Iver tossed his head back, laughing. “Mutiny?” he asked. “Are you suggesting you're the captain of this ship?”
“I always thought of myself as the captain,” Emir said, and Iver gestured toward him, with an impish grin.
“See?" Iver asked. "You’ve hurt Emir’s feelings. Besides, three days ago, you were set on bringing the promoter down. Suddenly you want to cut and run?”
I flushed. The truth was, seeing Silas had me spooked. I was trying not to be superstitious, but seeing him had to be some kind of sign.
It wasn't a good omen, someone just coming out of my past like that.
“I don't want to cut and run,” I lied. “I want to walk away, and live to grift another day. A wise old man taught me that.” I looked meaningfully at Oscar, who stood with his elbow on the grand piano, the picture of a harmless sweater-clad retiree. In reality, he was a brilliant strategist and one of the most successful long con artists of the last century.
“Well,” Oscar said. “I think this is a viable option.”
“Okay.” I sighed. “What’s the plan? Sell me on it.”
“The promoter embarrassed himself,” Iver said. "His fighter was worthless. You were hunting talent before, and investors for a legitimate television channel, but maybe you’re not hunting for talent. Maybe you’re really looking for the opposite of talent.”
“Guys to take a fall,” I said.
“More than just a fall,” Iver said. “What if you're actually looking for fighters for a private no-rules network, right? Maybe it’s the ultimate in no rules. Totally off the books.”
“Snuff?” I asked, shaking my head.
"I wouldn't sell it that way," Iver said. "A gladiator channel. The real kind of gladiator. A fight to the death."
"So, snuff," I repeated.
Iver made a tsk-tsk sound. "Potato, po-tah-toh," he said.
“Coker would probably be more than happy to provide the product for something like that,” I admitted.
“It’s also dirtier,” Iver said. “Which means involvement would be more expensive. Riskier.”
“Better for us,” Oscar said, winking at me.
“Which means more money. A bigger payoff. How much?” I asked, looking at Emir.
Emir smiled. “I’ve been going through his financials,” he said. “We can go higher.”
There was something sick about the thrill that rushed through me at the prospect of upping the ante, taking a larger risk. It must be the same kind of rush gamblers get, I thought.
But it was the right thing to do, I told myself. Coker was the ultimate dirt bag. And then there was the matter of Iver's housekeeper's husband - he deserved to be taken care of, after what Coker had done to him.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m game.”
***
CHAPTER FIVE
SILAS
"This is it?" I asked. The tiny house in front of us was surrounded by a small, mostly-brown yard, the only green color coming from the ragged weeds growing up in patches that dotted the dirt. A child's bicycle was propped up against the front steps. On the other side of the street, three men stood in front of an equally depressing home, leaning against a beat-up truck and talking. I could feel their eyes on us as we got out of the car.
"Yeah, man," Trigg said. "It's no good. Johnny and Deborah had to move here a couple months ago. They were able to get out of some of the hospital bills, but it took everything they had."
"Shit. I can't believe they're living in a place like this. I've sent them money, but it wasn’t much, since I owed that money to Fat Harry. I didn’t know it was this bad. Coker should pay for what he did." I exhaled heavily and pocketed the car keys before I looked over at the guys across the street. "Elias is going to fucking kill me if his Mustang gets jacked. He's crazy when it comes to this car."
"Well, it's a sweet car. It makes sense he'd be psychotic about it. We'll watch it from inside," Trigg said. He lifted up the hem of his shirt to reveal the handgun tucked into his waistband. "But I brought this, just in case."
"How's their little girl doing?" I asked, as we walked to the front door.
"She's okay," Trigg said. "Johnny said she's been having some problems at school. But that's no big surprise, if the school is in a neighborhood like this, you know?"
The door opened before we even knocked, and Deborah stood in the doorway, an apron wrapped around her waist. She wiped her hands on the fabric, and waved us inside, glancing behind us at the men across the street. "Silas, Trigg, come in," she said. "What are you doing here?"
We stood awkwardly just inside the doorway of the small house, and Trigg angled himself near a window after giving Deborah a hug. "I'm just going to keep an eye out for the car," he said.
"It's my brother's car," I explained, aware of how it seemed, us driving into this neighborhood in a car like that, like a couple of rich assholes. The truth was that we were far from it.