The Bad Beat Read online

  “What about my ride?”

  “You’ll have to come back for it.”

  “When?”

  “When there’s not ten guys strapped with nines peering into it,” I said.

  “Peace,” Sugar said and was gone.

  I gave Sam his phone back and waited for him to apologize.

  “How do you want to handle this?” Sam said.

  “Which part?”

  “Well, there’s the bad guys and then there’s your awkward silence.”

  “The bad guys are going to attack an empty notary office,” I said. “If the owner of the shop is smart, he has an alarm and insurance, so he’ll end up coming up on the right side of this.”

  “That’s a great point, Mike,” Sam said.

  “But maybe write those license plates down,” I said. “And the awkward silence will end once you apologize for getting us into business with Sugar.”

  “Technically,” Sam said, “I told him I’d do this one on trade. He’s got a buddy with an in with the Dolphins. Fifty-yard-line seats and a full concession package free of charge, baby.”

  An hour later, Sugar stood in the middle of my loft swearing at his cell phone. It was just the two of us since I’d sent Sam on an errand of my own, to track down the identity of the lightweights in the $100,000 armored SUVs.

  “Man, there never was good reception in this neighborhood,” Sugar said. “I’m happy I moved up out of here.”

  I decided not to remind Sugar that I’d forced him out of the neighborhood. He was having a bad day, after all.

  “Maybe it would help if you didn’t use stolen cell phones,” I said.

  “Like you’re all legit now? You rolling AT&T?”

  “I have certain technological skills that you don’t,” I said. I went into my kitchen and pulled out two yogurts and set them on the counter. “You should eat something.”

  Sugar picked up the yogurt, examined it and then put it back down. “You got anything with a cream filling?”

  “Yogurt is all cream,” I said.

  “Well, whatever,” Sugar said. “My boy Brent, he’s probably thinking all this shit is done with now, and here I am holed up like a mouse.”

  “I’m sure if your boy knows you well,” I said, “he knows that maybe there were complications.”

  “Maybe, maybe,” Sugar said. He walked over to the window that looks out over the canal on the other side of my building and actually appeared contemplative. That he was no longer looking at me also made me think maybe he felt just slightly ashamed—two emotions that I wasn’t previously aware Sugar possessed. It’s hard to look emotional when you have peroxide white hair, wear wife-beaters and sweatpants and walk around like you’re looking for a fight, even after it’s been proven you aren’t much of a fighter. “Thing is, man, I might have implied to him that Sammy was playing a bigger role in this than I was. You know how it is.”

  “How much did he pay you, Sugar?”

  “No, no, not like that,” Sugar said.

  “Then what is it like?”

  “I just wanted him to feel . . . safe.”

  “What didn’t you tell Sam?”

  “You know, you got a pretty sweet view from up here,” he said. “You can see all the little boats and shit. It’s very pleasant.”

  “Sugar,” I said, “you’re a guest in my home and I’m happy to have you here, but I will throw you out that window if you don’t turn around and look at me.” Sugar did as he was told. “Tell me about your friend,” I said.

  Sugar stepped away from the window and sat down on the steps leading upstairs. “I met Brent professionally a couple years ago,” he said.

  “So he’s an addict?”

  “Naw,” Sugar said, “he used to buy a little weed every now and then. And then one day I had a legal problem and needed some shit notarized and he helped me out.”

  “How old is this guy?”

  “Eighteen, nineteen. He’s still coming up in the game.”

  “The notary game?”

  “Naw, naw,” Sugar said. “That was his dad’s game.”

  “So, wait,” I said. “Were you helping out your friend or his dad?”

  “Both, I guess,” Sugar said. “Brent’s dad? He plays the numbers, you know, horses, football, baseball, whatever’s in season, and I guess he came up on some bad beats lately and just straight boned out.”

  “Sugar,” I said, “in English.”

  “He owes a bunch of money to some bookies.”

