"I'm not joking, man," he said. "You're the fucking genius. You should know that."
"Why do you think I haven't taken care of him?" I asked.
Trigg shrugged. "I don't know what you got going on in that big fat brain of yours," he said. “I really just thought you'd up and left Vegas for West Bend."
"I need to go back," I said. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about all the crap I needed to deal with back home.
"Yeah. What happened with your mom was some bad juju," he said, shaking his head.
"I guess so." I didn't have anything else to say about it. I'd been pondering my mother's suicide since it happened. Overdose by pills and booze just didn't seem like her style. It wasn't that I doubted she was capable of killing herself. But there were reasons she wouldn't. Like the fact that my abusive asshole of a father was finally out of the picture. It made no sense to kill herself now, after her tormentor was finally dead.
"We'll get some beers, dude. Take your mind off things." Trigg's voice broke through my thoughts. "Tonight. One of the guys from my gym has a girl that's bartending at one of the fancy hotels here. She'll hook us up - we won't even have to pay."
"All right," I agreed. "Tonight. Hey, did you ask around about the girl that was with Coker at the fight?"
Trigg chomped on another chip. "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you," he said. "She's been into some of the gyms around town. A television producer, deals with Chinese fights or some shit like that. A private channel. Maggie something. James? Jameson. Maggie Jameson."
"Chinese fights," I said.
Trigg brushed chip crumbs off his lap and onto the floor. I made a mental note to get the car detailed before Elias saw it and had a heart attack. I could already see him, clutching at his chest before keeling over at the very thought of crumbs in the seats of his car. "I don't know," he said. "Middle Eastern maybe? Something like that. Who knows? Foreign channels - I mean, really, who the hell cares?"
So Tempest was calling herself Maggie. She was an international television producer. Or posing as one, more likely. The thought almost made me laugh. What a bunch of bullshit.
Elias had called earlier, undoubtedly wanting to know where the hell his car was, but I ignored it. I hadn't checked in with Luke or Killian, either. I didn't even know if they were still in town. I needed to go home. Nothing was keeping me here now that the fight was done.
Except Tempest.
She was running some kind of scam. She had to be. And if she was scamming Coker, I sure as hell wanted to know what she was doing.
And I sure as hell wanted in on it.
9
Tempest
I handed Coker the slip of paper with the account numbers written on it.
He took it, the tremor in his hand betraying his nervousness. "This is it, then," he said.
“Yes, this is it," Iver said, looking down at Coker over the edge of the glasses he'd donned for the meeting. His voice couldn't have been any more saturated with snobbery if he tried. I had to hide a smile. Iver was exceptionally good at playing hard-to-get with a mark. It was one of his most honed skills. "But if it's too much for you, I'd encourage you to reconsider."
"Yes," I said, giving Coker a smile. "It's quite a lot of money, and risk is for a certain type of individual. You should certainly consult with an advisor if you're the type of man who requires that kind of affirmation, because this is a transaction that is meant for a man who is comfortable with taking risks."
Iver rolled his eyes, and looked at Coker with disdain. "Yes," he said. "I do suppose a million dollars is a considerable sum to some people."
Coker cleared his throat, his face reddening. "A million dollars isn't chump change to most people."
Iver turned toward me, his hand on my elbow, pulling me away from Coker, toward the door. "I said this was a mistake, dealing with a new investor," he said, his voice a stage whisper. "You and the vibes you get from people, kindred spirits and all that. It's an adorable tendency, but one you really must give up."
I turned back toward Coker. "It is highly unusual for me to consider a deal with an investor I haven't personally known for long time, Mr. Coker. I am only considering it because of your reputation for assisting your fighters by any means necessary." I emphasized the words. I wanted to imply he was a cheat, a man I knew was rotten to the core. "I feel we share a certain...sensibility, a kinship, if you will. But I don't require your assistance."
"We do share the same kind of sensibility," Coker said. "These fighters, they're commodities."
Iver interrupted him. "I'm afraid I'm not comfortable with this arrangement at all."
"What?" Coker's face grew even redder. He looked back and forth between Iver and me. "You said we had a deal. An understanding."
I put my hand on Iver's sleeve. "Roger, please," I said. "Mr. Coker is exactly the kind of man who understands what we're trying to do."
Coker nodded. "I do, I do. And your viewers want the kind of fighter I can provide."
"Our clientele have everything, Mr. Coker," I said. "They are world leaders who have to have their appetites...restrained...in public. They want a more...authentic fight experience, and they are willing to pay a premium for it."
"I have no problem putting up the money." He laughed nervously. "It's just, on my side of business, a million dollars is a large investment, that's all."
Iver sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, looking Coker up and down before turning back to me again. "I don't know," he said. "It just seems like much more trouble to deal with a small-time investor, adding him into the fold. We could simply ask one of the other investors to increase their contribution by a million. I'm sure Billy Murdoch would be fine with it."
Coker's eyes grew wide. "William Murdoch is one of the investors?"
Iver's hand flew to his mouth. "I've said too much. We should leave." His eyes widened as he looked at me.
"No, no," Coker said. "I've got my laptop right here. I only wanted to meet again as a precaution. I'm ready to make the transfer."
