Ed King (30 page)

She let him drone on about it, about a shell company with a bulletproof balance sheet that his launderer used, banking in the Caymans, money-counting machines—whatever he needed to drone on about. Sometimes he was so relaxed and unprotected that he engaged her in the intimate emotions of his marriage as if she were his therapist or counselor. His wife, a cosmetician, was petulant, he complained, and moody in the extreme, and pouted when they argued, and liked to have her car detailed more often than was necessary. She was in the habit of telling him how he felt instead of listening to him when he told her how he felt. She was impulsive, impetuous, and hyper-susceptible, she couldn’t relax, she was anxious about her work and about people at work, and liked to talk about people at work he didn’t know and therefore didn’t care about. “I know I’m not being fair,” he said. “There’s two sides to everything, and I’m sure she sees it differently.” Diane let him confide in her and kept her
comments private, because Ron bought a lot of coke, and why not make life easier by dispensing with the penny-ante sales and living off a middleman’s—or middlewoman’s—markup? In the margin lay considerable free time.

Then, one night, postcoitally and casually, Ron announced that it was time to repair his marriage. He and his wife were getting counseling now, very good counseling that Ron believed in, so he’d decided that, in good faith, he had to stop seeing Diane, except, he hoped, as a business associate, if she knew what he meant. She did, of course—money was money, she told him. So they stopped sleeping together, and she sold him his coke across a table at Ginger’s, in quick exchanges that were, Ron’s smile said, strictly about cash. “Wanker,” Diane thought. Couldn’t he have missed the sex a little more? Was she really that dispensable?

She told Club about the execrable Ron Dominick: his blather about his money launderer and his wife, his white shirts, jackets, and black jeans. Club chewed licorice with the news on, barefoot, a can of Boddingtons and the
TV Guide
beside him, a package of Winstons rolled up in his sleeve. “We ought to take a stab at the bastard,” he said. “Take him for everything he’s worth.”

“Yes, let’s,” Diane answered.

Club took a pull from his Boddingtons, wiped at his week’s worth of beard with his wrist, and said, “I don’t mean hypothetical. And you ought to think twice before you say yes. Diddlin’ the wrong bastard got me run out of Liverpool.”

“Kirkland isn’t Liverpool. And this guy’s a fool.”

“Good, then,” said Club. “Let’s nail his arse.”

They cemented the deal over copious Boddingtons, and, in between Diane’s trips to the loo, ate licorice, conspired, and watched television. Eventually, Club said he wanted to sleep on it. In the morning, she found him in his tank top and fatigues, lacing up for a go at pumping iron, because pumping iron was “conducive to strategizing.” She went along for a bout with a stationary bike, where she alternated between dreaming up con ideas and contemplating Club, who wore headphones and had a Walkman in his pocket. Later, they convened in the lobby, near the smoothie bar, where Club, with a shower towel draped around his neck, drank a Pepsi, downed two granola bars, and looked around, furtively, to see who was listening. “Okay, how about this?” he said, dropping his
voice. “Next time you see this bloke, tell him you’re getting out of the business and won’t be dealing anymore. Pretend you’re sorry and that. You buy him a drink or whatever, act like you feel bad, then tell him since you’re getting out you could set him up direct to your supplier, but for a finder’s fee. Twenty percent, I’d say. You get him to agree he’s buying, let’s pick a number, twenty grand, then you tell him you want four off the top. He’ll argue, and that’s fine, just take what it takes to keep him in without looking like you’re willing to take just anything, because if you’re too easy that’s a signal to a target.”

“This guy does big deals,” Diane answered. “Twenty grand would be easy for him. He’s good for fifty, I reckon.”

Club put a little crimp in his Pepsi can. “Fuck it, then, let’s double that,” he said. “You tell him you’re going to discuss it with your supplier, and then you get back to him with a hundred grand; you tell him your guy doesn’t do small change, isn’t interested in small beer. What have you been charging this wanker?”

“A lot,” Diane said. “Two fifty a gram.”

“This time give him a break,” said Club. “Let’s say a hundred seventy-five a gram. He ought to go for that deal.”

Diane was impressed. Maybe, she thought, Club wasn’t bullshitting about the Merseyside mafia. Sure, he looked skuzzy, pop-eyed, and erratic, but inside, Club was a clear-eyed manipulator. “Club,” she said, “how am I getting that much blow? We’ll need to put up seventy grand.”

“How much do we have?”

“Something like fifty.”

“What about your stocks?”

“Twenty. Thereabouts.”

Club put a hand to his face like
The Thinker
. “Hmmm,” he said. “Cutting it a bit fine. What do you think about backing down our numbers?”

