“So you think Brent Grayson happened across a rocket launcher and blew his own father’s business up?” Sam said. “The kid doesn’t even wake up before noon.”
Big Lumpy turned to Sam and patted him once on the shoulder. “You don’t think your friend Fiona could get him a fairly good-sized rocket launcher? If she could get one, any serious black market arms dealer could get him one, too.”
Logical enough. But I had an idea.
“You’re a smart man,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “So where’s my money?”
“You’re a smart man,” I said. “Wouldn’t it stand to reason that a person like me wouldn’t be helping a college kid? What gain do I have?”
“Michael,” he said, “you’d help Idi Amin get his cat down from a tree if you found out he had a bad childhood.”
“And if I haven’t been lied to? What will you do for me if I can prove that it’s all true? That all of your minions have been taking Yuri Drubich’s money, which means when Brent can’t pay, Drubich’s eventually going to come find you?”
Big Lumpy closed his eyes again. “Let me think,” he said.
“How long are you going into your trance?” Sam said. “In case I need to visit the little boys’ room. Or fly across the country.”
Big Lumpy ignored Sam. “Shall we put odds on it?” he asked after about thirty seconds, his eyes still closed.
“No, straight up. I convince you of the truth, you stay away from Brent Grayson and you call off your stray collection dogs, too.”
“His father is not in this equation,” Big Lumpy said. “He came by his debts honestly.”
“Fine,” I said.
“And if I’m not convinced, what then?”
“You’re at war with me,” I said.
“Hmm, yes, I figured. You’re not a difficult army to theorize against. So convince me, Michael Westen, that your client has somehow engaged Yuri Drubich.”
I told him the story, even had Sam pull out a BlackBerry and show him the Web site for InterMacron.
When I finished, Big Lumpy sat quietly for a solid minute. Then he reached across the table and plucked one of the beers from the bucket, popped the cap and took a long drink. “So if I’m to understand,” he said, “a college boy conned one of the biggest black market import/export men in all of Russia?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“This technology, what did you call it?”
“Kineoptic Transference.”
“Nice name,” he said.
“I thought so, too,” I said.
He took another sip from the beer. “I never liked the way this tasted.”
“Beer?” Sam said.
“Failure,” Big Lumpy said and I knew I had him. “Do you know why Drubich so willingly put his money on the table for this? Other than greed, of course.”
“I feel like you’re about to tell me,” I said.
“Because we’ve been trying to develop this technology for over twenty years. It’s the next level, except no one can even find a stepladder to get there. It’s all theoretical.”
“When you say ‘we,’” Sam said, “who are you talking about exactly?”
“The government,” Big Lumpy said. “Any sort of alphabet agency that employs scientists. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a team on the Arctic Circle at this very moment trying to figure out new equations.”
“I looked it up online,” Sam said, “and there was nothing. Nothing but Brent’s Web site, anyway.”
“That’s correct,” he said. “That it’s not been scrubbed already just means that there’s a Democrat in office, that’s all. A couple of years ago, Brent Grayson would be in a prison underneath a mountain, getting water-boarded for information. I promise you that.”
Big Lumpy was excited. We hadn’t appealed to his good side, we’d appealed to the scientist and the gambler. It wasn’t my initial plan, but now I had to set the hook.
“Clearly,” I said, “there’s much more money to be made from Drubich if someone happens to be enterprising enough to string him along further. Maybe a scientist smart enough to provide actual specs. Far more than fifteen thousand bucks, anyway.”
“It’s a big gamble,” he said. “It would take me a great deal of time to come up with a convincing schematic to deliver. And what can I expect my return would be?”
“He’s already paid Brent close to $150K and that’s just based on what he saw on the Web site,” Sam said. “You show up in a fancy suit holding your diploma from MIT in your hand and then talk in big words, you’d probably get ten times that much money.”
“It would still be a challenge,” he said. “He already suspects he’s been duped.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” I said. “Isn’t that what this is all about for you? This whole charade of being the most evil bookie in town? Isn’t it all about intellectual challenges? Now more than ever?”
“Don’t play the dying card,” Big Lumpy said.
“You played it first,” I said.
Big Lumpy stood up and waved his hand once above his head. A few seconds later, a white Cadillac Escalade pulled up in front of the Hair of the Dog and idled there. “I must be going,” Big Lumpy said. “It was a pleasure getting to know the two most dangerous men in Miami.”
“What’s with all the white?” Sam asked.
“Makes me look mysterious,” Big Lumpy said. “It’s good for the public relations. No one expects a terrible person to always be wearing white, now do they?”
“I guess not,” Sam said.
“So,” I said, “do we have a deal?”
Big Lumpy stared intently at me for a few moments, as if he was trying to determine what the result might be if he reneged on our bet. He sighed once and then put out his hand to shake. His grip was light, his skin thin and feathery. “I’ll need backup,” he said.
“You’ll have it,” I said.
“And I’ll need Henry Grayson,” he said. “He owes.”
“We’re working on it,” I said. “You’ll have to trust me.”
“I do,” he said. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
Big Lumpy walked to the Escalade and his driver-a tiny Asian man also wearing all white, including a white baseball cap and white shoes-met him on the passenger side with a portable oxygen unit, which Big Lumpy immediately hooked himself up to before getting into the SUV. He didn’t close the door, he just sat there in the passenger seat inhaling. After a few minutes, he pulled his mask off and motioned for us to come over.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew you’d be here?” he said.
“It hadn’t occurred to me,” I said.
“Of course not,” he said. “You’re an American spy. Well, you can thank your friend Sugar.”
“He bets with you, too?” Sam asked.
“No,” Big Lumpy said. “I had him kidnapped last night. I’ll keep him until you deliver Henry Grayson, if you don’t mind.” He closed his door then and the Escalade drove off, leaving Sam and me just as he’d hoped: dumbfounded.
“Well,” Sam said eventually, “that was a surprise.”
“I take it you didn’t leave Sugar in a safe location?” I said.
“I just took him home,” Sam said. “You didn’t want him in your house, did you?”
“No,” I said.
“So it looks like we’re in business with Big Lumpy,” Sam said.
“Strange,” I said.
“You believe a word he said?”
“Hard not to,” I said.
“Me, too,” Sam said. “Say what you want about him, but that psychopath plays it straight.”
“I think he just took the right odds with us,” I said, “just as we’d done with him.”
“What are we going to do about Sugar?”
“Find Henry Grayson, I suppose,” I said.
“You’re just going to hand him over to Big Lumpy?” Sam said. “That doesn’t sound like a wise plan.”
“No,” I said. “But if his debt is honest, which I suspect it is, then he should pay it. I just don’t think he should pay with his life.”
My cell rang. It was Fiona. “Where are you?” I asked.
“I just had tea with Yuri Drubich,” she said. “Lovely man.”
“Tea? Is that a euphemism for kneecapping him?”
“Michael,” she said, “I’m not a savage. We had a nice conversation and came to some very strong conclusions about Brent’s future.”