‘You knew about this?’
‘Sure. I knew about it.’
‘So these crosses?’
‘That means the first bid was two hundred. Every bet after that would have gone up by fifty.’
Disappointed in Fatboy, Rem didn’t want to push. ‘How do you know about this?’
‘It was mostly the military. Was. They were the people who started it. The MODS were betting on which contractor would go first. It worked in two ways, if someone was killed, you’d get the whole pot. Half if they were medevaced out. The slate was wiped clean with every hit. Fatboy took the basic idea and turned it into an art. He had this notion that if you bet on a string of kills, four or five in a sequence, you’d be solid.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We’re talking a lot of money here.’
‘How much?’
‘Pick a number. That book isn’t even old. This was Fatboy’s scholarship fund.’
‘Did anyone get hit?’
‘Plenty.’ Santo scanned through the pages, then opened the book at a page where the names had been scratched out, then another, then another. ‘See. And here.’
‘And how did you know about this?’
‘Rem,’ Santo hit his chest in mock grief, ‘man, everybody knows about this. I knew about it, and I’m on the list. I worked at one of the FOBs before this, and I knew about it then. Hernandez, right there, that’s me.’
‘Why aren’t I included? We do the same work?’
Santo folded his arms. ‘He wouldn’t accept a bet on you. Wouldn’t hear of it.’
Rem looked to the book: Hernandez, Samuels, Clark, Watts, Pakosta, Chimeno.
* * *
Cathy didn’t understand, and had a look about her like she wasn’t ready to make the effort. What was this? The whole thing? Geezler? What kind of a name was that anyway? What kind of scheme? Was this a hoax?
Rem tried his best to explain. It was good money. That’s what it was. Money for those medical bills for a start. Money to help pay their debts. Money they couldn’t hope to make otherwise.
Cathy looked at him, astounded. ‘My God. You’ve made up your mind haven’t you? You’re going?’
Rem struggled to stay calm. ‘It’s a training camp. It’s where everyone goes before they’re shipped out.’
‘You’ll die.’
‘He wants to know how it works.’
‘And who is this man?’ Cathy summoned anger from the air.
‘He’s the head of the parent company.’ Rem knew this not to be true, but the fact that Geezler could be undertaking this kind of enquiry meant that he was placed high in the company.
‘You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know what they’re asking. This isn’t a solution.’
‘Yes, it is. You just don’t want it.’ Rem’s answer came with a nasty calm.
‘Call him,’ she answered. ‘Go. See if I care.’
Rem picked up the phone, walked to the bedroom to find Geezler’s business card in his jeans. When he returned to the kitchen Cathy half-stood, half-leaned against the kitchen table. Eyes small and black.
‘Do it.’
‘It’s six weeks.’ Rem drew a chair back from the table, sat down, made his actions certain, definitive. ‘In six weeks we can have everything paid for. I don’t see much of a choice. I don’t see a lot of options.’
Cathy narrowed her eyes and hung her head. Call him. She said. Call him. Get it over with.
* * *
Santo wouldn’t answer Rem’s questions about Fatboy’s book. He didn’t outright refuse, just became weary, rolled his eyes, his patience with this almost out. If it was running, Rem reasoned, up until he was shot, then what had happened with the money?
Santo had no idea. ‘How should I know? You knew him. He wasn’t normal. He didn’t do things like everyone else.’
‘You said people paid in hundreds of dollars each a week. So there had to be money?’
‘It wasn’t all cash. Not hard cash. There aren’t exactly many banks round here. He kept a tab. That’s — the — reason — for — the — book.’ Santo dropped his head, exhausted. ‘That book.’ Santo tried to explain. ‘It’s like everything else here. It doesn’t work how you think. Let’s say I won, all right. Let’s say I bet two hundred on a top kill, and I won. Then I might get some money upfront from Fatboy, a little money, but the rest would be owed to me from the other people who’d laid bets. So other people who had unsuccessful bets would have to pay. Understand? Far as I know no one ever paid out. It was like a rolling debt. If I won, then anyone who’d placed a bet owed me, and it was carried on like that, week after week. Likewise.’
‘But there was still money. Five dollars. Ten dollars. A million dollars. I’m telling you there wasn’t a cent in his room. He left with nothing. I packed everything up for him.’
Santo finally appeared to understand. ‘Well, there had to be some.’
* * *
Rem found Samuels in the commissary. Since Fatboy’s accident Samuels had refused to go over the line and was in forfeit of his Strategic Placement Bonus. Samuels haunted the commissary, sat at tables with coffee nested between his hands, his skin growing whiter under the stark overheads, the lack of natural light.
Rem bought them both coffees and slid into the booth. Samuels, as insubstantial as Fatboy himself, cringed at the memory, and never spoke of the incident.
‘Did he have anything with him?’
Samuels pinched his mouth and shook his head. Rem thought his eyes looked glassy, not like a drinker, but fearful, rabbit-like.
‘He didn’t have a bag, a hold-all? He wasn’t carrying anything?’
‘He had the gun. That’s about all I remember.’
Rem looked up the hall. They could be in a school. The linoleum floor, the tiled ceiling, the sameshit double-glass fire doors. Cream-coloured walls. This could be Idaho, Iowa, Illinois, not Iraq.
‘He had nothing. He had a gun. He didn’t know how to hold it. I’m lucky it didn’t go off in my face. He shouldn’t have had that gun. He had no business being there.’
Rem thanked Samuels, and when Samuels asked him why he was asking, Rem shrugged. He didn’t rightly know, not really. Just had this notion that Fatboy had a bag of some kind, something he might have carried with him.
Samuels shut his eyes and softly shook his head. ‘Everyone wants to know where the money is.’
‘The money?’
Samuels gave Rem a long come on, be serious look. ‘Everyone wants to know about the money from the club.’
Just as Rem walked off, Samuels called him back. ‘On the seat. You’re right. A sportsbag. Singapore Airlines. That logo. Singapore. That’s what he had. I don’t think there was ever any money. I’m sure there never was any cash.’ Samuels talked and moved as a man disturbed from slumber. ‘It was all promises. Credit notes. IOUs. That’s all it was about. Winning. You promised money, and kept going, hoping for a perfect run.’