"That's very generous," I said, though I wasn't precisely certain what it meant. But I had a feeling Barry might. "And in return?"
"You make sure Dixon doesn't kill us," he said, "or have his people hurt our families. You seem like the kind of person who could help with that."
His people. The only people Eddie Champagne had were probably living in a trailer in Sarasota, hoping to get bitten by a gator on state land so they could sue.
Hank Fitch, however, was precisely that kind of guy-Still, I had to hand it to Stan. In the face of adversity, he managed to bring his A game, negotiation-wise. He almost had me believing that this was all an excellent idea. But one had to admire a guy who could negotiate a deal to save his ass and get a new, meaner, more obviously psychotic business partner. Stan wouldn't make a bad warlord.
"There'd still be the matter then of the debt Dixon owes me," I said.
"We could cover that debt," Stan said.
"It's sizable," I said. I told him it was five million dollars. I figured that would cover all of my bases.
"We could cover that debt," Stan said, though he swallowed perceptibly.
"Wired," I said.
"Wired," Stan said.
"By tomorrow," I said.
"I don't know if-"
"By tomorrow," I said.
"By tomorrow," Stan said.
I extended my hand and Stan shook it. "You have a deal, Stan," I said. My cell chirped and I saw a text from Sam. Everything was working better than I could have possibly hoped for. "There's something I want you to see." I stepped Stan over to the window so he could see Sam drive up and park Cricket's Mercedes. Sam was behind the wheel. Cricket was in the passenger seat. And Nate was sitting in the back.
"You see those two men with Cricket?" Stan nodded. "You don't seem like a bad guy, Stan. And neither do your friends."
"Thank you," he said, because I think he thought that life was just getting easier and easier.
"But I am," I said. "You screw me? Those men are going to kill Cricket. There's nothing you'll be able to do to stop it. And you might notice that you've touched quite a bit of stuff in this room, Stan. Fingerprints everywhere. A good amount of blood and piss too. Let's not forget motive. You watch CSI, Stan?"
"Sometimes," he said.
"Watch it this week. See if anyone leaves that much evidence around anymore," I said. "Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," he said.
I waved at Sam to let him know he could drive off.
"Today," I said, "you go back to Dixon and tell him Cricket was gone. Tell him everything that happened here, if you like, except for the deal you've graciously made me. Tell him his money supply is gone. Tell him I'm looking for him. Tell him I'm right here, waiting. Understand?"
Stan said he did.
"You'll make sure your friends understand?" I said. Burl had fallen silent, the pain finally overriding the adrenaline and knocking him out. Danny? He was pulling bits of blood, flesh and teeth off of his shirt.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Fitch," Stan said.
"Do you have a business card, Stan?"
"Pardon me?"
"A business card. Something with your firm name on it? A way to contact you?"
"Oh, right," Stan said. He motioned to his back pocket. "I'm going to pull out my wallet, just so you know."
"Got it," I said. At least he was learning not to make any rash movements.
Stan rummaged through his wallet and came out with a gold-embossed card that said his name was Stanley Rosencrantz. What kind of guy named Stanley Rosencrantz would possibly think this was a way to conduct business? Stanley Rosencrantz should have been sitting behind a desk somewhere, permanently, his ass growing exponentially larger each day. His firm was called White Rose Partners. How friendly.
"Nice card," I said.
"We can get you one, too," he said. Now he was just babbling. "Whatever you want."
"I'll have an account set up tomorrow for the wire. You'll have the money ready."
"Tomorrow is a little early," he said.
"If you are who you think you are," I said, "you can have this done in forty minutes. I'm giving you until tomorrow as a courtesy, since you're going to need to take your friends to the hospital, figure out a way to lie to everyone you know, maybe get a script for some Xanax to get yourself asleep tonight, kiss your wife goodbye in case it turns out that I kill you anyway."
"Tomorrow, Stan. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," he said.
I stepped to one side, offering Stan a path around me. "Then by all means," I said, "get to work. And a word about your friends. You might want to avoid a regular hospital. I'm not sure you want to be talking to the police, Stan. Maybe go across to Little Haiti. Find a nice clinic, throw around some money, hope no one forgets to sterilize their surgical implements. Hate to have your friends die of an infection, after all they've been through."
Stan nodded, but didn't move. He was going to need to talk to someone about post-traumatic shock, but I figured I'd let him figure that out. "Do you have a card?" Stan asked finally, "some way for me to call you?"
"Did Dixon have a card, Stan?"
"Well, yes," he said.
Eddie Champagne really was an idiot.
"That's why I'm not Dixon Woods," I said. "When you think you need to contact me, I'll have already contacted you." That sounded ominous enough. I let it sink in. "Now, Stan? Get the fuck out of my house."
11
If you live in Miami and need to make millions and millions of dollars in a short period of time, but have no discernible skills that would allow you to either play quarterback for the Dolphins, first base for the Marlins or, with Shaq out of the picture, center for the Heat, you have three choices:
1. You can deal drugs. This is a good choice. Miami has a large transient population of Hollywood and New York types who like to ingest as much cocaine as possible over the course of a weekend and won't haggle over price. Miami also has a disproportionately large refugee population, which, while used to huffing glue, has become an equitable buyer of crack, meth and marijuana, as well, which is nice since it's hard to move glue these days. Selling drugs can be dangerous, of course, so if you're concerned about your life or liberty, you could just keep your business confined to the sixteen thousand members of the University of Miami's student body, at least a quarter of whom like to take some recreational drugs. And then there's the retirees who can't afford the really good Oxycontin or Vicodin on their fixed incomes, so if you had a contact or two in the retirement villages, you could probably make a nice living without ever being threatened at all. You need a million dollars? Get yourself some cocaine or heroin and move to Miami, set up shop, get to work. If you can't make your nut, you're using your own supply.
2. You can marry in. This is a better choice. Even though Miami-Dade County has a median income lower than the rest of the nation, it also has millionaires by the legion. You just need to know where to find them. Fisher Island, of course. Snapper Creek and Hammock Lakes in Coral Gables. Biscayne Park. Cocoplum. The entire stretch of the Keys. If you're a man, this might be slightly more difficult, though not impossible. If you're a woman, if you haven't been seriously deformed in an industrial accident, if your name is Star, or if it used to be, you could live a millionaire's life without any outlay of your own, apart from the cost of your belly-button ring and hair dye.
3. You can go into real estate. This is the best choice. The reason? Because people will give you money for nothing. People will give you money on the idea of land. The presumption of inflation. The chance that they'll be able to turn their own millions of dollars into millions of dollars more. The chance that when you promise them a huge, absurd return on investment-say, 20 or 30 percent-that you are just the finest real estate investment program in the history of real estate.