The Bad Beat

by Tod Goldberg

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s correct. I wanted to meet him before our little surprise. It will be more gratifying if I understand personally how important this is.”

  “You will be very impressed by him,” she said.

  “Would you be so kind,” Sam said, “as to put this on our table?” He reached into his bag and pulled out the oversized check. “Don’t unfold it and ruin the secret.”

  “Of course, of course,” she said. Reva handed the check to one of her lackeys. “Place this on table two, if you please. And perhaps we put a cover over it? Would that be good, Dr. Bennington?”

  “Please,” I said, “and call me Liam.”

  Fiona let out the slightest grunt of exasperation behind me. Just loud enough for my pleasure, it seemed.

  “I hate to ask,” Reva said, “but the paperwork? Do you have it?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Mr. Grayson has it.” I turned to Barry but he just stared back at me. “Mr. Grayson, do you have the paperwork?”

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Grayson?”

  Barry actually looked over his shoulder to see who I was speaking to.

  “Barry,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” he said and pulled the envelope of documents from his pocket and gave it to Reva.

  She gave the pages a cursory glance. “They’re all here,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Any problems with the check?” Barry asked.

  Reva looked at Barry and then back at me. “Should there be?”

  “No,” I said. “Mr. Grayson, ever the accountant. He’s the man who has assured InterMacron’s financial security.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said. “You gave me a start.”

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I don’t want to keep Mr. Drubich waiting on his big night.”

  Reva showed us to the other side of the ballroom doors, past two men with earpieces who immediately began speaking in Russian when we passed. “End of the hall and to the right,” she said.

  I thanked her but opted not to kiss her hand again, lest Fiona decide to try out the brass knuckles early. The hallway was filled with service people moving about in something approaching a frenzy as they neared the doors to a large service kitchen, from which the sounds of shouting chefs, clanging cutlery and the intermittent bleat of music erupted every few seconds. If there was a shooting, it probably wouldn’t be noticed until the event was over for the evening.

  Particularly since no one seemed to pay any attention to the three men standing in front of the doorway at the end of the hall. All three had shaved heads and wore matching black suits and had Bluetooth devices in their ears, making them look like bouncers at the worst Russian disco ever.

  As we walked closer they began to advance toward us. They had the slow gaits of men used to scaring other men. No use learning to move quickly when your victims tended to ball up in the fetal position at the very sight of you.

  “I’ve been waiting for this,” Fiona said.

  “Easy,” I said to Fiona.

  “On which one?” she asked.

  “All of them,” I said. “We don’t need to be hiding bodies tonight.”

  “Tell that to Sam,” she said, “in case I forget.”

  Sam was beside me, but I could tell he was paying more attention to Brent and Barry, which was supposed to be my job.

  “Everyone,” I said, “remember that we’re in charge of this situation. Brent, Barry, whatever I do, you just fall behind and do it, too.”

  We kept walking, our pace nice and slow, and the men kept advancing until there were only twenty feet between us, which was when we stopped.

  “If you come any closer,” I said, “my coworker Fiona is going to break one of your noses. You can choose ahead of time which of you would like the honor, or you can just let us keep going down the hall to meet with your boss. The choice is yours.”

  The three men looked at one another and then back at me without much in the way of comprehension, so I repeated myself, this time in Russian. This got them to laugh, which gave Fiona enough time to put her brass knuckles on and to pick her victim. She opted for the one in the middle. He saw her coming and just kept laughing, because surely the idea was ridiculous, a tiny woman walking up to a hulk of a man with anything approaching malice. He was so tall, anyway, that it would be impossible for Fiona to punch him in the face, a fact he sadly realized too late, when Fiona punched him in the sternum instead, collapsing him to the ground in a heap.

  If you feel like you’re the physically weaker person in a fight, the sternum is one of the best places to attack. It’s difficult to defend, it’s easy to break if you know where to punch (just beneath the notch in the clavicle) and no one ever expects to be punched in the chest.

  Breaking your sternum is not recommended for those with a low pain tolerance, since it feels like you’re having a heart attack and, with all the blood you spit up, gives the impression you might have a collapsed lung, too. Unless you pass out from the pain, in which case those would be the things you’d feel once you woke up in intensive care.

  When the other two men tried to advance on Fiona, it was already too late. She punched the one on the right in the center of his thigh, breaking the long bone there with an easy crunch, which is a break that requires surgery to fix. He’d probably have metal pins in his leg for the rest of his life. Maybe even a slight limp. All things he would also learn once he woke up in ICU.

  Fiona swung around and caught the man on the left in the center of his pelvis. Another satisfying crunch. He would find walking difficult for about three to six months. Sex would be painful for about a year, if it ever felt right again.

  Unlike his friends, the one with the broken pelvis didn’t pass out. Which was too bad, because he would actually remember the pain far more than his friends would.

  The door at the end of the hallway opened and Yuri Drubich stepped out, shook his head and said, “Idiots.” Two men came out from behind him with guns pulled, but Yuri told them to put them down and drag their comrades out of the hallway before someone stepped on them.

