Tod Goldberg - The Bad Beat

“You know what would be nice?” Barry said. “If one day you just called me and said you needed to launder some money.”

“It’s a more complex world than it was when you first started in business,” I said. “You should be happy you haven’t been left behind.”

“I guess so,” he said. He examined the letter again. “Well, this Iceland thing is a pretty good idea. After their banks collapsed in 2008, they’ve been hungry for American dollars, so they relaxed a lot of their regulations. You ever seen one of their bills? The krona? It’s got one of the ugliest men in a wig on it I’ve ever seen. It’s like a drag show you can buy food with.”

“That’s not helpful in the least,” I said.

“It’s still a good place to stash money,” Barry said,

“as long as you don’t mind a low interest rate. The American dollar to the krona is almost as bad as the euro to the krona, which makes it not a great place to invest, but a good place to stash.”

“So you can take care of that?” I said.

“Sugar could do it.”

“What else?” I said.

“How much does Henry Grayson owe?”

I pulled out a handy Excel spreadsheet Big Lumpy had been kind enough to provide me-which also included Nate’s debts-and gave it to Barry. He examined it for a few minutes. “This guy should not bet,” Barry said. “He shouldn’t be allowed to make any decisions whatsoever, really.”

“Hence the conditions,” I said.

“It says here he’s already paid off a couple hundred thousand and he still owes, what, another four hundred thousand?”

“And that’s not with any further vig,” I said. “Big Lumpy cut off the vig at his death.”

“That’s proper,” Barry said. “Can’t take it with you, I’ve always been told. It says here Nate owes… two hundred dollars?”

“Correct,” I said. “A purely symbolic gesture by Big Lumpy.”

“You sure he’s dead?”

“Sure.”

“Well, everything he lays out here, I can get it all set up for the kid. Big Lumpy’s got some guy who’s still breathing who’s taking care of it from his end?”

“You know an Asian guy named Monty?” I said.

“Wears white all the time?” Barry said.

“Yes,” I said. “Where do you know him from?”

“Couple years back he was in a hot stone massage class with me at the junior college. We bump into each other periodically on the circuit.”

“The circuit?”

“You know, galas on the Fish that are just veiled pyramid schemes, casino yachts run by Cubans in the Biscayne, parties with Jay-Z, that sort of thing. He’s an ex-something-supersecret.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s what I got from talking to him.” I thought for a moment. “You took a class in hot stone massage?”

“It’s a fascinating art, Michael,” he said. “You learn all about pressure points that can be manipulated for the release of tension. It can be a very useful technique for a single man.”

“Or someone who needs to torture people periodically,” I said.

“No, there’s an oath you take that you’ll never use the art for ill. A whole creed you have to say before class. Something about using might for right. I remember that part.”

“He’s Big Lumpy’s guy Friday,” I said. “What’s his reputation?”

“You work for Big Lumpy, perception is that you’re best of the best, but that could mean best at breaking arms or puncturing lungs or whatever.”

“I’m asking if he’s someone to worry about.”

Barry thought for a moment. “Worry? No. At heart he’s a gentle soul. He liked to paint these very small poems onto his hot stones. Said they gave the stones emotional power, too.”

“You think you can work with him?”

“I can work with anyone,” Barry said, “provided their money is green.”

“You’ll be compensated.” Across the street, Sugar was already dodging oncoming traffic again as he made his way back to Odessa. Maybe, I thought, remembering my impressions of Big Lumpy, some kids never did get the “look both ways” thing down pat. “I need you to be Henry Grayson,” I said.

“Doesn’t Yuri want to kill him?”

“Yes,” I said. “But he also wants to kill Fiona, so you’d be in good company.”

“You’re not making this sound any more appealing,” Barry said. “Besides, I’m not old enough to have a nineteen-year-old kid.”

“No?”

“No,” he said. He didn’t sound all that convincing.

“How old are you, Barry?”

“That’s confidential information,” he said. “You can’t ask me that.”

“I’m going to guess forty-three,” I said. “Normal person, by the time they’re forty-three, they’ve got a kid.”

“I’m not a normal person and I’m not forty-three,” he said. “Do I look forty-three?”

“Right now you look about fifty,” I said. “The Crocs aren’t doing you any favors.”

“These pants make me look fat,” Barry said.

“Pleats do that,” I said.

“What would I need to do?”

“You’d need to come with me and Sam and Brent to meet with Yuri. While you’re there, you’re going to apologize for doing some untoward things and then we’ll all go home.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I said. “Essentially.”

“What does ‘essentially’ mean?”

“Won’t know until it happens,” I said. I poured Barry another cup of tea and pushed it toward him. “Put some honey in it. It will calm you down.”

Barry took a sip and grimaced. “The honey only makes the bitter things stick together,” he said. “So this Brent. What’s he like?”

“Shrugs a lot. Says ‘like’ every other word.”

“Is he worth all of this trouble?”

“He’s a smart kid. Big Lumpy thought he was the real deal, obviously. He’s had a bad life,” I said. “I think everyone deserves a chance for a better one. Maybe this will give him that.”

“In the end, it’s just money.”

“You saying money can’t buy happiness?”

“Personally,” Barry said, “I derive great pleasure from money, but you know how kids are today.”

“I guess you’d know better than me, being closer in age to most children,” I said.

Barry didn’t respond to that. “And I’m to portray his father?”

“Yes.”

“Will I get a script?”

“Do you need a script?”

“I did a bit of theater in high school,” Barry said. “Thurber and the like. So I at least need to know my motivation.”

“Not to die,” I said.

“That’s easy enough,” Barry said.

Sugar finally navigated his way across the street, the parking lot and the tea shop and found his seat back at the table. He still had the fifty-dollar bill in his hand, along with a flyer for some event.

“Bro,” he said, “you won’t believe what I found out.”

“That this isn’t a pedestrian state?” I said.

“Our boy is gonna be all up in some black-tie shit tonight.”

Sugar handed me the flyer. Across the top it said THE CONSULATE OF MOLDOVA SALUTES ITS PHILANTHRO-PIST OF THE YEAR. In the center of the flyer was a huge photo of Yuri Drubich, his lovely wife and three lovely children. There was even a dog in the photo. Some kind of spaniel with a very pink tongue. It was suitable for framing or turning into a Christmas card. At the bottom of the flyer it said that the evening’s black-tie celebration would begin at eight p.m. and that Drubich would be honored for his “tireless efforts in expanding technology to the children of Moldova.” To reserve a table of five was a mere $10,000, though ten people got you a discounted rate of just $15,000. Checks payable to the Drubich Trust for Electronic Education.

I showed the flyer to Barry. “You have a cheap tuxedo?” I asked.