I nodded. "When you're ready."
Iver tapped his watch impatiently. "I'm afraid we can't wait while you take care of the arrangements," he said. "As we have another pressing engagement." He strode across the room, without waiting for me.
I shook Coker's hand. "You’ll have to pardon Roger," I said. "He's so used to handling larger transactions that he's forgotten what it's like to make smaller businesspeople very rich. He used to be a small businessperson once himself."
"Small..." Coker's voice sputtered, then trailed off. I knew the gears in his head would be churning at the implication that not only was he a small business person, much smaller than the whales we usually dealt with, but that we were treating him as a virtual charity case.
The implication was that we would make him rich. Obscenely rich.
A man like Coker wouldn't be able to resist the lure.
I held out my hand, shaking his. "I must go," I said. "We'll be in touch." Then I spun on my heel and joined Iver outside.
We were both silent even after we got to the car. As I drove, Iver thumbed over the screen on his phone. We weren't even five minutes down the road when he looked up. "The money was transferred," he said.
I chuckled, unable to contain my delight. "You did a brilliant job in there," I said. "Your snobbery is quite convincing."
Iver winked. "Don't let the game fool you, darling," he said. "My snobbery is only rarely part of the con."
I laughed. "You know, when we first started together, I wasn't sure you actually had a heart."
"I've convinced you otherwise?" he asked. "And they say you can't con a con."
"Who the hell says that?" I asked. "That's not a saying. Of course you can con a con. They say you can't con an honest man."
"I'm afraid that's not very accurate, either," he said.
"You've been conning honest people?" I asked.
Iver tapped on his phone, distracted. "Not since you caused me to see the error
of my ways," he said. "I'm a changed man. Reformed."
"A regular saint," I said.
"You've been Little Miss Robin Hood for a long time now," Iver said, looking up from his phone. "Have you ever conned any honest people?"
"Once," I said, Silas' image flashing in my mind. “A long time ago.”
After all, love was the ultimate con, wasn't it?
10
Silas
“Sorry I missed the fight, man,” Abel said. He sat at the table in the bar, one leg in a cast. “I heard it was an epic one.”
“Hell,” I said. “You’re apologizing for Coker running you down? Are you kidding me?”
He laughed. “No. There's no way I’m apologizing for that. I'm just sorry for missing your comeback. I mean, if it had been me you were fighting, you’d have just been embarrassed, because you'd have gotten the shit kicked out of you.”
I held up my beer glass. “Well, cheers to the fact that I got to kick Rush’s ass, then. Instead of getting my ass kicked.”
“Cheers to that,” Trigg said. He stood. “Now, drink up. Stacey’s only working until ten, and until then, beer’s free.”
I gulped down the last few swallows, and pulled Abel’s glass from his hand, giving it to Trigg. “There you go.”
A hand slapped my back hard, and I spun around, expecting to have to knock the shit out of someone. Instead, I came face to face with an older man in a grey pullover sweater, a cane in one hand.
“You’re that fighter,” he said. “I watched you at the fight the other night. You were quite remarkable.”
This little old man was watching amateur fights? The look of disbelief must have registered on my face, because he chuckled.
“Oh, now, even an old man like me has to have some hobbies,” he said. “Betting on fights just happens to be one of mine. And you won me ten grand.”
I whistled. “Congratulations.” Must be nice, I thought. Ten grand was more than the purse for the fight.
“Well, now,” he said. “If you gentlemen would be so inclined, there’s a bar upstairs on the top floor that is reserved solely for the suites. Your drinks are on me. Whatever you would like. The sky’s the limit.”
I was just opening my mouth to decline - a couple of cheap beers was just fine with me - when Trigg ambled up beside me. “Free drinks in the penthouse bar?” he asked. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But we’re just drinking beer in the bar down here with the other commoners.”
The old man chuckled. “Well, if you change your mind,” he said. He handed me a card. “You’ll need this key card to access the upper floors.”
Wordlessly, he turned and ambled away.
Trigg snatched the card from my hand. “Well, boys,” he said. “Tonight we get to drink like the rich folks do. Silas, that includes you."
11
Tempest
Iver handed me a glass of champagne. "To another job well done," he said, raising his glass. "Where is Oscar, anyway?"
As if on cue, the door to the suite opened, and Oscar ambled inside. "I'm here," he said. "I was just getting some fresh air."
Emir handed him a glass. "The money is set up in accounts that the family will be able to access under the radar of any government entity. Minus our shares, of course."
Iver nodded. "I'll deliver the news to Deborah."
I sighed. "What's next, boys?"
Iver shrugged. "The south of France is nice this time of year."
"Emir?" I asked.
"I have a flight out of town tomorrow," he said. "There's a comic convention, and a new video game I've been dying to hole up for a week with."
"And you, Oscar?" I asked. "Far flung travel plans?"
"Oh, you know," he said. "An old man like me, I'm not chasing models and yachting anymore."
Iver chuckled. "Don't let him tell you stories, Ariana," he said, calling me by my grifter alias. "Oscar's got more life left in his pinkie than the rest of us do in our entire bodies. What are you really up to, old man?"