  “Which of you is Big Lumpy?” he asked.

  “I am the one known as Big Lumpy,” Sam said, except he gave himself a strange-sounding voice. Not quite like Big Lumpy’s, not quite like Sam’s and not quite like any other human’s.

  Yuri appraised Sam and then shrugged. “And you are the boy?” He pointed at Brent.

  “It’s okay,” I said to Brent.

  “I am,” he said.

  Yuri shrugged again. He and Brent had that in common, apparently. “Come, all of you, my family is here and I am being honored. If I am to have you all killed, I’d like to know sooner than later.” He shook his head solemnly and pointed at Fiona with his broken arm. “They weren’t going to hurt you, but I understand that the appearances weren’t good. You made your point earlier. I deal with you aboveboard.”

  He disappeared back into the room and the two men behind him came to gather up Fiona’s damage while we waited for the path to clear.

  “That was weird,” Sam said.

  “Not as weird as your voice just was,” I said.

  “I should just play it straight?”

  “That would be my call,” I said.

  “What did he mean about the killing part?” Barry asked.

  “Language barrier,” I said. “Nothing to be worried about.”

  “He’s actually very polite,” Fiona said. She didn’t bother to wait for the last guy to be dragged off and instead stepped over the man with the crushed chest plate and headed down the hall toward the door Yuri left open. The rest of us did the only thing left to do: We followed her.

  16

  When you’re a spy, it’s important to believe the worst about everyone. That way, you won’t be surprised when they do something awful.

  The problem, however, is that you never expect the best, never exactly plan for the contingency of decency in the face of strife.

  So when the five
of us walked into the salon room Reva had reserved for us to shake Yuri Drubich down in and actually found him sitting there with his family, just as he said, it took all of us by surprise. His wife was there, as were his three young children, two boys of about twelve and ten and a girl no more than five. They were all dressed to the nines and looked . . . happy. Like normal people. Each child had a PSP and was quietly blowing up the world, presumably, but it was hard to tell since they also all had white earbuds in.

  “Hello,” I said to the wife. “I’m Dr. Bennington.”

  She smiled but didn’t say anything.

  “She doesn’t speak or understand English,” Yuri said. “She grew up in Moldova and never had the need to pick it up.”

  “And your children?” I asked.

  “Kids,” he said, “they know a little. What they learn in rap music.”

  “They are adorable,” Fiona said and they really were. “It’s a shame you won’t be able to play catch with them for, what, three months?” Fiona looked around the room with great exaggeration then. “I don’t see your associate Gina.”

  “You burst her eardrums,” Yuri said. “And broke her jaw.”

  “She shouldn’t have used my lipstick,” Fiona said.

  Yuri didn’t respond to this. Instead, he walked up to Brent and stood in front of him without speaking for a long time before finally saying, “You are the one?”

  “I am,” he said.

  He turned to face Barry. “And you,” he said, “you are the gambler?”

  “I’m getting help for that,” Barry said. “And technically I am the loser.”

  “You took a great deal of my money and delivered me shoddy goods,” Yuri said. “Did you think you would not pay a price for this?”

  “Technically,” Barry said, “you blew up my office and all of my notary equipment.”

  Barry’s motivation of “not to die” seemed to be giving him plenty of hubris in the situation. Either that or he was emboldened by seeing Fiona take out three men with literally one hand.

  “I did,” Brent said. “And I am sorry. I was trying to do the best for my father, just as your own children probably would for you.”

  And a boy becomes a man, I thought. I also thought: This is one of the oddest exchanges of government—or about-to-be government—secrets I’ve ever had.

  “This Web site, you design it?”

  “Yes,” he said and then he lied and said, “Mr. Lumpy and Dr. Bennington provided me with the technical expertise.”

  “But it was you who absconded with my money and attempted to defraud me?”

  Brent shot a glance in my direction and I nodded once.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And why don’t I kill you?” Yuri asked.

  “Because,” Brent said, “I’m not worth anything to you dead. I’m still alive, there’s always a chance I’ll have something else to sell to you.”

  “I could use someone like you,” Yuri said. “You have any interest in working for me?”

  “He works for me,” Sam said.

  “Hmmm, yes, the lumpy one,” he said. “So you are the brains, Lumpy, and you are also the muscle? I have heard all about you. People in Miami, they say your name like it is a threat.”

  “I believe you’ve met my muscle,” Sam said. “She can be very persuasive.”

  “And which of you did I speak to on the phone?” he asked.

  “That would be me,” I said.

  “You are smart,” he said. “If you weren’t, you’d be dead.”

  “You found my phone?”

  “You have small operation here,” he said. “But effective. Lessons to be learned.” Yuri looked at his watch. “I have twenty minutes before I need to receive my guests.” He sat down at the table where his wife and children were. “Please, have a seat, show me what you have. Convince me Kineoptic Transference is what will make me even richer.”

