“Barry,” I said.
“Bad Check Barry? The money launderer?”
“Same guy.”
In fact, Barry was far more than a money launderer these days. He’d diversified his talents to the point that he was practically a one-stop shop for all your illegal paperwork needs. Like an Office Depot, but with the ability to get you a fake passport and safe passage to Ecuador at a moment’s notice.
He wasn’t a lawyer, but he’d be able to help me with the conditions of Brent’s new wealth that Big Lumpy had set forth and with the lengths (or depths) we’d need to go to in order to secure Brent the opportunity to find that wealth.
But he didn’t know all of that when he sat down at the table with Sugar and me.
“You look good,” I said.
“I feel like one of those tourists serial killers keep an eye out for, since they know no one will miss them. I had to go into Walmart to get all of this stuff. Do you know how degrading that was for me, Michael? What if someone I know spotted me?”
“You’d be forced to vote Republican from here on out,” I said.
Barry handed me a receipt for $127.98. “You don’t need to pay me back for the sunglasses,” he said. “I like the way they look on my face. Might be good for business meetings with people not quite as fashion forward as you and your Scooby Gang. Plus it makes me look a little more authoritarian.”
“That’s why cops wear them,” I said.
“These pants are some kind of polyester blend,” Barry said. “I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I had places.”
“I appreciate you coming in costume,” I said. “I’m going to make it worth your while.”
“You working with some fetish gang or something?”
“Not quite,” I said.
“Not even close, bro,” Sugar said, which made Barry do the one thing he hadn’t done yet: acknowledge that someone else was sitting at the table with me. One thing most criminals have in common is the ability to completely ignore people they have absolutely no interest in. It makes it less likely those people will be able to positively identify them later or, worse, testify against them.
“Who are you?” Barry said to Sugar.
“Sugar.”
“I thought the Spice Girls broke up,” Barry said and then he turned back to me. “Who is this person to my left?”
“He’s a drug dealer. He used to live downstairs from me.”
“Oh,” Barry said. “The guy you shot?”
“Same guy,” I said again.
“Why does everyone know that?” Sugar asked.
“It’s a funny story,” Barry said. “I didn’t even hear it from Michael. Shot him through the wall, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Classic,” Barry said. “You doing some kind of ‘Up with People’ thing with him now?”
“We’ve done some work together in the past,” I said.
“I’m pretty much on the team,” Sugar said.
“No, you’re not,” I said. “He’s currently part of the reason we need you.”
“My lucky day,” Barry said.
“I already know you,” Sugar said. “You’re Bad Check Barry. See, I know all the gangsters up in this piece.”
Barry stared at Sugar for a long time without speaking. Normally, Barry is the kind of guy who likes to chat a bit, but I could tell he felt uneasy about Sugar. Finally, he turned to me and said, “I’m going to pretend he’s not here. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Sugar, go back to counting Denalis.”
“I’ve already got five,” Sugar said.
“Good. Stop if you get to twenty.” I waved the waitress over-since we were now the only people on the patio she actually managed to get to our table in a reasonable amount of time-and ordered another samovar of tea for Barry. I needed him alert, so I poured him a healthy-sized serving. He took a sip, grimaced and tried to act cool.
“What do you call that flavor?” he asked. “Communism?”
“Gorbachev’s favorite tea,” I said. “Served it to Reagan and then they talked about movies with chimps.”
“I thought I recognized it,” Barry said. “It’s strong. Tastes a little bit like something the Russians would pour in your eyes to make you talk. They ever do that sort of stuff?”
“They were known for their persuasive interrogation techniques,” I said.
Barry took another sip and then looked around the place. “It’s nice here. The kind of place I could bring a date later on. You ever bring Fiona here?”
“She came on her own recently and now she’s not welcome back,” I said.
“That happen a lot?”
“Yes,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the envelope Big Lumpy had delivered to my mother’s house that outlined the terms by which he’d leave Brent enough money to live on for a very long time. “I want you to read this, tell me if you think what’s outlined here is possible.”
“Legally possible?”
“Possible possible.”
“And then you’ll tell me why I’m dressed like this?”
“I will,” I said, “but those shoes were your choice.”
“I take my foot care seriously,” he said. “These I can just throw away later and I won’t feel like I’ve wasted your money after bad podiatry.”
He unfolded the letter and began to read. It wouldn’t take him long, since Big Lumpy had outlined Brent’s life into ten easy-to-digest points, perhaps because he wasn’t confident Brent had much in the way of reading comprehension skills:
1. In order for you to collect on the terms of my will, which, by the time you receive this, will already be in active probate, I ask first that Michael Westen make it clear to you that I was aware your father was not dead and that I chose, nevertheless, to go forward with this agreement. Surprisingly, Mr. Westen has your best interests at heart.
2. You shall receive the proceeds of the sale of your “technology,” minus the existing debts of Henry Grayson and Nate Westen (as have been outlined under separate cover), the small sum that will be needed to show that the transaction was made with my estate (no more than $1 million) to ensure prosecution of purchaser of “technology,” any middleman fees incurred by Mr. Westen and any property costs associated with fires, explosions or burials incurred by Mr. Westen, in monthly allotments until the age of 25. However, this money must go toward living expenses, schooling and research only. No gambling.
3. You shall attend MIT. You need only to apply. The rest has been taken care of.
4. You shall work for the United States Government until age 25. I would prefer that you not become a spy, but rather a scientist. If you must, a position at the NSA would be acceptable. The position in the United States government is also already taken care of.
5. You must provide your father with whatever medical or mental care he needs; however, you are to provide him with no money. You may pay his bills for the rest of his life if you choose, but he should not be in a position to actually spend money (apart from small items like groceries, toothpaste, etc.). If at any time your father has an outstanding debt to what would normally be considered an “underworld figure” your financial support will be removed, even if you are beyond the age-25 threshold. (Though I am dead, trust me that your accounts will be debited from the sum you’ve received thus far.)
6. After age 35, if you choose to embark on a life of crime, you are not allowed to go by any demeaning nicknames.
7. The money derived from the sale of your “technology” will be deposited into a foreign bank account, as the money will technically be from an enemy combatant. Either my associates will be able to facilitate this or certainly Mr. Westen will know some people of ill means who will be able to provide cover in this regard. I would recommend Iceland rather than a traditional island or an Eastern European haven.
8. Keep friends close. My associates are prepared to offer educational packages to at least one current friend that is not Sugar.
9. See that my grave is kept clean. As you will be in Massachusetts attending college, I expect that you will visit my grave in Cambridge at least twice a year with proper cleaning supplies.