Dmitri smiled, showing hillbilly teeth. “Rebecca tells me you are a man to be trusted,” he said with a thick Russian accent. “That you do the right thing.”
I shot a glance at Rebel. In an after-game bull session one night, I’d told her I could always be trusted to do the right thing. The right thing for me, that is. She’d laughed, and many times since had made sly comments about “the right thing” with a wink and a knowing smile. “What’s this about, Reb?”
“How’d you like to fuck me, Bobby?”
“Fuck you out of what?”
She licked her lips. “Really.”
“Really? Like in sex? How’s Dmitri here feel about that?”
“It’s his idea.”
“I’m not big on audiences.” I thought she was inviting me to do a three-way with them. “And he’s cute, but definitely not my type.”
Rebel shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that. I need money. Big money. Dima came up with a scam we can work. We need a third person. All you got to do is fuck me.”
“It would have to be after 2. I don’t do mornings.”
“You’d fuck me on I-95 in the middle of morning rush hour with your mother watching.”
She was right, of course. I’d drag my dick through a mile of broken glass for a chance at her. Anyplace, anytime. “Why do you need money so bad?”
She laughed, not an amused laugh but a sharp one. “Why does anybody need money? And why do you care? We can score. Big money. Low risk. If this was a no-limit hand you’d shove your stack in. You get ten percent for a half hour’s work.” She pressed her breasts against my arm, rested her hand high on my thigh under the table, breathed on my neck, and said huskily, “If you call this work.”
Dmitri leaned toward me, whispered the details — a law-suit scam, like those teams that stage car accidents to rip off insurance companies. I’d sent my share of those scumbags to jail, back when. He’d cased the target well, had the timing down. Litigation potential hit seven figures, easy. A quick settlement was worth a half mill, minimum.
Poker players make fast decisions, always on incomplete information — hundreds, thousands of dollars won or lost in a blink. Good players make quality reads of situations. We get into our opponent’s mind. What is he thinking? What does he think I’m thinking? What does he think I think he’s thinking? Anticipate what he’s going to do, what he wants you to do, make the play that uses his thoughts against him. Investigating this as a claim, what would I go after? As a scammer, how would I avoid what the investigator would look for? What would the investigator think a scammer would be thinking? How could I use those thoughts against him?
“It’s probably a winner,” I said. Solid poker players, like insurance companies, act on risk-reward ratio. But it’s more than just the odds. If ninety-nine percent of the time you get a good result, but one percent of the time the result is horrendous, then even a 99–1 favorite can be a bad bet. Dmitri’s scheme looked good, yet even a slim chance of winding up in the slam made this an easy fold for me. “But I like my life the way it is.” I laid a twenty on the table for my drink and Maidel’s tip, and stood up. “Sorry, I’m out.”
Rebel grabbed my wrist and yanked me back into my seat.
“Twenty-five percent,” Dmitri said.
I live well, but not fancy, in a nice one-bedroom a block from the beach in Surfside. I have my T-bird. I have $70k sitting in a box at Banque de Geneve in Nassau, $20k buried in coffee cans in the trees lining the seventh fairway at Doral, and my working bankroll of $10k stashed in a shoebox in my AC vent. If they hit for $1.5 mill, the lawyer took a third — $250k would make a gigantic difference in my life. Enough to bankroll me for a shot at the World Poker Tour, maybe the big one at Binion’s. Maybe even buy a little condo. “No,” I said.
Rebel moved her hand up under the table and unsnapped my pants, pulled down the zip of my jeans, and slipped her hand into my boxers.
“All right,” Dmitri said. “Even split. One-third each.”
Rebel gently ran her nails up and down my rock-hard dick. She came close and whispered in my ear with hot breath, “Please, Two-ways?”
I shook my head no. “Okay. A third.”
Friday I got up early, around noon, and drove up the Palmetto to Alligator Alley and cruised across the Everglades to Fort Myers in my T-bird with the top down. I found a Super Wal-Mart and bought a black long-sleeved shirt, two pairs of black socks, a Yankees cap, wraparound shades, a pair of flared black jeans a couple of inches longer in the inseam than usual, four dog leashes, a roll of duct tape, a box of flesh-colored latex gloves, a box of safety matches, a $12 Casio watch, a dark-blue bandanna, a showercap, a small plastic wastebin, a five-gallon gas can, a bottle of Astroglide, a package of three condoms, and a small backpack. Cash, of course. Then I went to Payless and purchased a pair of size-eleven shoes with four-inch cork platforms — told the nearly oblivious clerk they were a gift, to explain why a size-nine guy was buying elevens. I bought a roll of quarters at a beach-front arcade, then stopped into a Supercuts for a buzzcut.
I drove home across the Alley, the winter sun setting behind me. I headed to the never-ending traffic construction on Biscayne, found a job on a deserted side street, hopped out of the T-bird, grabbed two orange traffic cones and a barricade, threw them in my trunk, then drove across the bay. I cruised South Beach waiting for a suitable parking space to open up on Washington. One finally did right where I wanted, just south of Lincoln Road. I pulled up alongside it, set the cones and barricade in it, and headed home.
I filled the T-bird and the five-gallon gas can at the Mobil on Harding around the corner from my apartment, then put the gas can in the trunk. In my apartment-house parking lot I looked about, found a perfect pebble — about a quarter-inch, rounded, with no sharp edges — and pocketed it. I placed my purchases in the backpack in the order I’d need them, last items on the bottom, first on top, shoved in a big green trash bag, then set the radio alarm for 9:45 and settled in for a nap to catch up on my lost sleep.
Jimmy Buffet woke me singing “Margaritaville” on the classic rock station. I spent a half hour shaving every hair off my body from the eyes down. I trimmed my eyebrows, made sure I had no loose eyelashes, then showered, wiping every speck of hair off my body. I dressed in my usual blue jeans and tee, strapped on the Casio, grabbed the backpack, put the pebble, quarters, and a plastic hotel key card Dmitri had given me in my pocket and headed out. In the parking lot I unscrewed the little light bulb over my license tag, put the trash can from Wal-Mart in the trunk with the gas, and threw the backpack on the passenger seat. I checked the Casio — an hour forty to go.
I drove past the Jackie Gleason across Lincoln Road to Washington Avenue, with all its spiffed-up Deco buildings — pastel paint jobs and colored lights showing off the architectural accents. I pulled up to my space, threw the cones and barricade back in the trunk, and parallel parked. South Beach parking spaces on weekend nights are like gold. I filled the meter with four hours’ worth of quarters, then ambled down to the 11th Street Diner. The 11th is famous for the best meatloaf sandwiches this side of your mom’s kitchen and the best milkshakes anywhere. But it suited me this night because it’s 24/7 and bustles with club-goers from around 10 p.m. to 6 a.m.
I made my way past the crowded booths to the john in back, stepped into a stall, and hung the backpack on the hook on the door. I pulled out the Wal-Mart black jeans, socks, and black shirt and changed into them. I put on the showercap, tied the bandanna around my head so that not a single hair showed, pulled the Yankees cap over it, and slipped on the wraparounds. I shoved the extra socks into the toes of the platforms and set the pebble carefully so it rested just under my arch, and put on the shoes. I pulled on a pair of the flesh-colored latex gloves, shoved my sneaks, jeans, and T-shirt into the backpack.