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The Bad Beat

Page 15

by Tod Goldberg


  “What about Brent?”

  “Yes, he has been provided for provided he does as Mr. McGregor wishes.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mr. Grayson will be delivered a copy of Mr. McGregor’s conditions.”

  “When?”

  “He left your mother’s home approximately five minutes ago—would that be correct?”

  I looked over my shoulder and down the street. Nothing stirred. There were no men with cameras hidden in the bushes. Which meant I probably didn’t realize Sugar was bugged. If I had to guess, it would be his earrings. It’s where I would have put a bug.

  “Correct,” I said.

  “A messenger will be arriving shortly. Within the next ten minutes if you’d like to remain outside. Please do not kill him. He is literally the messenger and not an emissary of any kind. Mr. McGregor specifically wanted you to know this.”

  “Great,” I said. “This information he left. It’s about the wind technology, is that correct?”

  “That’s my understanding, yes. He was very thorough, you should know. He worked on it until he passed. It will certainly be enough to force Mr. Drubich into complicity provided it is brought to him by a believable source.”

  “Big Lumpy was to serve that purpose,” I said.

  “Yes, sir, I understand that,” Monty said. “I’m afraid, as I said before, that he’s expired and thus will not be able to play that role.”

  “Henry Grayson,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Any information I should know regarding him?”

  “Yes, well, I might add that Mr. McGregor was disappointed in you in that regard, but understood your position.”

  “What position was that?”

  “The position you took in lying to him about his whereabouts. Nevertheless, Mr. Grayson is still missing. Mr. McGregor would like you to know you won that bet.”

  I’d had a feeling I hadn’t fooled him. But what I had done was convince him that Henry was crazy. If that hadn’t been the case, he wouldn’t have let me parade that lie in front of him. Even in death, he was exerting control.

  “Do you have a body?” I said.

  “The body has been removed,” he said.

  “By whom?”

  “The coroner. That’s who usually does that sort of thing, correct?”

  “I just didn’t know if maybe Big Lumpy’s body was privy to government secrecy or anything. You’ll excuse me for presuming he was important.”

  “He was important,” he said. I thought I caught a waver in Monty the Manservant’s voice, which made me feel bad. Big Lumpy was, after all, his friend. Or his employer. Or his . . . something. It really wasn’t all that defined what their relationship was and wasn’t made easier by the fact that they both wore those absurd white outfits, like they were about to star in a Wham! video.

  Apologizing would show weakness, so I just pressed on. “Do you happen to have a death certificate?”

  “One has not been issued yet. You’ll need to wait two days. The state of Florida is filled with dead people this time of year.”

  “Then I need proof of death in some other fashion,” I said. “Otherwise I have no reason to believe you, apart from your very fine diction and that nice car you drive.”

  “Would you like to come over and sniff his room?”

  “That was a joke, Monty?”

  “That was a joke, Mr. Westen. But I’m sure you can call the coroner’s office and they will confirm receipt of his body.”

  “Is there going to be a funeral?”

  “He was a man just like any other,” he said. “He has his wishes and they are that he will be buried in Massachusetts. If you’d like, I can see if we can get you a special pass to leave Miami to attend.”

  Smart. But I wondered how smart.

  “Monty,” I said. “That’s your real name? Because I’ve never known an Asian person named Monty.”

  “No, not really.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Steven.”

  “Steven,” I said, “why don’t you go on home? Get on with your life. You don’t work for Big Lumpy anymore. He’s dead. So you can stop with the formality of things. No one is going to hurt you, okay? You can just head on back to whatever life you thought you wanted to lead. I’m sure you’ve been provided for, right?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Really,” I said. “Feel free. I’ll come and pick up the documentation you have for me and then fly free.”

  Silence.

  “Or do what you want. It’s your choice. You just don’t need to wait around for your orders anymore.”

  “Mr. Westen,” he replied, “do you think everyone is you?”

  “You’ve been briefed, apparently.”

  “Apparently,” he said. “The messenger who arrives will have your information as well. When the money is made available to you from Mr. Drubich, you will contact me and your brother will be safe and all will be fine in the world.”

  “And who is going to let the government know that Yuri has top-secret documents?”

  “Do you think I am really a manservant?”

  “I guess I did,” I said. “But I’m going to guess now that you’re some kind of super assassin and also some kind of genius—would that be correct?”

  “I think Mr. McGregor overestimated you,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t be the first,” I said. “Are you the eyelid guy or was that someone else, just so I know who I’m actually dealing with here.”

  “My contact information will be enclosed with the documents you will be receiving. Call me when you are ready to transfer the money.”

  “And what do I call you? Monty? Steven? Agent Zero?”

  “Agent Zero sounds fine,” he said and hung up.

  I scrolled through the phone to see if the call had come from any specific number, but it came up blocked, naturally. I’d need to confirm that Big Lumpy was dead, but my sense was that he wouldn’t go to such lengths just to complicate things.

  “That didn’t sound like a great conversation,” Sam said.

  “Big Lumpy is dead,” I said.