“Tell me the rest,” Diane said.

Club looked around again. “So this is what’s up,” he said. “You tell this wanker your supplier wants his payout in twenty packets, fifty fresh hundreds in each, each held with one large metal paper clip, the twenty packets in a gym bag, and you tell him to call you when he’s got it ready, and not to forget your cut. In fact, you should act like that’s your big concern, make a row about your cut. Then,” said Club, “once he tells you he’s got the cash, wait twenty-four hours minimum. Then you ring him up
and tell him your supplier’s ready to meet. Tell him to stay by his phone and that you’ll call him eleven a.m. tomorrow. Something like that. You call him back, and you give him an hour. You tell him to come right here, this table. This table, Diane, right here, this table. You call him from the pay phone right here.”

Diane was smiling now. “Club,” she said. “I didn’t know you were such a criminal.”

“Another life,” answered Club. “Just dredging up the old tried-and-tested Club. Finding him proper American employment.”

Diane laughed. “So we get Ron here,” she said. “Ron ‘the Wanker’ Dominick, with his loaded gym bag.”

“We get him here with his gym bag, correct. We sit at this table, right here, this table, and you introduce me as your supplier, Club. Just call me Club, tell him I’m your brother, everything aboveboard, nothing to hide. Then leave things to me. Bloke might be armed, might bring muscle, the muscle could be announced or that poof over there.” Club aimed his chin at a guy reading a newspaper. “Poof like that walks in, takes a seat, acts innocent, reads the news, really he’s your target’s—what would you call it?—henchman. Accomplice.”

“Right.”

“So we have to assume he’s a genius, this Ron. Possibly a genius who’s nervous and packing—good American word, ‘packing.’ High stakes and all that. Game’s on. No bullshit.” Club dropped his Pepsi can onto its side. “People get topped over money, Diane, and I don’t want it to be you or me.”

“No.”

“But in case, I’m bringing the Colt, you know. For a breakdown in the proceedings.”

“We’ll hope for no breakdown,” Diane said.

Club tugged the wrinkles out of his shirt, leaned toward her, and dipped his head. “Tell me something,” he said. “In the ladies’ changing room, they have a cubicle for a toilet, right? With a lock on the door? Am I right or what? Because this place, you can see, was built on the cheap. Savings everywhere—shoddy plasterboard. Another thing they do is get the plumbing back to back. Saves on pipe runs. Now, in the gents’ changing room we have a cubicle, too, and in there we have a floor vent, the louvered type, for forced-air heat, which I prized up, and, sure enough,
it’s a split end-run, with the other side, I’m thinking, feeding heat to the ladies’ side. But this we need to verify, important point. Linchpin point. So let’s both of us, right now, take a trip to the toilet. Lock yourself in, prize the vent cover off, and we’ll chat through the duct—you get my drift?”

They verified. When Diane pried the vent out, she heard Club say, “Good. Now here comes my hand.” Then she saw his fingers, wiggling, in the vent, followed by a vigorous thumbs-up, and she reached in and touched his coarse thumb tip. “Bingo,” said Club, through the vent, happily. “This guy’s fucked.”

Once again—back at 226—they cracked a festive series of Boddingtons. Diane, giddy now, digested the details. Club knew a hod carrier who had “at-a-glance C-notes,” counterfeits that were cheap to come by because of weak borders, blurry seals, and unaligned serial numbers. They’d never pass close inspection, but they were good enough for exchanges with unsuspecting parties. “So what we do is,” said Club, “we put a good note on top, the rest bad, twenty packets set up like that, two thousand worth of good, the rest bad—ninety-eight thousand. I pass his all-good bills through the vent to you, you pass our mostly bad ones back to me, simple as that.”

“I don’t know,” said Diane. “Ron’ll notice and retrace his steps. And when he gets in the loo there a second time, he’s probably going to notice the vent. And then he’s on to us.”

“Drink up,” said Club. “We’re smarter than he is. We’ll make up a block you can wedge in the breach, luv. If he wants to stick his hand in, he won’t find it goes anywhere.”

“He’ll still be coming after us, Club.”

“Drink to Mr. Colt, then. Cuz when jolly Ron shows, I’ll be on the business end. Sending him off to see his launderer about his frigging fucked bills or whatever his problem is.”

The next day, he brought a gift for Diane. “I picked up this sweet little snubnose,” he said. “Thirty-eight special. Fits in your purse. Case you need some protection, luv, that I’m not around to give.”

