Richardson raised himself to a sitting position. “You mind if I use my handkerchief?”
I gestured for him to go ahead. He took it out of his back pocket and proceeded to wipe the dirt off his face.
“I’m going to say some names, Ron, and I want you to tell me what you know about them.”
I recited the names of the three main distributors in his drug operation. When I said the first name, Richardson paused for a second, then continued wiping his face, as if it hadn’t meant anything to him. On the second name, he stopped wiping his face. On the third, he looked like he’d swallowed the handkerchief. I waited while he decided what line of bullshit he was going use.
“Never heard of them,” he said, as if that might settle the matter.
“The thing is, Ron, you can’t actually play dumb if you really are dumb.”
His anger flared again. He clearly wasn’t used to this kind of exchange. “Do you have any idea who the fuck you’re calling dumb?”
“A run-of-the-mill asshole who’s been lucky, so far. I can change that if you insist.”
“What do you want?” he asked, frustrated that his normal blustering wasn’t working for him.
“Don’t you mean, what the fuck do I want?”
“OK, what the fuck do you want?” he corrected, putting on a show of accommodation.
“I want two things from you,” I said, “neither of which is negotiable.” I took a small slip of paper from my pocket and held it out close enough for Richardson to lean forward and take it without getting up. “That’s a Cayman Islands phone number. Tonight, after we’ve finished our talk, I want you to call that number and ask for Mr. C. They’ll ask who’s calling. Tell them you’re calling on behalf of Shake and you want to make a deposit. They’ll give you instructions on how to continue.”
“Make a deposit?” Richardson asked, curious about what that implied.
“Yes, Ron. From now on, on the last day of every month, you’re going to deposit ten thousand dollars into my bank account.”
Richardson scoffed. “You’re out of your fucking mind!”
“The last day of the month, every month, before midnight, Pacific Standard Time. It’s important that you not be late.”
The idea of parting with that much money seemed to give Richardson a fresh shot of testosterone. “You listen to me,” he yelled, starting to get up, “you insane little fuck! You don’t...”
But I already had him by the throat. He started thrashing around, trying to free himself from my grip. I squeezed hard enough to really scare him. I thought his eyes might pop out of his face.
“I told you not to get up, Ron.”
Richardson’s eyes were jumping around in their sockets. He couldn’t talk, but he made some sputtering noises. I let go of his throat and sat back down. “As I was saying, it’s important that you not be late. Not even five minutes. If you’re late, well, I’ll have to do business with the asshole who takes your place.”
“Business!” Richardson blurted. “This is what you call doing business?”
“A man who makes his living the way you do is in no position to put too fine a distinction on things.”
“I can’t...”
“Don’t even start with that.” I said, holding up my hand to stop his excuses. “I know how much money you make in a year. What you’re going to pay me is little more than an inconvenience. A psychological inconvenience, at that. I know you hate giving anything to anyone if you can’t take back twice as much. I know you’re going to do everything you can to avoid paying.”
“What the fuck do you expect?”
“I expect you to resist. And then I expect you to pay.”
We looked at each other for a couple of minutes.
“You ever watch ‘Star Trek’?” I asked.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Answer the question, Ron. Were you a ‘Star Trek’ fan?”
“I wasn’t a fucking Trekkie, if that’s what you mean. But, yeah, I watched it.”
“Do you recall what the Borg used to say to their victims?”
Richardson thought for a few seconds. “Resistance is futile.”
“Very good. Resistance is futile. That’s where you’re at, Ron. Don’t be stupid. You’re not Captain Picard. Make your monthly deposits and learn to live with it.”
“I can’t fucking believe this. You expect me to give you a hundred and twenty grand a year for nothing?”
“Ten thousand a month, by midnight, Pacific time, the last day of every month. Beginning this month, by the way. Since today is the twenty-ninth, your first deposit is due day after tomorrow.”
Richardson wasn’t used to being coerced by someone who wasn’t backed by an organization more powerful than his own. And even when he didn’t hold all the cards, he always occupied a bargaining position that would guarantee him a return on any compromises he might find it expedient to make. So I was fairly certain he wouldn’t make the first payment. He’d want to test me, confident that he could counter any threat I was capable of presenting. That was fine. I could deal with that when the time came. For the moment, there was still the matter of Arnaud. I had told myself I was going to play it by ear, and apparently some part of me had come to a decision about what that meant.
“Now, the other little favor you’re going to do for me.”
“There’s more?” Richardson asked calmly, as if I had already exceeded his ability to process audacity.
“About a year ago, a cop named Dean Arnaud was killed in a motel in Vacaville. Executed. Do you know anything about that?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” he said, with enough conviction that I thought he might actually be telling the truth.
“Be that as it may, I want a name. If not the name of the guy who pulled the trigger, then someone involved.”
“Jesus Christ, man! I don’t know who the fuck killed him. I told you, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You’re a resourceful guy. Not all that smart, but you know
