by Tod Goldberg
“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?”
“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.
7
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…
And anyway, Fiona didn’t actually see any nefarious-looking men mingling about the tea shop, only women with babies in strollers, and then one waitress who looked like she was one bad Sylvia Plath poem away from ending it all. Fiona never understood women who wore horn-rimmed glasses and clogs. It was as if they just decided to extinguish sex from their lives forever. Fiona thought that at worst, she’d end up with a nice cup of tea and at best, maybe the girl in the glasses could provide her with at least a tiny bit of information.
Once she was inside, Fiona saw that the tearoom occupied a bungalow that hadn’t been renovated as much as the other shops had-the kitchen was still being used as the kitchen, but walls had been moved, clearly, and what must have been the living room now housed a small shop and a few tables. Charming, really. Most of the sitting area was out front on a sun-dappled patio that wrapped around to the bungalow’s origina
l side yard. The shop and the indoor part of the sitting area smelled like cinnamon and jasmine and, low in the background, music played. It was a female singer doing a number about being sad and lonely (or at least that’s what Fiona surmised-she couldn’t actually hear all of the lyrics, apart from the constant refrain of “I’m sad and lonely”). None of it felt very Russian at all. Rather, it was more like a Starbucks that had been denuded of all corporate pretension and coffee.
Fiona spent a few minutes looking at the various knickknacks-mostly different devices for storing or making tea, a field of retail that she assumed was small but apparently infinite. There were also small pieces of art-pictures on tiny easels, tea bags photographed in black and white and then matted, paintings of teacups in open fields, that sort of thing-that Fiona assumed were purchased only by people who had run out of space for cats in their home.
“Can I help you?”
Fiona turned around to find the smiling face of the Sylvia Plath girl. Surprisingly, she detected just a hint of a Russian accent. Interesting. And helpful.
“Yes. Yes, you can,” Fiona said. She decided to try on one of those plain American accents she always heard inside Target when she went to buy dish soap. An accent that conveyed just enough education to be presumptuous and just enough lack of worldliness to still hold Russians in real suspicion. Or, in other words, your average government worker. “Is Mr. Drubich here?”
“No,” Sylvia Plath said, her accent thicker now, her demeanor immediately defensive. Maybe she wasn’t a Sylvia Plath kind. Maybe she was more of a Natasha Fatale in a bad dress. But Natasha would never wear those glasses. Russian women always did have a certain brio about them.
“When do you expect him back?” Fiona asked.
“He doesn’t work here,” Sylvia Plath said.
“But you’re aware he owns this establishment, correct?”
“Who am I speaking to?” Sylvia Plath asked. Her accent was so pronounced now that Fiona was actually surprised by it. This woman wasn’t exactly keeping deep cover. Or else she was just your average waitress who didn’t want to scare off the ladies who drink tea by sounding like the enemies they remember from childhood.