  “I got that,” Sam said. I filled him in on the rest of the information Monty/Steven/Agent Zero gave me and let him digest it all. “Anything else?” he asked finally.

  “I think Sugar is bugged,” I said.

  “We need to give him a full pelvic?”

  “I hope not,” I said. “I’m going to guess it’s either in his earrings or his watch.”

  “His watch is the size of a hubcap,” Sam said.

  “That’s where we’ll look first, then. Save the pelvic for later, in case he resists.”

  Sam nodded. It was nice outside. A pleasant breeze. The palm trees were free of rats. The sky wasn’t smoggy. I couldn’t smell my mother’s cigarette smoke. I could probably get into my car and drive to the Keys and come back in a week and all of these problems would be gone, one way or the other.

  “This might be a good time for me to say, again, that I apologize for getting us into this mess,” Sam said.

  “How much do you know about wind technology?” I asked.

  “I once had to go out to the Marine base in Twentynine Palms, outside Palm Springs and I saw that big wind farm they’ve got out there. Sort of creeped me out. Windmills look dangerous.”

  “Apart from that?”

  “Apart from that, not much.”

  “Well,” I said, “when the messenger arrives with the information Big Lumpy came up with for us to deliver to Yuri Drubich, I suggest you spend some time getting acclimated to the nuances of all things involving wind technology.”

  “So . . . ”

  “Yes,” I said. “You’re now Big Lumpy. You have any all-white outfits?”

  “Not since Miami Vice,” he said.

  The front door opened and Sugar stepped out. “Your moms wanted me to come out and check on you,” he said. When I didn’t respond, because I knew he was
lying, he said, “All right, man, you know, she’s relentless with the judgments. I’ve had a bad week, bro, and she’s all up on me for my life choices, so I had to bug out.”

  I said nothing.

  “And so, yeah, I was thinking, maybe I’d bounce, if that’s cool?”

  “You planning on taking the bus?” Sam said. That he’d spoken at all was a surprise.

  “Naw, man, I was hoping you could set me up with a ride and a safe place for a few days, till this Russian madness ends.”

  “Sugar,” I said, “the moment you leave this house, you’re a dead man. Do you realize that?”

  “Your mom hates me,” he said.

  “You’re easy to hate,” Sam said. “Give me your watch.”

  “What?” he said.

  “Your watch,” Sam said. “Give it to me.”

  “Look, I’ll hook you up with those Dolphin tickets—you just gotta give me some time.”

  “Sugar,” I said, “give Sam your watch before he takes it with your arm still attached.”

  “If I give him my watch,” Sugar said to me, “will you get me out of here?”

  “Sugar,” I said, “I have a feeling Big Lumpy bugged you. The easiest place to look is your watch. After that, we start going through your internal organs. So please, with cherries on top, give Sam your watch.”

  Sugar unclasped his watch and handed it to Sam. “Be careful,” he said. “It’s a Rolex.”

  “Aren’t you a little young to have a Rolex?” Sam asked.

  “I got big money,” he said.

  Sam handed me the watch so I could look at it. It said ROLEX on the face and it was covered with diamonds . . . except that the diamonds were obviously cubic zirconium, since the only person who could afford the size and sum of encrusted diamonds on Sugar’s watch was the Sultan of Brunei. Even he would think it was gaudy. I turned the watch over. It said MADE IN CHINA right there on the plate.

  “Where’d you get this?” I asked.

  “You know. I got people who find me deals.”

  “They got you a great deal on this one, then,” I said and handed it back to Sam, who set it on the ground and stomped on it until it broke apart. The “diamonds” crumbled like . . . well, like the glass they turned out to be.

  “What are you doing?” Sugar fairly shrieked.

  “It’s a fake, Sugar,” I said. “It was made in China.”

  “What about the diamonds?” he said.

  “Those were made in a window store,” I said. I reached down and pulled out the parts and found the bug immediately—Big Lumpy hadn’t bothered to put a small, top-level bug into the watch, opting instead for one about the size of a nickel.

  “This come with your phone?” I asked.

  “Aw, man, c’mon,” Sugar said. “You think I knew they’d bugged me?”

  “During your traumatic time of capture,” Sam said,

  “were you ever without your lovely Rolex?”

  “That weird little dude? Monty? He asked me if he could shine it for me. Right before we came to your place, Mike. I was like, damn, you know?”

  “This was before they wrapped you in plastic and stuffed your ears with cotton and taped up your mouth?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “And you found nothing suspicious about the fact that they returned your watch to you all shined up and sparkling like it was the day you paid all eleven dollars for it?” Sam asked.

  “Man, I was out of my mind. You know? I just, you know, like reacted to freedom and wasn’t thinking about it. I’m not a pro at being kidnapped like you guys are. Maybe I had that Frankfurt Syndrome or some shit.”

  “I think you mean Stockholm,” I said.

  “Frankfurt, Stockholm, Fort Lauderdale, my shit was scared, yo.”

  It was hard to stay mad at Sugar. He was like a dog that pees on the floor every time the doorbell rings. Not much you can do but shake your head and drag it outside and tie it up when people come to visit—the difference being that you couldn’t just leave Sugar chained up outside for the rest of the day. At least not legally.

