Tod Goldberg - The Bad Beat

When we reached the Hair of the Dog, Big Lumpy finally got up from the bench and made his way over. Sandy blond hair poked out of the bottom of his white hat and I could see that although he’d graduated from college at a young age, the years hadn’t been a friend to him-he had deep lines around his eyes and mouth and red splotches on his nose and cheeks. But as he got closer to me, I realized that those lines and splotches weren’t the weight of time: He had skin cancer. Or was healing from it. For a guy who was supposedly the meanest, most violent man alive, he didn’t look like much.

“You’re early,” Big Lumpy said as a way of introduction. “Where’s the kid? A safe house in Phoenix or something?”

“Something,” I said.

A hostess wearing a name tag that said SANDY! on it greeted us and asked us where we’d like to sit. Another new invention: a dive bar with a perky hostess. “Outside is fine,” Big Lumpy said. “I already have cancer, after all. What’s the worst that could happen?” When the hostess didn’t respond, because she probably hadn’t been prepped for that sort of response in her extensive job training, Big Lumpy turned to me and said, “Unless you two plan to have me shot. You don’t plan to have me shot, do you?”

“Not in broad daylight,” I said.

“Then I’ll be sure we’re out of here by sundown,” he said.

Sandy! showed us to a table on the patio and explained that although the sign said shots and beers only, they did have a few wines to choose from and that a selection of artisan pizzas, as well as chicken sandwiches, was available for lunch alongside the regular menu of red meat. When Sandy! finally left us alone, Big Lumpy let out an exasperated grunt. “She’s not right for this place,” he said.

“She seems too happy,” Sam said. “And not enough tattoos.”

“I’m not as involved as I should be in the day-today operations, clearly,” Big Lumpy said. “Her name tag is ridiculous. That will be addressed.”

“You own this place?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “And the land beneath your feet, too.”

“The bookie business must be very lucrative,” Sam said.

“Let’s not be foolish,” Big Lumpy said. “I wouldn’t dare try to launder my illegal money in property. It’s much easier to buy things with my legitimate earnings. That way no sneaky government agency will try to seize it on an ill-founded whim.”

“I know something about that,” I said.

A waiter came and dropped off waters then and Big Lumpy ordered a bucket of beer for the table to share, along with a dozen limes. Just three buddies having a Sunday afternoon man date at a faux dive bar. Maybe later, we’d go to a strip club and tell each other Chuck Norris jokes. As it was, we’d been sitting with one another for ten minutes and Big Lumpy still hadn’t bothered to ask who we were, which troubled me. It meant either he wasn’t concerned or he already knew. Or both.

“Now, then,” Big Lumpy said, perfectly gracious.

“Where’s my money?”

“You’re not getting any more money,” I said.

“No?” he said.

“Not from Brent Grayson, no,” I said. “Besides, what’s fifteen thousand dollars to a man like you?”

“Same as it is to any businessman who has outstanding debts from his clients. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“It’s not his debt,” I said.

“Do you really think the boy doesn’t know where his father is? He’s been paying off his debts all over the city. You tell me how a college student has the capital to do that.”

“You know of Yuri Drubich?” I asked.

Big Lumpy raised his eyebrows in actual surprise. As best as I could tell, it was his first uncalculated move of the day. He took off his white hat and set it down on the table. His blond hair was thin and nearly translucent and I noticed for the first time that he had only mere wisps for eyebrows. I thought he was either still in chemo or was only a month or so out of it.

“That’s deep water,” he said.

“Deeper than he can swim in, I assure you,” I said.

“I read in the paper this morning that someone blew up Henry Grayson’s office,” he said. “That sounded a bit more extreme than the usual loan sharking and debt collection that goes on in this town.”

“They used a laser-guided shoulder-mounted rocket launcher,” Sam said.

“Really,” Big Lumpy said. “Overkill, don’t you think?”

“I dunno,” Sam said. “I heard about a gentleman in town who cuts off people’s eyelids when they don’t pay their gambling losses.”

Big Lumpy tried to hide a smile, but then just let go and began to laugh. He said, “Don’t believe everything you hear.” Our waiter brought us the bucket of beer, though Big Lumpy didn’t take one. “Please, help yourselves,” he said, and when Sam reached in and grabbed a Corona, he said, “Mr. Axe, don’t be shy. Take two.”

Sam did as he was told. Might as well. It wasn’t like Big Lumpy didn’t know who he was at that point.

“You don’t drink?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose any more brain cells.”

“I heard you had a two hundred IQ,” I said. “What’s a brain cell when you’re in the top one percent of the entirety of the human race?”

“I’m dying,” he said matter-of-factly. “So the chemicals inside me and my disease have already taken me down to at least one ninety-eight. I’d like to keep the rest of my wits about me.”

“Skin cancer?” I said.

“Yes, but that’s just an unlucky occurrence,” he said.

“Let’s just say my entire body has gone on strike and now my skin has finally gotten on board with the rest of the union.”

“How long do you have?” I asked.

“Doctors say maybe a year,” he said. “But they didn’t know I was having lunch today with an assassin.”

“Which one of us would that be?” I said.

“Don’t be coy, Mr. Westen,” he said. “You can call yourself a spy, but that’s just a fancy name, isn’t it? A spy is a part-time errand boy and a part-time killer. Pretending otherwise does a disservice to the fine psychopaths who’ve held your job since 1776.”

Well, that solved that.

“So, no disrespect, Mr. Lumpy, but in light of your condition, why bother with Henry Grayson at all?” Sam said. “And his son-that seems like bad form, you ask me.”

“Principle,” he said. “Mr. Axe, if your SEAL unit got called tomorrow by the Joint Chiefs of Staff to go into some despotic foreign land to take out an evil dictator along with maybe an entire village of his supporters, as a Navy SEAL, wouldn’t you agree to do that just on the mere principle of your position? On the principle of your team?”

“It’s my job,” Sam said. “I chose it. And I’m not dying.”

“Precisely,” Big Lumpy said. “And this is my job. And I chose it. And you are dying, Mr. Axe. You could walk out of this poor excuse for a bar and be run over by a bus, or you could go home and drown on the mojito you’re sipping or I could have a sniper shoot you between the eyes right where you’re sitting. Or, or, maybe you stub your toe and an embolism travels to your heart and kills you before you even realize you’re sick.”

Sam put down his beer, got up and changed seats so that he was sitting directly next to Big Lumpy instead of across from him. Harder to shoot a man when he’s practically sitting in your boss’ lap. I was still in the wide open but at least Sam was safe.

“You know what I just did?” Sam said.

“Made an impulsive decision?” Big Lumpy said.

“No,” he said. “I improved my odds for survival.”

“Clearly,” Big Lumpy said, “you know nothing about odds. But really, as it relates to Mr. Grayson and his son, it just comes down to this: Don’t make bets if you can’t pay up. Simple as that. Henry Grayson was never very good at that idea. Always in trouble. Always one step ahead of some violent numbers man, never smart enough to move to Las Vegas and bet legally. That’s the wonder of it all, really.”