appreciative of a fellow player but he is too dismayed by the turn of events for his mood to lighten. He offers the man his hand. “Dr. McCoy. Nice to meet you.”

Oh, the suspicion in those eyes. The face gives none of it away though, nor the tone of voice.

“How do you do?” the dark-haired man asks politely. He has an accent.

Something off, not quite right. Jim follows his gut instinct and asks, to hear the man speak again, “What kind of doctor are you?”

“I’m a cardiologist,” Leonard McCoy answers, moving to stand beside Jocelyn and placing a hand on her shoulder. “And yourself, Mr. Cartwright?”

Jim ignores the subtle display of territoriality. The accent is Southern, no doubt, close to flawless. Except for the way he drags out a particular vowel. Most people wouldn’t notice the slip.

Jim, being well-practiced at this kind of art, does.

Other details stand out to him, then, like neon signs: the fingernails, a millimeter too long; the hair curling over the ears, too unprofessional; and the smell, free of years’ worth of story. Only the darkened fingertips of Leonard’s thumb and forefinger say something about him that Jim can easily discern as truth: that the man is a smoker, probably one who has recently quit.

But he is not a doctor, and never has been.

Jim is intrigued.

“Jim’s a financial analyst,” Jocelyn answers for her new acquaintance.

“Ah,” McCoy says, noncommittal, eyes studying Jim.

Jim leans back, matching the look with a challenging gaze of his own. “Ms. Darnell and I have something in common. Both our dates are late.” His eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement. “Well, in my case, my date is a no-show.”

Leonard turns to Jocelyn, as any chagrined boyfriend would. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I meant to get out early but the hospital called up with a new case. Can you forgive me?” He leans in to kiss her cheek, a perfectly gentleman move in front of company.

“Which hospital?” Jim inquiries.

“The Memorial downtown.”

“So you’re employed by the hospital.”

“Oh, no,” Jocelyn says. “Leonard has his own clinic.”

“Really? Maybe I know it,” Jim lies smoothly, watching a muscle spasm in Leonard’s cheek. The man should not grind his teeth; it’s such a blatant tell. “Unfortunately, my aunt was diagnosed with a heart condition a couple of years ago. It took her a long time before she settled on a cardiologist she thought she could trust. Family skepticism in modern medicine, you see,” he adds with a bit of impish flare.

“I doubt you know my clinic, Mr. Cartwright. It opened a few months ago.”

“Jim,” he corrects. “Too bad about that, Doc, I bet your practice would be a perfect fit for my aunt. Hey, just to make things easy on me—I’m terrible with last names, sorry—can I call you Leonard?”

They stare at each other.

Jocelyn slips out from under McCoy’s hand, clutching her black handbag. “I need to use the lady’s room. Leonard, will you wait?” Maybe she hopes the tension will resolve itself while she is gone to check her makeup.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart, promise,” McCoy drawls silkily.

Jim waits until Jocelyn is out of sight before saying, “Lay it on any thicker, and you could wind up with a wife and kids.”

“Not happening,” the dark-haired man replies.

At least they aren’t going to keep up the pretense. “So,” Jim prompts, curious, “what’s the score? A free ride to Vegas? A trust fund?”

“I could ask you the same, kid, but I think I’d rather not know. You’re gonna have to move on. Darnell is taken.”

“I see. The town’s not big enough for the both of us.” He chuckles and rises from his seat. “I could tell her, you know, about the fake medical license. Or just plant a seed of doubt.”

McCoy’s eyes narrow. “You won’t.”

Jim grins. “Won’t I?”

“No, because if you know what’s good for you, you will walk out of this restaurant and not come back. I know who you are, Jim… Kirk.”

Jim’s grin dies.

McCoy presses on like they are having a casual conversation over a cup of tea, his Southern accent melting away into a distant twang as he slips his hands into his trouser pockets. “I bet I’d make a lot more off of you than I would Joss. I hear even a tiny bit of information on your whereabouts has a big pay-off.” The man’s mouth tips up at one corner. “I wouldn’t have made the connection, you know, if you hadn’t used that last name, Mr. Cartwright. That was pretty damn stupid of you.” He pauses. “Or arrogant. Probably both in your case, if what I’ve heard about you isn’t all bluster and long tales.”

Jim sees the bartender turn from another customer at the opposite end of the bar and glance in their direction. He shifts until he is close enough to McCoy so that they won’t be overheard. “You rat me out,” he tells the man, “and you’ll regret it.”

“Then don’t make me rat you out, kid. Be smart, walk away.”

Jim picks up his scarf, shoving it into one of the pockets of his suit, then lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender, his cocky grin returning. “Fine, you win. I’m out.”

Jim is on his way to the exit, ignoring the bartender’s “Sir, your card!” (which is nearing its limit anyway; the real Jim Cartwright will hate that when he gets the bill next month) when McCoy calls his name. He looks over his shoulder, willing to hear a last word because despite their tete-a-tete, he still finds McCoy (or whoever this guy is) intriguing.

“Just a word to the wise, since you’ve been… gone for a while,” the other con man says. On the lam, running his scams to the Eastern Seaboard and back, he means, and wouldn’t be wrong. “It is my town now, at least this side of it. Stick to the docks, and we won’t have a problem.”

“And if I don’t?” Jim challenges.

Leonard’s eyes sweep over him, unimpressed. “I’m not looking for a partner or an insideman, Jim. Use your imagination as to how you would end up.” Then McCoy turns to the bar, lifting his mark’s glass and swallowing some of the wine. It’s a clear dismissal.

Partners, Jim thinks. That’s not such a bad idea. He hasn’t had a partner since Gary and the dice games down in Louisiana. But that went to shit, didn’t it? Such a shame, really, because Gary had the best controlled roll Jim had ever seen.

He leaves the restaurant without another word, whistling and removing his eyeglasses as he goes. The hostess looks confused when he winks at her on the way out of the door.

He can stay down at the docks for a few days, giving the appearance of obedience, and then come back when he has a workable plan.

How much would it take to con McCoy?

Jim grins to himself, more than willing to find out.

-Fini

The Light In Which We’re Cast

Related Posts:

• Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 4 (#40, J ‘N B Series) (40/40) – from March 29, 2013
• The Light In Which We’re Cast (#39, J ‘N B Series) – from March 20, 2013
• An Intergalactic Fandom (#37, J ‘N B Series) – from January 15, 2013
• We Fight to Win (#36, J ‘N B Series) – from January 4, 2013
• A Plot Above All Others (#35, J ‘N B Series) – from September 13, 2012