The fix bn-1

by Tod Goldberg

  "Here's the deal, Ed," Sam said. "I'm getting real tired of how Hank is running our crew." Co-opting Eddie's language was sort of fun for Sam, though he thought that Eddie had probably picked up his vernacular from someone else, too. "You and me, we sort of see eye to eye on a lot of things."

  Eddie wiped his nose on his shoulder. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah," Sam said. "Way I figure it, you and me? We could work together down the line. Who knows?" Sam saw the rotors working in Eddie's head already.

  "Absolutely," Eddie said.

  Absolutely, Sam thought. The thing about most criminals is that they aren't wicked-they're stupid. They're opportunists. "I'm going to try to get this Dixon problem away from you in a way that doesn't, you know, end up in your death."

  "Thanks, buddy," Eddie said. He sounded like he really meant it, which he probably did.

  "But you're going to have to man up some," Sam said. Man up. Who talked liked that? "Take a broken arm. Maybe another broken jaw. Or maybe just a bullet somewhere fatty." Sam gave him a poke in the shoulder, which, Sam was disturbed to find, was about as fatty as his own shoulder. He really needed to start cutting out starches.

  "I've had worse," Eddie said. He was actually getting jubilant.

  "Okay," Sam said. "But you need to cooperate with me. No scene in the hotel at check-in. No shitting yourself or anything nasty."

  "Done," Eddie said.

  "We get to the room, you cooperate, and you have my word, you will see tomorrow."

  "Maybe you'll take me to see Cricket? I mean, of course, if everything ends up kosher?" Sam saw that Eddie had tears in his eyes again. Incredible. The guy was either in line for an Oscar, or he was really starting to feel the weight of his deceptions.

  Sam put his money on the Oscar. "Sure, Eddie, sure."

  Eddie pursed his lips in thought again. "You think, maybe, I could get some room service, too? Maybe a steak?"

  Oh, yeah, Sam thought, the Oscar is his. But that was okay. If it was enough to get him into the hotel and maybe get him to trust Sam a bit, he was willing to get the man a steak for his troubles. "We'll get two," Sam said, and then he pulled Eddie out of the car, put a coat over Eddie's cuffed wrists, grabbed a duffel bag out of the trunk-a duffel bag filled with solar Malibu lights and some light soldering equipment-and made his way into the hotel.

  True to his word, and much to Sam's surprise, Eddie was the perfect prisoner at check-in, so much so that Sam went ahead and placed his room service order right there at the front desk. Even threw on an extra 50 percent tip ahead of time. It was Eddie's bill, after all.

  And after they finished their steaks-Sam had the T-bone; Eddie opted for the filet; both had the hot butter-Sam had to admit that Nate had been right. The guy could talk. He didn't mention to Sam wrestling a polar bear, but he did have a story about a bison. They got to having such a great time, Eddie didn't even mind when Sam asked him to hold on to the devices he was building, his greasy fingerprints leaving smudges of himself on everything-the inside parts, the outside parts, the triggers, the soldered pieces, everything.

  Sam couldn't figure out if Eddie knew what he was doing or not. Maybe he had just decided prison would be better than Dixon Woods in a locked room.

  The sap.

  Either way, it didn't matter to Sam. He'd be long gone by the time Eddie Champagne figured out that decision definitively.

  Sam stepped out onto the secluded balcony overlooking the Hotel Oro's pool and set up his homework project. When he was through, he made two calls: one to the IRS and one to the FBI.

  Just before six, Fiona and I pulled up at the Hotel Victor, the hotel directly next to the Hotel Oro, and parked in one of the spots directly out front reserved for people checking in. The sign said thirty minutes only, which was about ten minutes longer than I thought it would take us to do our job.

  Outside it was one of those nights when Miami feels laced with magic: A mist of fog was in the air, so the glittering lights of South Beach cast a glow into the world, giving the impression you were already remembering what you were experiencing, a soft focus with, at different angles, a sharp glare of truth, of reality, that you were alive in a moment.