  “So the Russian Mob wasn’t trying to shake down your friend for tribute?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you think you could handle these guys?”

  “Man, I got five bullets in me,” Sugar said. He stood up and pounded on his chest. “I’m hard to kill. You think I was scared of some guys who play fantasy football?”

  “Six,” I said.

  “Six?”

  “Bullets,” I said. “I shot you once, too.”

  “See? I survived Michael Westen, boy.”

  “Sugar,” I said, “those guys who showed up today were not just guys who run a book for giggles. They would have killed you. And if your friend is smart, he and his father will go to the police. This is not any kind of ‘game’ he wants to be involved in.”

  “That’s the thing,” Sugar said. “His dad boned out, like I said. Brent doesn’t know where he is, but these guys want their money. I thought I could explain to them, businessman to businessman, that Brent didn’t have nothing to do with his daddy’s debt. But I guess they weren’t gonna hear that, if I get you right.”

  “You get me right,” I said.

  Sugar thought for a moment. “You said they surrounded my car?”

  “I’m sure it was just a coincidence,” I said. “It was the only car in the lot.”

  “You think I could be in danger?”

  “No more than usual, Sugar,” I said. “You are hard to kill, after all.”

  “And now I can’t get my boy on the phone,” Sugar said. “You think maybe they got to him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Do they know where he lives?”

  “They might have hit his dad’s house,” Sugar said. “But Brent lives in a secure facility, you could say.”

  “He’s in prison?”

  “Naw,” Sugar said. “The dorms.”

  “In English,” I said again.

  “That was English. Homey lives on campus at the U. You can’t get into the dorms without, like, CIA clearance.”

  My cell rang then. It was Sam. “What do you have?” I said.

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” Sam said.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Those Denalis aren’t registered to members of the Russian Mafia.”

  “No,” Sam said, “that’s exactly who they’re registered to. All three come up as being owned by a guy named Yuri Drubich. He’s a Ukrainian businessman. Ex-KGB. Now works in the import and export business.”

  “Heroin?”

  “Technology,” Sam said. “He’s legit in America, or at least his shell company is. They move technology from America into Russia and the former Soviet states. Microprocessors. Cell phone tech. Russians are about three years behind on most of this stuff, so he’s bringing in the latest tech and probably selling it at a ten thousand percent markup.”

  “Wouldn’t it be cheaper to just move it out of China?” I said.

  “Probably,” Sam said, “but then you gotta deal with the Chinese Mafia, too. In America, he’s just buying from geeks. Not quite as dangerous. He’s probably also moving product to Iraq, Libya, wherever.”

  “What does he import?”

  “Women, arms, whatever makes money,” Sam said.

  This didn’t make sense. I told Sam what Sugar had told me about his friend Ben’s problems. It just didn’t line up. Yuri Drubich wasn’t in the numbers business, that was certain. It was too small fry for a guy like him. If they were hitting him, it was for something much larger.

&nbs
p; “What does a guy like Drubich need with a notary?” I said.

  “Maybe he had a legit business reason. Every couple years, don’t you need something notarized?”

  “Sure,” I said, “but I rarely bring ten armed men with me.”

  “Man probably can’t be too careful,” Sam said.

  “Do me a favor,” I said. “Drive back by the office park and see what kind of damage they did.” I looked over at Sugar. He was back at the window, staring pensively outside. “And check on Sugar’s car.”

  “Where are you going to be?” Sam said.

  “I’m going to go meet our client,” I said.

  2

  When attempting to infiltrate a secure government facility, you have to assume that smart people have created the devices meant to keep you out. These smart people are usually a lot like you. They’ve been trained by the best minds the government has access to. They’ve been given state-of-the-art machinery to play with. If given the choice between spending one dollar and one billion dollars, the smart people will spend the one billion dollars. They will overprepare. They will train for the one day they get to fight you.

