“What’s Sugar’s big plan?”
“He was going to be waiting inside the office instead of having his buddy there. Then he was going to let them know his buddy the notary was already paying him off. The old switcheroo. And then I was going to come in and bust them both up.”
“How were you going to do that?”
“The full faith and credit of Charles Finley,” Sam said.
“That sounds like a great way for Sugar to get murdered,” I said.
“Mikey, I trust that if these guys were really fearsome, Sugar would be smart enough not to engage them. He said they were just a bunch of lightweights in track suits.”
I didn’t say anything. I just let Sam’s words swirl around inside the car for a few moments to see if they might land somewhere near his common sense.
Sam drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He adjusted the rearview mirror. He opened the glove box and looked for a Kleenex. And then, finally, it hit him.
“Oh. Oh. Oh, no,” Sam said.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, this isn’t good.”
“You have Sugar’s cell?”
“Here,” Sam said and handed me his phone.
“Watch for the arrival of the lightweights,” I said and then called Sugar.
“Go,” Sugar said.
“Go?” I said.
“Who is this?”
“Michael Westen,” I said.
“Uh-oh, someone called in the big gun. We ridin’ again! How you doin’, brother?”
“I’m fine, Sugar,” I said.
“You down to help me with the rope-a-dope?”
“Trouble, Mikey,” Sam said.
Three Denalis, each with blacked-out windows and, it appeared, bulletproof frames, pulled into the parking lot and surrounded Sugar’s Camaro. Ten men stepped out of the trucks. They all wore track suits. It wasn’t clear if they were Russian, but judging by the fact that they each had a nine casually shoved down the front of their pants, it seemed clear enough that they weren’t there to get anything notarized.
“Yeah, about that rope-a-dope,” I said. “Is there a back door where you are, Sugar?”
“Yeah, yeah. Is that where you guys are gonna bust in when I give the word?”
“No,” I said, “it’s where you need to run out. Right now.”
“I don’t run from anything,” he said.
“Sugar, can you see out the window?”
“No, I got the blinds drawn.”
“That’s good,” I said, “because that way the ten armed men standing twenty feet from you won’t know you were waiting to ambush them.”
“Ten?”
“Make that seven,” I said. “It looks like the three drivers are sticking with the cars.”
“This ain’t what my boy told me was the situation,” Sugar said.
“Your boy might not have known,” I said, though that didn’t sound plausible. “But if you’d like to elucidate your disappointment to your friend from this world versus the next, I’d get out of the building, Sugar. We’ll pick you up on Third Street in ten minutes. Just start walking.”
“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 amp;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.”