Oscar laughed. "I think I'm going to spend a month in Rome," he said.
Iver sighed. "There was this Italian girl once..."
Emir held up his hand. "The rest of us mere mortals don't need to hear about your escapades with models and heiresses."
Iver's eyes twinkled. "Speaking of heiresses, there's a shipping magnate's daughter I really should check up on."
Emir grimaced. "Don't you ever get tired of being a man whore?" he asked.
Iver grinned. "I don't understand the question," he said, turning to me. "Does the question make any sense to you?"
I laughed. "Boys, stop your bickering."
"What are your plans for your time off, Ariana?" Oscar asked. "Are you leaving it up to fate?"
After a job, I usually headed to the airport with no luggage and no plans, to take whatever flight was available that suited my fancy. I guess I could throw a dart at a map or something, really leave it up to fate to decide. And maybe I would do that, sometime in the future. But this time, I was going back to Colorado. My grandmother was still there. It had been almost a year since I'd sneaked back to see her, and that was long enough.
I sipped from the glass. "I think so," I lied. “Should we meet in New York next time, boys?”
Another grifter’s rule - always keep moving. We rotated cities and discarded identities like people changed clothes.
“At the Four Seasons, I think,” Iver said. “Or the Ritz.”
“The Ritz,” Oscar said. “Now, shall we retire to the restaurant for dinner?"
Iver paused. "Oscar, you look like the cat that ate the canary," he said. "What deviousness do you have planned?"
Emir wrinkled his nose. "Please say you didn't tell the maitre'd it was one of our birthdays," he said. “If I have to listen to wait staff sing to me…”
"Oh God, Oscar," I said. "If you have something up your sleeve..."
Oscar put his hands in the air. "Can't an old man dine with friends without his motives being questioned at every turn?" he asked, exhaling heavily. "Grifters are some of the least trusting people in the world."
Iver laughed. "Spoken like a guilty man," he said.
12
Silas
"Holy shit. This place is insane," Trigg said, his voice only semi-hushed, in the way that drunken people try to whisper.
"We can order food and everything, right?" Abel leaned in toward me. "I'm afraid they're going to come after us with an insanely huge bill."
I was wary myself, but I shook my head. "It seems to all be taken care of," I admitted. "I mean, they even let us in dressed the way we are."
We weren't exactly in gym clothes, but we weren't dressed like the few other people, mostly couples, here in the dimly lit restaurant. I'd seen two couples escorted through the bar area toward the restaurant, and they wore suits and dresses.
And here I'd thought I was getting really dressed up tonight by putting on jeans and a polo shirt. We had to stand out like sore thumbs here, even if the bar area was empty.
"Cigar, gentlemen?" A man appeared tableside, wearing a tuxedo and carrying a box.
"Hell fucking yeah," Trigg said, then cleared his throat. "I mean, yes. Please. That would be excellent. Sir."
Beside me, I heard Abel stifle a laugh. "Classy," he said under his breath.
We selected cigars, and laid them on the table.
"This is some kind of life," Trigg said. "Hell, if I go pro, this is how life would be all the time."
"If you went pro," Abel said. "You'd be training and living clean so you didn't lose everything you worked for."
"Shit, man," Trigg said, gesturing down the length of his body. "This body is a damn machine. It can handle anything I throw at it."
Abel laughed. "Whatever, dude," he said. "Give it a few years. Wait until you're thirty. Shit, even twenty five."
"That's forever away," Trigg said. "Right now, I'm in my motherfucking prime. All of us are."
"Ye
ah, man, look at me," Abel said, gesturing to his leg in the cast. "I'm like the definition of prime, right here."
I happened to look across the room as they laughed. And suddenly, everything faded into the background.
It was her.
Tempest.
She was standing there in the entrance to the restaurant, wearing this little black dress that skimmed over her curves, the material shimmering in the candlelight. She should have looked conservative, elegant in the dress she wore -it was that kind of a dress- but she couldn't have looked edgier if she had tried. The strapless gown did nothing to conceal the tattoos that twisted around her forearms and biceps, snaked across her shoulder, and peeked out from underneath the tiny straps.
Of course, she could have been wearing a fucking paper bag, for all it mattered to me - I couldn't take my eyes off her.
When her eyes met mine, her lips parted, just slightly.
It was like everything in the world stopped, in that moment.
I stood up.
I knew I should feel angry at her for leaving. I knew I should want nothing to do with her. She was a fucking thief who made promises, ran off with things that were precious to me.
Like my seventeen-year-old heart.
But I just couldn't help myself. I wanted her.
I crossed the room, hearing Abel protest from where he sat at the table. "What the hell are you doing, Silas?"
"Holy shit. That's that TV producer," Trigg said, hooting. "He's got some balls. She's out of his fucking league. She's with the rich guy, the one who bought our drinks."
Behind her stood a group of men. They were unassuming, nondescript, didn't look like they belonged together as a group in any way. One wore an expensive suit, like some kind of male model. One wore a hoodie and sneakers, black-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. And the older man, the one who'd invited us up here to begin with, stood there behind them in a cardigan, holding a cane.
Killian: A West Bend Saints Romance Page 48
