“I want a quarter of a million dollars,” he said, “plus expenses.”
“Agreed. Something else. It’s been my experience that no criminal enterprise of any magnitude can prevail in a community without at least the tacit approval of the local population, starting with the police.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Deputies James and Williams. They rousted me the other day for purposes of extortion. Like you, they wanted half of our profits. How they knew what my plans were…”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Get them off my back.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“How do you keep them off your back?”
Brand thought about it for about five seconds. “It’ll cost you,” he said.
“How much?”
“They’re very greedy men, Dyson. Very greedy. And you have no leverage. If they wanted to pick you up, they wouldn’t need to pretend they found a lid of grass on your seat during a routine traffic stop, would they?”
“Bastards,” I heard the old man mutter from the living room.
I sighed dramatically, again—I was getting good at it. “I’ll give you a third,” I said. “Not half. A full third. You can disperse it anyway you see fit.”
“How much is a third?”
“Will you settle for a conservative estimate? One million dollars.”
Brand sat there thinking it over, his eyes never leaving my face as if he could see the answers to all of his questions written there.
“Okay,” he said. He smiled some more as he reached across the kitchen table. I shook his hand, very much aware that the third was probably what he was willing to settle for all along. He held my hand for a few beats.
“A third plus expenses,” he said.
“Now who’s being greedy?” He continued to hold my hand. “All right, I’ll pay your expenses. I intend to inspect the merchandise before we accept delivery.”
“The Mexicans might not like that.”
“I don’t care.”
“Agreed,” Brand said.
He released my hand and settled back into his chair. I slid the wheel gun across the table to him. He caught it before it hit his chest. He was surprised by the gesture. From the intake of breath coming from the living room, so were a few other people.
“I won’t pretend that we’re friends, Mr. Brand, or that we trust each other,” I said. “You shouldn’t, either. However, if we can treat each other with the respect we both deserve, it is unlikely either of us will engage in a more profitable relationship.”
Brand took up the wheel gun—this time I held my breath—and shoved it down into his pocket.
“I believe, Mr. Dyson,” he said, “that we have an understanding.”
I nodded in approval, and he nodded back.
“There is one more thing,” I said. “It might give you an idea of what I have in mind.”
I left the kitchen table and gestured for Brand to follow me. I moved to the living room. The big man lowered his hands and stepped forward.
“I’d like my gun back,” he said. He might have been asking for the correct time for all the emotion he displayed.
“Roy,” I said.
Roy jettisoned the magazine from the butt of the automatic and made a big production out of thumbing all the rounds onto the cabin floor. He slammed the magazine home, ejected the round that was in the chamber, and tossed the now-empty gun to the big man. The big man shoved it into a holster hidden under his jacket. If he was upset by Roy’s behavior, he didn’t show it.
Everyone was standing now, and I shooed them out of the way so that Brand and I had an unobstructed view of Jimmy’s map still propped on the back of the sofa. I tapped the red dot next to Lake Vermilion.
“There’s a building here,” I said. “No address, no street name, no satellite images, but it’s there, and if it’s there, that means the planning and zoning department had to approve its construction.”
“So?”
“I presume you have contacts in county government.”
“One or two.”
“I need the blueprints.”
*
Afterward, Brand made some conciliatory remarks about how we all needed to put our differences aside and work together for the greater good—he reminded me of my old bantam hockey coach. He apologized to Roy, apologized to Roy’s wife, and shook a few hands. Before he left I told him not to be a stranger since he now knew where I lived. He promised he’d see me again, and soon. The vehicle holding him, Fenelon, and the thug disappeared down the road before anyone in the cabin spoke.
“That went well,” Josie said.
“A third?” the old man asked. “A third? You’re giving him a third while we do all the work? Couldn’t you Jew him down a little?”
“I doubt I could even Christian him down a little.”
The old man heard the annoyance in my voice. “Don’t mean nothing,” he said. “Just the way people talk.”
“No, it isn’t. Anyway, if he gets the guns and the blueprints, he’ll be earning his share.”
“I don’t trust him,” Dave said.
“He doesn’t trust us.”