Reckless

Tiff’s convertible. He could get out of his own damn car. Believe it or not, he unbuckled his own seatbelt, but he fumbled with the door handle, like he’d forgotten how door handles worked from lack of practice, before climbing out of the car. He played off his ignorance like it was normal.

He wore standard-issue Martha’s Vineyard golfer’s attire. Had nobody told him this was San Diego?

“Christos,” he said, walking around the car, his hand already out and ready to do some greasing. Wes-Con shook firmly, and held my elbow with his other hand. It was this bizarre, upscale authoritarian thing, like he was saying, “you are now under my control.”

Okay.

“Good to see you, young man,” he said.

I smiled at him. “Likewise. Come inside. Can I offer you two something to drink?” I knew how to play the game too.

“That would be fantastic,” Wes-Con said.

I could tell Tiffany was deferring to her dad. That definitely meant they’d strategized in advance. I remembered reading somewhere that you should never fight a war on two fronts. It had fucked Napoleon, and it had fucked the Germans in World War II. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to fare much better with two Kingston- Whitehouses going for my throat.

Oh well, into the lion’s den. At least it was my den. I led them into the Manos house.

“How is Spiridon?” Wes-Con asked.

“He’s doing good,” I nodded.

“Is he painting again?”

“Not really. I think he’s retired.”

“It’s a damn shame,” Wes-Con said. “Your grandfather is a living legend in the world of landscape paintings.”

Although I wished that was a simple compliment well-earned by my grandfather, I sensed it was merely an opening stratagem. Set your opponent at ease. When their defenses are down, attack with great force. I think Sun Tzu or somebody said that.

I walked over to the liquor cabinet in the living room. I guess I wasn’t getting away from it as easily as I’d hoped. “What can I get you to drink?”

Unlike most people, for whom that meant water or iced tea or soda, for Wes-Con, it only meant liquor. The harder the better. I could respect that.

“Do you have any scotch?” Wes-Con asked.

“Of course.” I poured two glasses of thirty-year-old Glenfiddich single-malt, neat. I knew for Wes-Con, this was the cheap stuff. He could deal. “You want one, Tiff?”

“No, thanks. Do you have any Zima?”

“Fresh out,” I quipped. Nobody drank that shit anymore.

“Never mind,” she snooted.

I handed Wes-Con his glass and we clinked before swallowing.

“Excellent,” Wes-Con said.

It should be, at five-hundred a bottle.

“Tiffany tells me there’s been a problem with her painting?”

He didn’t waste any time. Down to business. I smiled. “Yeah, something about a missing check?” I believed in hitting hard and hitting first.

“I can write you a check right now, from my personal account, if you’d like.” Wes-Con pulled a checkbook out of his blazer and started writing with a thousand-dollar gold pen. I knew Wes-Con was like a samurai warrior with that checkbook of his. Once he took it out, he meant to use it. “I believe the amount was $25,000?”

I knew his check would clear. That was never the issue. We both knew it. Wes-Con just liked to hold onto his money until you showed up outside his front door in the middle of the night with the pitchforks and torches and the rest of the indentured servants. Then he made nice, handed you thirty pieces of silver, threw you some table scraps, and told everyone not to come back until they’d been deloused.

He could keep his bribe.

“Oh, that’s not necessary, Mr. Kingston-Whitehouse,” I said smoothly.

“Nonsense, young man. I can’t very well expect you to do work and not get paid.”

Yes he could, and did.

He tore the check from the check book and handed it to me. Mother fucker. He was good. But he made one crucial mistake. He was trying to buy me for his daughter. And we both knew it.

Problem was, I was not for sale. Especially when it came to the Kingston-Whitehouses.

Wes-Con held the check out to me expectantly. It hovered between us like a victory flag. He was acting like he was Neil Fucking Armstrong about to plant that shit on the moon.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kingston-Whitehouse. I can’t take your money. It’s the principle of it. Think of my painting as a personal gift from me to your daughter. A token for all our years of friendship, and the friendship between our two families.” My shit-shovel was moving a hundred miles an hour. “It looks splendid hanging in your yacht, by the way.”

Wes-Con drilled my eyes with his. “I insist.” It was all he said.

He could drill all he wanted. He wasn’t going to strike oil with me. “I couldn’t.”

The check hovered. Wes-Con’s hand twitched imperceptibly.

I wasn’t going to grab it, and I knew he wouldn’t let it fall to the floor. Mainly out of respect, partially, because I don’t think he could stomach the idea of letting his money touch the ground, like some miscreant would rush out from beneath the couch, snatch it up, and run to the bank with it.

More importantly, he would never deign to simply set it down and say something like, “I’ll leave it on the counter,” or whatever. Because he wanted me to take it. If I took it, we both knew it meant he owned a piece of me.

No dice.

He tucked the check into his blazer. But the checkbook was still out. He wanted blood. “No matter,” he grinned like a lizard, “I would also like to discuss the manner of an additional painting for Tiffany.”

I shot Tiffany a warning glare. She and I had already been through this.

She opened her mouth to speak but clamped it shut when she saw me glaring.

After a moment, I chuckled. “Tiffany and I discussed this on your yacht, Mr. Kingston-Whitehouse. On New Year's Eve. Isn’t that right, Tiffany?”

“We did,” she smiled viciously, “and—”

I cut her off. “And the answer is still no.” I was standing firm. No nude painting of Tiffany.

Wes-Con’s Cheshire grin came out. The trouble with perfect teeth, and I meant the kind that cost north of a hundred grand, was that they were too perfect. Like he had two-times too many of them or something.

“What’s your price, Christos?” Wes-Con smiled.

What I always loved about a good fight was that there’s not always a definitive moment when the tables turned. Sometimes, the superior fighter just wore his opponent down inch by inch.

I shook my head.

Wes-Con’s smile cranked up another kilowatt, “I believe Tiffany had discussed with you the figure of fifty thousand cash, direct to you.”

I shook my head.

“One hundred thousand.”

I was going to string this out.

A knockout fight where the loser dropped to the mat in the first round was always a big thrill, but it was never as sweet as when two heavyweights went head-to-head all the way to the twelfth, pounding the shit out of each other until the loser finally went to his knee in the last minute of the fight, down but not out, struggling to get back up before the final bell. Both fighters would be all battered and bloody afterward, and you knew both contenders were the meanest sons of bitches on the planet.

But one of them was meaner.

That guy was me.