  I wore a light tan-colored suit, a collared shirt open at the neck, a red pocket square that I removed when I saw that Fiona was wearing a short red dress that would have made Audrey Hepburn give up cocktail numbers for good. We didn't want to match, look too much like tourists after all, particularly since if we weren't careful, our pictures would be in the paper.

  Or Palm Life, since an hour earlier Jay Gatz had given James Dimon a call. "James, sport," I said, "I thought you'd be interested in an ad hoc event taking place this evening at the Hotel Oro. Daisy thought you might appreciate the visual experience."

  "Mos def," he said.

  I almost hung up, thought it wasn't worth the two minutes of my life I'd lose to hear James Dimon speak one more word, but marched on nonetheless. The greater good and all that. "Come at six fifteen," I said. "There's a fantastic new Russian model named Natalya Choplyn we'll be entertaining poolside. She's very underground overseas but is about to"-I paused for just a moment, in case I couldn't control the bile in my throat-"jump off here. This would be a real get for you."

  "Hot," he said.

  "Very," I said. "Let me spell that last name for you. C-H-O-P-L-Y-N Make sure you get that down."

  Now, sitting with Fiona in the Charger, I couldn't help but wonder what would become of Natalya after this evening. I had a sense that she'd find herself intimately acquainted with the laws governing economic espionage, particularly economic espionage committed by a foreign national on American soil. Fifteen years would be a good starting point if Natalya wasn't ex-KGB, but since she was, there was a good chance the government-ours or hers-might just disappear her after they-the IRS, the FBI, Putin himself-became aware of the transfer of millions of dollars into her account, particularly millions of dollars derived from bogus mortgages.

  And if I could time it just right, she'd be sitting with Dixon Woods when it happened.

  "You ready?" I said to Fiona.

  "Remind me again why I don't get to shoot Natalya?"

  "Public place, bigger fish to filet," I said. "We can get in and out and not even wrinkle our clothes."

  We stepped out of the car and made our way across the street, sidestepping spillover lines of people from clubs on either side of the street. The people outside had their own unique blush this evening, but then everything felt different to me the moment before action.

  Everything slows.

  Colors become brighter.

  It's as if I can see all the moves before they even happen.

  A few steps before the Oro's front door, I stopped Fiona, who was walking with a rather purposeful gait. "You ready?"

  "Let me check my purse," she said. She was holding a red Kate Spade bag under one arm. "Five vials of tear gas, a Sig, a BlackBerry, some lipstick. I'm set for the evening. No condoms, though, so let me know if we need to stop off."

  I looked up at the length of the Hotel Oro. Sam was in room 511, overlooking the pool. He and Eddie Champagne were just another couple having a good time, for all the staff of the hotel knew. At six, just to let us know he was in his room, he would flash the room lights five times, followed by another eleven times, so I'd know for certain the game was afoot.

  At this point, at this hotel, with whoever was watching, things had to be as low-tech as possible. In a confined space like a hotel, picking up cell signals, if you're looking for a specific one, is freshman-year-at-Quantico sort of stuff.

  A moment later, the flashing started. Sam was in.

  We were about to be.

  We had thirty minutes to make it happen.

  We strode past the valet station and I gave a cursory glance for my favorite bookie/valet but didn't see him, though it was hard to be sure who I was seeing, since they were all wearing that same black suit.

  "Black Armani is out," Fiona said.

 
; "You get that?"

  Once into the lobby, it was Miami bass and Miami style-the bronzed bodies happy to laze in the cabanas on my previous visit were now thumping across the two bars, filling the dance floor, the cabanas moving right along with them. Lining the walls, looking appropriate surly, were Longstreet men, sweating through their black T-shirts and suits, their entire paramilitary careers boiled into watching other people have a good time. From backing up strike forces to backing that ass up.

  We all make choices.

  As we walked, the crowd moved imperceptibly away from us. Neither Fi or I projected much of a good-time vibe, and that was good. If they got too close to Fi, she was liable to crack tear gas on the floor just to see the expression on their faces.