  If these people are exceptionally smart, they will arm the most vital entry point with the world’s best tactical weapon: a person with a clipboard. If you have a clipboard, you don’t need a gun. You don’t need to know five different martial arts. All you need is the ability to look down at your clipboard, examine the names on it, and say a single word: no. “No” is a difficult word to get beyond, even for a spy, since it is both an answer and a threat. No, it says, you are not allowed in. But it also says, No, you are not allowed in and if you attempt to get in, proper authorities will be called, since this clipboard tells me that’s the next step. When you don’t have a gun, the authority you possess is the conviction of your beliefs.

  So when I saw two twentysomething University of Miami students—a young woman and a young man, each with a clipboard, and each with so many Greek letters on their clothing you’d think they were guarding the Parthenon—sitting behind a small desk in front of the doors to one of the two Hecht Residential College towers, a Soviet-looking dorm complex consisting of two 12-story towers (except that the Soviets were never big on adorning their buildings’ green space with lush palm trees, deer grass and well-maintained topiary), I knew I had my work cut out for me if I wanted to go up to see Sugar’s friend Brent Grayson.

  They were the first line of defense, but the building also looked to have a key-card system in place and it was surrounded by security cameras. This was good. If anyone came here with the intent to hurt Brent, it would be easy to identify them and it would also be at least somewhat difficult for them to get inside to do the hurting.

  “Try calling your friend again,” I said to Sugar. We were only twenty yards or so from the tower and I could see that the sentries were doing their job fairly well, steadily turning away visitors at a nice clip. They both looked awfully perky. It’s hard to deal with perky people. They don’t take offense as easily as muscle-bound bouncer types do, which means there’s less opportunity to punch them in the mouth or break their wrists.

  Sugar pulled out his phone and dialed, but after about a minute he clicked it off. “Still nothing, bro,” he said. “What if he’s on a dirt nap?”

  “It’s unlikely,” I said. “He’s not worth anything dead to the bookies. And I can’t imagine the Russian Mob would need to kill him for any reason, can you?”

  “Man, people kill one another every day for no reason, you know?”

  I guess I did. “Okay,” I said. “Just follow my moves here and don’t say a word, all right?”

  “Cool,” Sugar said.

  “I mean it. Don’t speak.”

  “I get it. Silent and deadly.”

  “No,” I said, “just silent.”

  We walked up to the desk and waited patiently behind a kid named Zach while he tried to convince both the young man and the young woman that he needed to get up to the computer lab, even though he didn’t live in the building. He had a skateboard under one arm and with his other free hand he kept nervously pulling at his long goatee.

  “Zach,” the woman said, “if I let you in, I could lose my job. So it’s not about doing you a favor. I need the priority registration if I’m going to graduate on time.”

  “I totally appreciate that,” Zach said, “but I’d just run up and run right back down. If she’s up there, cool. If she’s not, I know she’s lying to me. And that’s not cool. I should know that, don’t you think? Ben?”

  The young man, apparently named Ben, shook his head. “I feel you, dog. But Tiff is on point here. You’ve got to respect our position on this. You call and get someone to sign you in, bingo, you’re in. Otherwise, dog, it’s just not going to happen. No disrespect.”

  Zach took this news poorly. He pounded his fist on the desk, hard enough to make both Ben’s and Tiff’s clipboards jump up. “Hey, hey,” Ben said. He stood up and I saw that though he was festooned in Greek letters, he was also covered in muscle. He reached out and grabbed Zach by the shoulder, but not in an aggressive way. He conveyed strength without conveying asshole. If I were still actively employed, I’d give the kid a card, see if he might want to consider a life in the spy arts after college. “Dude, that’s not cool. You have to get ahold of yourself. You can’t just be hitting our desk, okay? The desk didn’t do anything to you, okay? Just be cool.”

  “I’m sorry,” Zach said. From behind, I could see that the kid’s shoulders were shaking. The poor guy was crying. “I’m just so, well, you know.”