  I examined the bug for a moment. It was a government-issue high-density bug—the kind they hand out like M&Ms to spies around the world—which lent credence to both Big Lumpy’s bona fides and Monty’s . . . or Steve’s . . . or Agent Zero’s. Whoever he was. I looked for a fingerprint on the bug but found nothing. He’d be too good for that.

  “Sam,” I said, “you think you could find out who Big Lumpy’s manservant Monty actually is?”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “No,” I said, “I actually do trust him. But I want to know who our new business partner is before we send you into combat with Yuri.”

  “I’ll make some calls,” he said.

  “I need to know if he’s someone who can be reasoned with or someone I might need to shoot first, like Sugar, but I have a feeling you’re going to have a bit of homework when the deliveryman shows up.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” Sam said.

  “You’re the only person here who resembles the words ‘Big Lumpy,’” I said.

  “I can tell you right now,” Sugar said, “that Monty fool has his swerve down. He made my watch look tight even if he did bug it. But if you want to put a cap in his ass, I’m with that.”

  “No one is putting a cap in anyone’s ass,” I said.

  “Least of all you.”

  “Just saying, Mike, I’m riding with you, I’m riding with you to the end, player.”

  “Do you practice these lines?” Sam said to Sugar.

  “Or do they just roll out of your mouth as natural as the day you were born?”

  “You know,” Sugar said, “when you got game, you got game.”

  A black van with the logo FOUR POINTS DELIVERY SERVICE pulled up in front of my mother’s house then. The delivery guy got out and saw us standing there. “This the Westen Spy House?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. Good old dead Big Lumpy. He had a sense of humor, at least.

  “Cool. One of you want to help me with the boxes?”

  “Boxes?” I said.

  “Yeah, I got two file boxes full of stuff, plus a couple envelopes and a laptop computer.”

  “Have at it, Sugar,” Sam said.

  Sugar, to his credit, didn’t respond in any negative way to Sam, and instead went to the curb to help the deliveryman. The delivery guy opened up the back of the van, and Sugar stepped in and came back out with two white boxes stuffed with information.

  “Where you want this stuff?” he asked when he got up to the porch.

  “Put it in the kitchen,” I said, “and tell my mother not to touch it.”

  “Man, I’m not telling her anything. I don’t need her yelling at me like I’m her kid.”

  The deliveryman walked up behind Sugar with the envelopes and the laptop. “You need to sign for all of this,” he said. He handed me the envelopes—one marked with my name, one marked with Brent’s—and handed Sam the laptop. He went back to his truck and came back with a clipboard and showed me where to sign. “Okay, thanks.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “Is it about the creepy dude?”

  “The creepy dude?” I said.

  “The little Asian dude,” he said. “If he’s your cousin or something, I apologize. He just gave me the creeps.”

  “It actually is about him,” I said. “Where did you pick this information up?”

  “That’s part of the creepy bit,” he said. “I picked it up about a block away from here.”

  “From here?” I said.

  “Yeah. Parking lot of that church down the street? You know it?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Weird since he could have just dropped it off himself, right?”

  “Right,” I said. And then a thought occurred to me. “When did they place the delivery order?”

  He flipped through the pages on the clipboard. “Uh,
let’s see. Looks like the order came in two days ago.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yep. Prepaid delivery authorized on Saturday.”

  Saturday. I hadn’t even met Big Lumpy yet on Saturday. “What time?”

  “Uh, let’s see. Did it online at eight in the morning. Early risers, I guess.”

  And with precognitive abilities. Sam and I met with Big Lumpy on Sunday at noon. Which either meant Big Lumpy had the world’s best Ouija board or was well aware of Brent’s situation—and his connection to me—long before we ever met. I had a suspicion that either Brent’s home phone was bugged—likely, really—and that more than likely Big Lumpy had been tracking Brent for a very long time. It made sense if Henry Grayson was in as deep as he appeared to be. I could see Big Lumpy wanting to have a pawn to play with for his money, only to discover something far more interesting and then, as was his wont, taking a few bets on how things might turn out. All an elaborate game for his enjoyment and, perhaps, a little deathbed edification.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s helpful.”

  “No problem,” he said, but then he didn’t go anywhere. “Information, you know, it’s the currency of the future, but you can’t pay your rent with it, if you get my meaning.”

  I did.

  “Sam,” I said, “tip the man.”

  “You should wear more comfortable shoes,” Sam said. “Trust me. You’ll be having back problems soon enough if you’re not careful. You need to start lifting from your legs and then carrying all boxes in what we in the ergonomic profession call the strike zone. So, middle of your thigh to the middle of your chest.” Sam patted the delivery guy on the shoulder in such a way that he actually managed to get him turned around back toward his van. “No need to thank me now. Your sciatica can send me a thank-you note from the old folks’ home.”

  We watched the van drive off in silence, both of us contemplating the news we’d learned.

  I looked at Sam and tried to imagine him all in white and filled with two file boxes and a laptop computer’s worth of information. He apparently was having the same revelation, since he now looked even more sickened than usual by the early hour.

 

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