  We passed the serpentine reservation desk, and I looked for Star but didn't find her, either. Forever must have come to a close. Or maybe she got that job modeling at Abercrombie. Or maybe Natalya had her killed for knowing my name. All were possibilities, none that I could ruminate on now, the music pounding in my ears, adrenaline pushing me out the door to the pool area, where the people nearly having sex at the bar looked positively Amish by comparison.

  The infinity pool worked alive with movement, men and women writhing to the same nameless beat from inside, huge amps spreading the dusty bass into the air. Servers whose only bit of indulgence was a strip of fabric over their nipples moved through the crowded tables, stopping every few steps to drop off drinks, pick up glasses, and bend over suggestively in front of men and women wearing even less clothing.

  "It smells like sex out here," Fiona said. "We should stay. Get a room."

  "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "Maybe we'll come back for lunch one day. Your mother never did get to eat that day, Michael."

  I spotted Natalya the moment we entered the pool area. She sat at a round table just adjacent to the rear bar, a nice crowded locale, but with a fine exit as well, since the bar backed up against the low shrubbery separating the hotel from the ocean. It wasn't beyond reason to assume there was a boat out there, waiting. But it was impossible to see, since the beach was covered with people, some just gawking at the crowd inside the Oro, others simply sitting in the cooling sand, watching the water.

  Natalya was alone at the table, but I counted three Longstreet men on a first-floor balcony-smart-and three men who looked like, well, Communists, with their pale skin and inability to find a beat, trying to look natural at the far end of the bar. They were wearing shorts and white T-shirts, their sunburns practically glowing through the fabric.

  "In and out," I said to Fiona. We were only steps away.

  "My pleasure," she said.

  I looked up into the sky. I didn't see any large spy satellites, so that was nice. But I did see Sam, right where I knew he would be. Or, rather, I saw the light inside Sam's room.

  Natalya stood up when she saw us. "Michael," she said, professional charm oozing from her, "it's such a pleasure." She leaned toward me and gave me an air kiss on either cheek. Putting on a show.

  "Hello, Ms. Copeland," I said, figuring, You want a show? We'll give you a show.

  She turned to Fiona and tried to give her the same air kisses. "Touch me," Fiona said, "and you'll be eating out of a feeding tube. Respectfully." Fiona wasn't much for shows.

  "By all means, have a seat then," Natalya said.

  "Yes, I have opium to buy and sell to little kids," I said, as we sat down. "Wish I had more time to chat. But I'm sure you understand."

  Natalya frowned. Visibly frowned. "I thought once we were done here, the three of us could be sociable. All in the game, isn't it? It's not me you're mad at, Michael. In the same situation, you would have done the same thing."

  "There wouldn't be a same situation," I said. "I would have killed you. Money means nothing to me."

  Natalya picked up a glass of water from the table and took a sip. There were two other glasses and a pitcher, but I'd already told Fiona that Natalya liked her poisons.

  "Apparently," Natalya said.

  "And this isn't a game," I said. "You threatened my life. Fiona's. My family's. So you'll excuse the lack of my desire on our part to let bygones be bygones. Save 'Auld Lang Syne' for New Year's and all that. Plus, I count six guys ready to shoot me."

  "Perceptive," Natalya said.

  "Realistic," I said.

  Fiona reached into her purse to pull out her Black-Berry, and all six men moved forward, which caused Fiona to stop midreach. "Care to tell your pit bulls to sit and stay?" Fiona said.

  Natalya gave both groups of men a nod, and they shrank back to more relaxed positions. It took her a few moments, but Fiona eventually accessed Hank Fitch's Dominican account. "Where to?" she asked.

  "If you don't mind?" Natalya said, indicating the BlackBerry. "I just want to make sure what you say is happening is happening."