Club chose a Saturday, because, he said, on Saturday there’d be people at Serious Fitness. As called for by his plan, he rode his touring bike to the
showdown. Diane, in her street clothes, looked freshly post-workout, with her hair still wet as if from the shower, though actually she’d just wet it in the bathroom. It was noon, the gym was busy, the girl at the smoothie bar turned the pages of a magazine, a couple at a far table watched MTV, some guys nearby were doing nothing, just sitting. Diane had a comb and brush on the table, and on the floor beside her sat her gym bag and her purse. Inside the gym bag was a sheet-metal duct plug Club had rigged up, and twenty packets of paper-clipped counterfeit hundreds, each with an authentic bill showing. In the purse was the .38 special Diane had only the barest idea how to shoot. Club had a plastic grocery bag in his lap with its looped handles knotted, which made him look tacky, but draped across his seat back was a new overcoat with his Colt in one of its pockets.

Ron showed up. Sure enough, he brought muscle, a slabbish sort whose efficient body language bespoke the martial arts. “This is my buddy, my buddy Jason,” Ron said, “and he’s totally cool and mellow.”

Jason wore a belted black leather jacket and an expression that announced, “I could kick your ass if I wanted to.” “Greetings,” he said, then sat, and, with hooded eyes, evaluated the girl at the smoothie bar while covering his mouth with the web between his thumb and forefinger. Diane guessed he was probably in for a free gram or something equally paltry.

Club said, “I hope you found the place all right.”

“We found it,” said Ron. “Yep. That’s right. It was exactly where Diane said it would be. Hey, Diane,” he went on. “Introduce us.”

“He’s my half-brother,” said Diane. “His name’s Caleb.”

Club looked thoroughly inane in his getup. How serious could someone be in nylon shorts, an Axl Rose T-shirt, and plastic fisherman’s sandals? He said, quietly, “I have two-point-three-three ounces in my bag here, Ron. That’s sixty-six grams. What do you have?”

“As requested,” Ron replied. “Thank you.”

“Is it clean cash? Did you go to a good launderer?”

“My guy’s cool,” answered Ron.

Club scratched the inside of his thigh, pinched his nose, and pulled at the inflamed-looking bags beneath his eyes. “Here’s what I’m going to propose,” he said. “You and me take a trip to the locker room. Jason can come along if he wants. In the locker room there’s a toilet, locked door.
Scale in there. All the time you need. I hand you my bag, you go in, lock the door, weigh, test, make sure things check out. I wait outside. Me and Jason wait together, if that’s what you want. Then you come out, you hand me your bag, I go in and count, while you wait outside, or while you and Jason wait. I—”

“No,” said Ron. “We should stay eye to eye. We should go in the can together, you and me, I do my thing, you do yours, we come out and go our separate ways.”

Club shook his head. “Tight quarters,” he said. “We’re keeping it public. No knife in the back, mate. Okay?”

Ron did the same thing Jason was doing—propped an elbow on the table and covered his mouth. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

“Come on, now,” said Club. “I don’t know you from Adam. You don’t want to make a buy, that’s fine. Sorry to have troubled you coming out here, but there’s a way I need to do things, every time. Safety first,” he added.

“As long as it’s not the rip-off way.”

“How am I going to rip you off? You’re out there with the stash while I’m in there with the cash. And I don’t have a Jason,” Club pointed out.

“Come on,” said Ron. “I mean, like you say, we don’t know each other and—”

“Okay,” said Club, “Let’s call the thing off.”

“No,” said Ron. “We don’t have to do that.”

“I’m serious,” said Club. “No worries. We’ll call it off.”

Ron ran both hands, a quick groom, through his hair. He sat back and sighed. He nodded at Jason. “Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s go for it.”

Diane now took up her comb and said, “Good. Because I still want my cut.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Ron. “That’s separate.”

“I’ll worry until I’ve got it, big boy.”

“You’ll get it.”

“So you say.”

“Let’s move,” said Club.

When he stood, he looked like a workingman on Spanish holiday—red-faced, decked out for sun, pale British legs on display. Jason, Diane saw, was holding back laughter, but Ron looked a little disoriented. They left for the locker room, and, surreptitiously, Diane scanned the Serious Fitness lobby. The girl at the front desk was folding towels, the girl at the
smoothie bar was watching television, a girl and guy at a far table were talking, a guy checked in and went to the locker room, the girl at the front desk fielded a phone call, a guy came bursting out of the weight room and, wad of keys in hand, left. Diane didn’t think anyone was secretly Ron’s “accomplice,” but, just in case, she stuck with the plan, which called for her to open her purse, search for and then draw out a tube of lipstick, collect her comb and brush, pick up her bags, and head for the women’s locker room.