Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

“Money?”

“That’s right. To sanitize it, I think is what it’s called.”

“How much?”

“He said a million. So I suppose he’d settle for seven fifty, eight hundred grand.”

“What the fuck? That’s complete extortion.”

“I’m not in a position to point that out.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you have it to give to him? Because that would certainly be the cleanest-”

“I don’t have a piss to pot in, Shug,” Gantcher said, scrambling it up and not even noticing. “I was wondering if you could, you know, go to Kolodnik on my behalf-”

“Oh come on,” Shug cut him off, “I can’t bring up the bill again. He’s already landed on that-he’s not doing it.”

“No, I was going to say: to see if he’d extend me a loan based on my ownership piece,” Gantcher said, his voice small.

“Oh, get real-”

“Now that I’m facing these rebuilding delays-”

“Are you a complete fucking idiot?”

The irony of the request was bringing on a migraine and Shug pinched the bridge of his nose. Three and a half years ago, this deal seemed so clear and simple. Back then Bernie Kolodnik’s political ambitions were only a distant dream, the hundred K per year advisory fee Shug collected practically free money. It was cocktail parties and introductions for Bernie, which couldn’t have been easier to make since he was a man of great success and integrity that everyone wanted to meet in the first place, and for Shug it meant access-incredible access. Hell, he was probably the second person in the world to know about the Indy Flats racino project when it was born.

“Crapsake, Lowell,” Shug hissed, “how could you mismanage things this badly?”

Gantcher had the good sense not to answer.

“It was supposed to be a simple build. A simple win,” Shug went on.

“I know it,” Gantcher said, shaking his head.

“You know how many frigging developers I could have steered this to? McLanahan, Aegis, Cyril Land. Who could’ve fucked it up like you?”

Some remnant of Gantcher’s competitive spirit flared. “Come on, Shug, no one saw this slump coming. Aegis is balls-deep in overdue construction loans as we speak.”

It was true. No one in the field was exactly unscathed at the moment. And none of the companies he named would’ve been willing to secretly kick back a piece of their end of the development in exchange for the introduction to Bernie, like Gantcher had been-which is why Shug had brought it to him in the first place.

It was to have been a straightforward build, launch, and sell. Long before Kolodnik’s political career had even started. And when the deal was done and the sale complete, tens and hundreds of millions for everyone else and a quick thirteen-million-dollar pop for Shug.

But then profits dipped. The partnership had been forced to hold and manage the damned place. Gantcher and his team weren’t equipped for that. Even in a robust economy they wouldn’t have been any good at it. Gantcher had asked Kolodnik to go to the state legislature to ask for a special assembly where they would petition for a rebate on the licensing fee, which would have seen them through the tough time to recovery, and Kolodnik had. The man had asked. But the legislature had denied the request. Then, well, then the rest had started in motion, when whispers about the sitting senator’s cancer broke, Kolodnik’s name began being mentioned, and Shug saw the sock fill with the changing winds …

“A racino, for god’s sake,” Shug muttered, “getting a damned Gutenberg press and printing it yourself is supposed to be the only easier way to make money.”

“I know, man,” Gantcher said, his head moving slowly from side to side like a steer looking to graze. “But the question now is, What can we do?”

Shug’s throat locked up. At the moment he didn’t have any answers.

30

Ah, you’ll be better after a bit of a kip, Dwyer told himself, standing over the sink, scrubbing the soles of his shoes with enzyme cleanser and a toothbrush. Only right now he couldn’t afford to take one. That was one of the downsides of working alone. He’d used teams for the past eighteen years. He’d started out solo when he left the service, of course, until he could afford to start hiring on.

The ice-cold water pouring out of the faucet froze his hands stiff, but when dealing with protein stains cold water was required. Hot or even warm cooked the material right onto the surface that was to be cleaned.

It had been a hell of a night. After the burn job, he’d come back to the city and sat on the small house for a few hours, watching as the two stout men he’d seen at La Pasion arrived, then moved about, drinking beers, eating something at a table in the front room, and generally whiling away the late hours of the night. He’d wanted to make sure they were the only ones in the house, and eventually he had come to believe they were. Then he wanted to make sure they were good and tired before he got to them. Finally, the lights started going out, and he believed the time was right.

That’s when he crossed to their door and knocked loud and hard. He didn’t want them waking up confused as to what they were hearing.

He saw a light flick on, the front door opened, and an angry face appeared behind the screen door.

“Que haces, motherfucker?” the man, the one who had sat and drank cafe con leche said, tired anger in his dark eyes.

“I’m sorry to wake you, buddy,” Dwyer said in his broadest Southern twang. “I was hoping you could do me a favor, and I could do you one in return.”

“Que quieres? Hablas espanol?” the man said.

“What?” Dwyer responded.

“What the fuck do you want?” the man said, raising an aluminum baseball bat for Dwyer to see.

“I want to buy a piece of info, brother,” Dwyer said, and fanned a handful of hundred-dollar bills. The man lowered the bat, opened the door, and let him in.

He needed to find Juan Alfaro, Dwyer told them when the other fellow, who’d cleared the till, had joined them. He didn’t bother with a story about being friends, as he had with the old building manager. The two burly men sitting on either side of him, boxing him in in their living room, wouldn’t have believed it and wouldn’t have cared anyway.

Instead he told them it was a question of work. “I need him for a job and I’m willing to pay to find him.”

“How much?” the till man, who was the more thickset of the two, asked.

“Five thousand,” Dwyer said, dropping the money on their coffee table. They were experienced enough not to reach for it right away.

“If you will pay five for the information, how much you pay for the job?” cafe con leche asked.

“The job?” Dwyer said. “Hell, the job pays a butt load more than that.”

“Maybe we do the job for you,” the till man said.

“Well, sure.” Dwyer nodded. “Where’d you serve? For how long? What was your specialty? How much combat did you see? Is your passport good? Is it under an alias? These are the questions my boss is gonna ask. He’s always looking to hire on qualified dudes.”

The men waved the idea away with a tsking noise, as if it were all too much trouble, which told Dwyer there wasn’t much training to speak of.

“Maybe it’d be easier if you just told me where he is and keep the finders’ fee …” Dwyer suggested.

The men looked at each other and spoke in Spanish. Dwyer kept a dumb look on his face even though he understood what they said. Why don’t we call Banco and ask if we can say where he is?

“You know Banco,” the cafe con leche drinker said. “He’s very privado. We call him