  We all sat down as well and Sam set up the laptop in front of Yuri and began running the PowerPoint presentation Big Lumpy had prepared, the whole time providing a running dialogue on the different aspects of Kineoptic Transference, starting and stopping the presentation when Yuri had questions. Yuri would periodically whisper something to his wife in Russian and she would nod, or grimace, and once she said, “Nyet” in a tone that seemed to suggest a level of frustration one reserved for one’s children.

  When it was over, Yuri crossed his arms over his chest and exhaled slowly. “My question,” he said. “This works?”

  “Of course,” Sam said.

  “And you?” Yuri said to me. “You who are a doctor, no?”

  “Scientist,” I said. “It works. Our government is too beholden to Verizon and AT&T to consider it now. Which makes it gold for you. You take this to Europe, to the Middle East, you’ll be a billionaire.”

  “How much?” Yuri asked.

  “I told you,” I said. “Six million.”

  “Crazy,” Yuri’s wife said. She pushed herself back from the table then. “Six million dollars for wind.”

  “I guess she does speak English,” I said.

  “I turn that into six billion,” Yuri said.

  “You make your own choices,” she said. “This woman breaks your wrist and you let her live. These men come here and sell you air and you let them live. This is a disgrace.” She clapped her hands in front of her children’s faces. “Come,” she said. “We have guests to meet.” She turned to her husband. “I expect you in ten minutes. My father? My father would kill these men. And this woman, too.”

  You can spend your entire life in covert operations and never feel as uncomfortable as when you see a couple air their dirty laundry. That Yuri’s wife did it in English meant a simple thing: She wanted us to hear it, too.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Fiona said, “I’m happy to tell your wife that you put up a valiant fight.”

  Yuri glared at Fiona but didn’t say anything. In fact, he sat there at the table in perfect silence for three full minutes before he finally said, “I send you four million dollars now. If the technology works as you’ve shown, I send you another two million. If the technology fails, I kill you all. Slowly.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  Sam reached into his bag and pulled out the three zip drives that contained all of the information Big Lumpy had provided and slid them across the table. “You’ll find what you’re looking for there.”

  “And I need the death certificates,” Yuri said. “My associates at home will want to know that I am not getting soft, even on children and degenerates. A head or a pancreas would be better, but they are both difficult to get through customs. Official paperwork from the United States is much easier to believe. I can’t be losing my reputation for violence, can I, Mr. Lumpy?”

  “Maybe don’t let anyone talk to your wife,” Sam said. He produced the death certificates for Brent and Henry and handed them to Yuri. He put the certificates and the zip drives into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, as if they were nothing at all, as if they did not cost him four million dollars. As if they were not about to cost him his freedom. “It’s why I’ve stayed single.”

  “Hmm, yes,” Yuri said, “I’m sure that is the most compelling reason.” He looked at the death certificates and then at Brent and Barry. “How does it feel to be dead?” He frowned slightly even though neither of them responded and it occurred to me that seeing father and son together in such a situation—even if they weren’t really father and son—might be causing this strange melancholy. Or maybe it was because his wife was waiting in the hall, waiting to call him a failure again. “You have an account ready for a transfer?”

  “Yes,” I said. I slid the computer over to Barry and he pulled up the banking information.

  “You trust him with your banking?” Yuri said.

  “Like you said,” I said, “we’re a small operation.”

  Yuri shook his head but gave Barry his account information. Two minutes later, four million dollars ha
d been transferred from an account in Ukraine to the account in Iceland that Big Lumpy—the real Big Lumpy—had given us.

  Yuri Drubich, one of the most dangerous men in the world, at least by reputation, stood up then. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I am to be honored for my philanthropy. It would be a shame to be late for my own coronation.” He then walked past us all and out of the salon without another word. He opened the door and his daughter stood there with one of his beefy-looking security guards. Yuri put his good hand down and his young daughter grasped it and off he went to be celebrated.

  I watched them walk down the long hallway, past the circus going on between the kitchen and the ballroom, and then heard a roar of clapping as he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Tonight would probably be the best night of his life and the very worst.

  I detached my cell phone from the magnet in my pocket and called Monty. “The money is there,” I said.

  “I see it,” he said.

  “Make your deductions and transfer the remaining amount to this account.” I gave him the numbers for the account Barry had set up for Brent.

  “And what is Mr. Grayson’s decision regarding his money?”

  “You know,” I said, “why don’t you ask him?” I handed the phone to Brent. “It’s for you.”

  I walked out into the hallway and Fiona, Sam and Barry followed me.

  “We should get in there,” Sam said, “so I can make my splash.”

  “No,” I said. “He’s got his kids here. We’ve done all we need to do with him. He’ll be in prison by tomorrow morning.”

  “Michael,” Fiona said, “he’s a terrible human being. Why not have the gratification of him being photographed with a huge check from a company that is going to be found to belong to Big Lumpy? The shame alone will be enough to drive him mad.”

  “Because,” I said, “those kids who sat in there with us thought we were his friends. His daughter doesn’t know anything and she’ll remember tonight as beautiful. I’m not the person who’s going to ruin that. I’m not willing to make that choice just for spite.”