Tod Goldberg - The Bad Beat

“You’re not curious about how Yuri Drubich is involved in this?” I said.

“Oh, I am,” he said. “I can’t see Henry Grayson contacting him for anything. And I can’t see Yuri Drubich ever needing a man like Henry. All I can think of is that Henry must have won the Bad Luck Lottery. Do they offer that one in Florida?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Do you know that Henry always bets the favorite? Are you aware of that?”

“No,” I said.

“He’s a mark, Mr. Westen,” Big Lumpy said. “He takes bad beats because he never plays the underdog, never plays the numbers, always just goes with the favorites. It’s stupid and how frat boys bet, not grown men. So I have to assume that somewhere along the line he made a bet with Yuri Drubich and lost.”

“You’re wrong,” I said.

“I’m never wrong. I’m just not right yet.” Big Lumpy took a sip of water and then reached across the table for a lime, squeezed it into the water and took another sip. “The water tastes septic,” he said. “All of this treatment has destroyed my taste buds.” He put his hat back on, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Now let me spend a moment on this, if you don’t mind.”

“Please,” I said. “I can’t wait to see how a man named Mark McGregor earns a name like Big Lumpy.”

For the next five minutes, Big Lumpy sat nearly motionless save for the slow tapping of his fingers on both thighs. It was as if he was typing. He was, certainly, one of the most unusual men I’d ever met. The information Sam had on him was slim enough that we had only a vague idea of what we might be dealing with, which wasn’t surprising. If he was ex-NSA (or, as Sam rightly noted, likely still working for them as a consultant, since very few great minds ever really leave the covert side of the government unless, of course, they get burned), he probably controlled his outward persona meticulously. Maybe he wasn’t the violent psychopath. Maybe he just employed violent psychopaths. Maybe none of that was true.

What was becoming increasingly apparent to me was that there was a way I could get Big Lumpy to help Brent solve his problem with the Russians. I had a good sense that Big Lumpy would like the chance to tangle with someone like Yuri Drubich.

Finally, Big Lumpy opened his eyes and sat forward in his seat again.

“I thought we’d lost you,” Sam said.

“It’s hard to concentrate completely when you know that at any moment the person sitting next to you might be shot in the head,” he said. “Are you ready, Mr. Westen, to know how Henry Grayson and his adorable son got involved with Yuri Drubich?”

“Impress me,” I said.

“You’re already impressed by me,” he said.

“Then show me you’re more than just a sideshow,” I said.

“You know what I like about you, Mr. Westen? You’re not scared of me.”

“You’re a dying man dressed like a piece of taffy,” I said. “What’s there to be scared of?”

A thin smile worked its way across Big Lumpy’s face. “Fair enough.” He began to arrange the items on the table into two distinct quadrants. There were three forks, three beers and three lime wedges in front of Big Lumpy and three napkins, three sugar packets and three glasses of water in front of me. “So, imagine this as a Revolutionary War killing field or, if it’s easier, a chessboard. Your side of the board represents Henry Grayson. My side of the board represents Yuri Drubich. Now, in a chess game, it would be reasonable to assume that the more skilled and ruthless player would have a real advantage over someone who, say, has played only checkers before. We can agree on that?”

“We can,” I said.

“And we can agree that in an actual war, the superior armed force usually wins, discounting, of course, every war fought in Afghanistan.”

“We can,” I said. I wasn’t sure where this was going, but at least he had my attention.

Big Lumpy began moving the items on the table in rapid succession, his pieces quickly and efficiently destroying mine: He carved up my napkins with his fork, poured beer over my packets of sugar and squeezed his limes into my water. “A superior chess player, he’ll have a rank novice in checkmate in three moves. In war, maybe it’s a few more steps. But if you apply just a tiny bit of game theory, you can predict well within reason what your enemy will do. I kill your napkin, you decide to flood my army with your glass of water… but I’ve already poisoned your water, so you’re most likely dead. It’s all about understanding provocation and the reaction to provocation.”

“Okay,” I said. “So what’s your conclusion?”

Big Lumpy shrugged. “In order for a man like Yuri Drubich to come after Henry Grayson and his son with rockets, they would have needed to provoke him in such a way that that was the only possible result, because it is so extreme, it is so public and stupid, that it would need to be the last message, not the first. If you blow up a building, you’re asking for government involvement. You shoot the son of a degenerate gambler, the police will be interested, but not for long. Scum killing scum. It makes life easier for the police. So, it’s impossible. Mathematically impossible, humanly impossible-there’s no possible nexus where these parties would ever meet-and theoretically impossible. I can only conclude you’ve been lied to.”

“So you think Brent Grayson happened across a rocket launcher and blew his own father’s business up?” Sam said. “The kid doesn’t even wake up before noon.”

Big Lumpy turned to Sam and patted him once on the shoulder. “You don’t think your friend Fiona could get him a fairly good-sized rocket launcher? If she could get one, any serious black market arms dealer could get him one, too.”

Logical enough. But I had an idea.

“You’re a smart man,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “So where’s my money?”

“You’re a smart man,” I said. “Wouldn’t it stand to reason that a person like me wouldn’t be helping a college kid? What gain do I have?”

“Michael,” he said, “you’d help Idi Amin get his cat down from a tree if you found out he had a bad childhood.”

“And if I haven’t been lied to? What will you do for me if I can prove that it’s all true? That all of your minions have been taking Yuri Drubich’s money, which means when Brent can’t pay, Drubich’s eventually going to come find you?”

Big Lumpy closed his eyes again. “Let me think,” he said.

“How long are you going into your trance?” Sam said. “In case I need to visit the little boys’ room. Or fly across the country.”

Big Lumpy ignored Sam. “Shall we put odds on it?” he asked after about thirty seconds, his eyes still closed.

“No, straight up. I convince you of the truth, you stay away from Brent Grayson and you call off your stray collection dogs, too.”

“His father is not in this equation,” Big Lumpy said. “He came by his debts honestly.”

“Fine,” I said.

“And if I’m not convinced, what then?”

“You’re at war with me,” I said.

“Hmm, yes, I figured. You’re not a difficult army to theorize against. So convince me, Michael Westen, that your client has somehow engaged Yuri Drubich.”

I told him the story, even had Sam pull out a BlackBerry and show him the Web site for InterMacron.

When I finished, Big Lumpy sat quietly for a solid minute. Then he reached across the table and plucked one of the beers from the bucket, popped the cap and took a long drink. “So if I’m to understand,” he said, “a college boy conned one of the biggest black market import/export men in all of Russia?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“This technology, what did you call it?”