  "Be my guest," Fiona said and handed her the BlackBerry. Natalya looked over the information, which was mostly just several zeros and a three. It was all legitimately in the account-of course, Hank Fitch didn't really exist, his account consisting of falsified documents on every turn-and the money certainly existed. It had been transferred from the accounts of White Rose Partners-in a legal, traceable transfer, though one that was certainly being monitored now by all sorts of agencies-into Hank Fitch's account, and it would now be transferred, legally, into an account held by Natalya. Of course, she'd be smart enough to have a shell set up somewhere, but that wouldn't matter.

  "You've done nice work, Michael," Fiona said.

  "I get good rates in the Dominican," I said. "You should consider keeping your money there."

  "I've always preferred Nicaragua," she said and handed Fiona a slip of paper with her account information.

  "Wait," I said to Fiona. "Tell me one thing, Natalya. Out of courtesy for the game. Who is your source?"

  Natalya leaned back in her chair and exhaled. "You know I can't tell you that, Michael. He'd stop being my source."

  "Three million dollars doesn't buy you what it used to," I said.

  "The American dollar is weak," she said, but there was something eating at her. "I can tell you this. You're doing yourself no favors in this drug business. Get yourself a job. Get away from whatever answers you need to be searching out. Because my source has been in your government for a long time, Michael. Longer than both of us. And he says you're as culpable in that weak American dollar as anyone."

  "I haven't done what my dossier says," I said. "So you tell Yuri that the Cold War is over. Tell him to cash his checks and come back to the Motherland. Tell him…" A flashing light caught the corner of my eye.

  Sam telling me it was now, which meant Dixon Woods was in the building. A little early. Not surprising.

  "Just tell him," I said.

  "I'll do that," Natalya said, but I saw her looking over my shoulder. She must have caught the light, too, though she didn't seem alarmed. Must have thought it was just a light, nothing more.

  "Are we done rattling sabers, Michael?" Fiona asked.

  "Go ahead," I said.

  In just a few keystrokes, three million dollars passed from the account of Hank Fitch into the account of Natalya Choplyn. We waited silently for the confirmation from both banks, and when it came, I heard Natalya give out a thick sigh. She turned and waved away the men behind her from Longstreet, who shrugged and went inside their room. Three guns down.

  She then looked at the three men at the bar and nodded once. There was a grave look on her face, one I hadn't seen before, and I realized that those men weren't guarding her-they were watching her, making sure that she did what she was supposed to do, that the scales were evened. Natalya Choplyn's life was saved, though not for long.

  "They have your kids?" I asked.

  "No," Natalya said. "No. Of course not. It's not like that anymore, Michael."

  "It isn't?" I said.

  Natalya didn't answer.

  "You don't even have children, do you?" Fiona said.


  "We should celebrate," Natalya said.

  "That's the laugh, Michael," Fiona said. "I think she fooled you. I can tell she's married, certainly, that round of fat around her chin. It's disgusting, really, letting yourself go like that, Natalya. But she's not stupid enough to actually procreate."

  "You know nothing," Natalya said.

  Sam hit the lights again.

  "Your lookout is trying to get your attention," Natalya said. "You'd better give him the okay sign. I'd hate for someone to get shot now that the deal is done."

  Shit.

  I turned and waved at Sam, though I couldn't see him. I looked at my watch. We had about five minutes to get out of this situation, which was good since I saw Dixon Woods striding through the crowd.

  He was a big man-over six three-and he looked the part he was born to play: He fairly screamed Special Forces with his square head and closely cropped hair, a jaw line that was dashed with hints of stubble, arms that grew larger on the outside of his short-sleeved shirt. When I saw him in real life, the comedy of Eddie Champagne was clear. Where Dixon Woods was all coiled muscle, Eddie was doughy and simple. The sharpness of his cons certainly didn't translate to his body, but then a woman like Cricket would probably never know the difference, and men like Stanley Rosencrantz and his partners only cared about the stories he could tell and the myth that exists in secrecy.

  Even from our table, I could tell Dixon Woods was the real deal.

  "You're right," I said to Natalya. "We should celebrate. It's just a game, isn't it? And here we are, three survivors. Let me get the first round."

  I got up before Natalya could say a word and walked directly toward Dixon, my eyes steady on his. There was a look of recognition on his face.