Tod Goldberg - The Bad Beat

“Kineoptic Transference.”

“Nice name,” he said.

“I thought so, too,” I said.

He took another sip from the beer. “I never liked the way this tasted.”

“Beer?” Sam said.

“Failure,” Big Lumpy said and I knew I had him. “Do you know why Drubich so willingly put his money on the table for this? Other than greed, of course.”

“I feel like you’re about to tell me,” I said.

“Because we’ve been trying to develop this technology for over twenty years. It’s the next level, except no one can even find a stepladder to get there. It’s all theoretical.”

“When you say ‘we,’” Sam said, “who are you talking about exactly?”

“The government,” Big Lumpy said. “Any sort of alphabet agency that employs scientists. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a team on the Arctic Circle at this very moment trying to figure out new equations.”

“I looked it up online,” Sam said, “and there was nothing. Nothing but Brent’s Web site, anyway.”

“That’s correct,” he said. “That it’s not been scrubbed already just means that there’s a Democrat in office, that’s all. A couple of years ago, Brent Grayson would be in a prison underneath a mountain, getting water-boarded for information. I promise you that.”

Big Lumpy was excited. We hadn’t appealed to his good side, we’d appealed to the scientist and the gambler. It wasn’t my initial plan, but now I had to set the hook.

“Clearly,” I said, “there’s much more money to be made from Drubich if someone happens to be enterprising enough to string him along further. Maybe a scientist smart enough to provide actual specs. Far more than fifteen thousand bucks, anyway.”

“It’s a big gamble,” he said. “It would take me a great deal of time to come up with a convincing schematic to deliver. And what can I expect my return would be?”

“He’s already paid Brent close to $150K and that’s just based on what he saw on the Web site,” Sam said. “You show up in a fancy suit holding your diploma from MIT in your hand and then talk in big words, you’d probably get ten times that much money.”

“It would still be a challenge,” he said. “He already suspects he’s been duped.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” I said. “Isn’t that what this is all about for you? This whole charade of being the most evil bookie in town? Isn’t it all about intellectual challenges? Now more than ever?”

“Don’t play the dying card,” Big Lumpy said.

“You played it first,” I said.

Big Lumpy stood up and waved his hand once above his head. A few seconds later, a white Cadillac Escalade pulled up in front of the Hair of the Dog and idled there. “I must be going,” Big Lumpy said. “It was a pleasure getting to know the two most dangerous men in Miami.”

“What’s with all the white?” Sam asked.

“Makes me look mysterious,” Big Lumpy said. “It’s good for the public relations. No one expects a terrible person to always be wearing white, now do they?”

“I guess not,” Sam said.

“So,” I said, “do we have a deal?”

Big Lumpy stared intently at me for a few moments, as if he was trying to determine what the result might be if he reneged on our bet. He sighed once and then put out his hand to shake. His grip was light, his skin thin and feathery. “I’ll need backup,” he said.

“You’ll have it,” I said.

“And I’ll need Henry Grayson,” he said. “He owes.”

“We’re working on it,” I said. “You’ll have to trust me.”

“I do,” he said. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

Big Lumpy walked to the Escalade and his driver-a tiny Asian man also wearing all white, including a white baseball cap and white shoes-met him on the passenger side with a portable oxygen unit, which Big Lumpy immediately hooked himself up to before getting into the SUV. He didn’t close the door, he just sat there in the passenger seat inhaling. After a few minutes, he pulled his mask off and motioned for us to come over.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew you’d be here?” he said.

“It hadn’t occurred to me,” I said.

“Of course not,” he said. “You’re an American spy. Well, you can thank your friend Sugar.”

“He bets with you, too?” Sam asked.

“No,” Big Lumpy said. “I had him kidnapped last night. I’ll keep him until you deliver Henry Grayson, if you don’t mind.” He closed his door then and the Escalade drove off, leaving Sam and me just as he’d hoped: dumbfounded.

“Well,” Sam said eventually, “that was a surprise.”

“I take it you didn’t leave Sugar in a safe location?” I said.

“I just took him home,” Sam said. “You didn’t want him in your house, did you?”

“No,” I said.

“So it looks like we’re in business with Big Lumpy,” Sam said.

“Strange,” I said.

“You believe a word he said?”

“Hard not to,” I said.

“Me, too,” Sam said. “Say what you want about him, but that psychopath plays it straight.”

“I think he just took the right odds with us,” I said, “just as we’d done with him.”

“What are we going to do about Sugar?”

“Find Henry Grayson, I suppose,” I said.

“You’re just going to hand him over to Big Lumpy?” Sam said. “That doesn’t sound like a wise plan.”

“No,” I said. “But if his debt is honest, which I suspect it is, then he should pay it. I just don’t think he should pay with his life.”

My cell rang. It was Fiona. “Where are you?” I asked.

“I just had tea with Yuri Drubich,” she said. “Lovely man.”

“Tea? Is that a euphemism for kneecapping him?”

“Michael,” she said, “I’m not a savage. We had a nice conversation and came to some very strong conclusions about Brent’s future.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “He intends to end any possibility of it.”

“Tell me some good news,” I said.

“I was able to convince them to go into business with us,” she said.

“That’s ironic,” I said, “since we just got Big Lumpy on the team, too.”

“And I can assure you Yuri will keep at least one of his hands clean,” she said and then went on to tell me about her pleasant cup of tea.

Fiona tried not to give too much thought to her transformation from top-notch criminal to top-notch-criminalwho-now-helped-the-poor-and-less-fortunate. It certainly wasn’t something she could have predicted; nor was it something she’d always wanted to do, as her normal inclination was to shoot first and ask probing questions later, if at all. But being involved with Michael had secondary issues alongside the normal relationship stuff. He just didn’t like to leave a trail of bodies in his wake anymore and Fiona had to respect that. At least a little. Most of the time. Half of the time. Some of the time, anyway.

So when Michael told her to go look into Yuri Drubich’s local operation, she knew that she couldn’t very well go in and execute every last person she encountered, as appealing as that sounded. Michael wanted information, and information meant talking. She’d do her best and if things turned bad, she’d see about hurting only those who deserved it the most, which, in these cases, was usually most of them.

But when Fiona pulled up in front of a cache of 1920s-era bungalows that had been converted into hip Coral Gables office space and cute shops with names like Peas and Pods, apparently some kind of maternity clothing store, and Re-Treats, which offered “All of the candies you loved as a kid,” she knew she could probably leave her gun in the car. She’d keep one in her purse, but that was just for normal safety. And really, since the address for Yuri Drubich’s import/export company corresponded to a lovely Russian tearoom called Odessa, Fiona had the sense that she’d need to play this investigation just a tad differently than most. Alas, she thought, she probably wouldn’t get to make anyone bleed today. But like that movie said, tomorrow is another day…