  Ben gave Zach’s shoulder a squeeze. “You need to get ahold of yourself,” he repeated. Zach nodded once and sulked away. It was impressive work on Ben’s part.

  All four of us—even Sugar—watched Zach for a few moments as he attempted to ride his skateboard and cry simultaneously. It was more difficult than one might expect.

  “Poor guy,” I said.

  “He’s sweet,” Tiff said, “but he’s a little on the stalker side.”

  “He’s gotta nut up,” Sugar said.

  I glared at Sugar. A wonderful development: Five seconds in and he was already speaking. I wondered if maybe he had a touch of ADD. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to follow directions. Tiff and Ben didn’t seem to notice or care that Sugar was speaking, but both were looking at him with something near recognition. Another not great development.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “My cousin sometimes says things when he shouldn’t.”

  “It’s true, though,” Sugar said. He smiled at Tiff. “No means no, right, baby doll?”

  “Right,” she said. She stared at Sugar and then smiled. “How do I know you?”

  “I don’t think you do,” Sugar said. “Yet.”

  “How do I know you?” Ben said. There was just a hint of menace in his voice. I liked Ben already.

  “I don’t think you do, either,” Sugar said. He shifted his weight a little bit and then stared at his feet, which was good because I was drilling holes in the side of his head with my eyes.

  “What year are you?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t go here,” Sugar mumbled.

  “You play ball? High school maybe?”

  “No, no,” Sugar said. “I pretty much just stay home and keep to myself. Like to read and shit. You know.”

  Sugar’s answer was met with silence. Of all the people who looked like they stayed home and kept to themselves, much less read . . . and shit . . . Sugar was among the least likely.

  “He sells drugs,” I said. I let that sink in for a second or two and then laughed and clapped Sugar on the back as hard as I possibly could without actually putting him on the ground. He might have been hard to kill, but he wasn’t hard to beat up and at that moment I regretted not leaving him in the car or, better yet, the notary office. “Oh, my, my,” I said. “I can’t take him anywhere without people thinking they know him. Usually they think he’s Eminem. I personally don’t see it, do you?”


  “Little bit,” Ben said.

  “Totally,” Tiff said.

  “I usually think he should just button up his shirt and stop dyeing his hair,” I said, “but then I’m old-fashioned.”

  “OG,” Sugar said, which earned him another glare from me.

  “Anyway,” I said, “we’re here to check up on my nephew. Brent Grayson.”

  “That’s mine,” Ben said. “I’m A through L.” He flipped through his clipboard and then ran his finger down a page until he landed on Brent’s name. I could see that he had no names listed and also that he was in room 804. “Brent doesn’t have any approved guests listed, so unless he called a pass down for you, I can’t let you in.”

  “I understand that, of course, of course,” I said. “It’s Ben, right?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And you’re Tiffany?” I said.

  “Tiff,” she said. “ ‘Tiffany’ makes me sound like I’m a thousand years old.”

  “Well, Ben and Tiff,” I said, “here’s the problem. Can I expect a level of confidentiality here?”

  “Of course,” Ben said. Tiff didn’t look so sure, but she nodded in agreement.

  “My nephew, he lives on the eighth floor, correct?”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Ben said.

  Sir. That was nice. I looked up the side of the building. “That’s a pretty long fall, isn’t it?”

  “Remember there was a girl on the sixth floor who jumped last fall?” Tiff said to Ben. “It was the saddest thing. She got her first B and that was it. Splat.”

  “So you understand the situation here,” I said.

  “Oh,” Ben said. “Gosh. Brent, really?”

  “He’s had a rough go of it lately,” I said. “And now we haven’t been able to get him on the phone for the last two days, so, as you can imagine, there’s some concern.”

  “I could go up and knock on his door,” Ben said.

  “Yes, you could,” I said, “and under normal circumstances, I think that would be more than enough. But in this case, I’m afraid he’d know that, well, we broke his confidence. How well do you know Brent?”

  “I see him around the building,” Ben said.