The Bad Beat bn-4

by Tod Goldberg

  The Bad Beat

  ( Burn notice - 4 )

  Tod Goldberg

  The Bad Beat

  Tod Goldberg

  1

  When you’re a spy, repetition becomes second nature. Spend ten days in a cave in Afghanistan staring at the same tent waiting for something, anything, to happen and you either learn how to avoid the perils of boredom or you risk blowing your mission or, worse, getting yourself killed. So you learn how to play games with your mind. You catalog. You assess. You occasionally see if you can remember every song you learned at Silver Spur camp that one summer you and your brother were sent there for “accidentally” blowing up your neighbor’s Fiat. And then, when your shot comes, you take it, get out and move on to the next repetitive exercise in some other foreign land. Because when you’re a spy, you live for the five seconds of adrenaline that result from weeks of paper preparation and solitary scouting.

  Which is why, against my better judgment, I agreed to go with my friend Sam Axe on an errand. It was the kind of errand that required me to bring a MAC-10 with me, which was fine. It’s always better to be overprepared than underprepared in these situations.

  We pulled up across the street from an office park on Northeast Fifth Street, just a few miles from my loft. It was one of those 1970s-era one-story bungalow-style office parks where businesses could actually hang a sporty shingle advertising their notary services, just as Grayson Notary amp; Associates had done. It was quaint, in a way that was being eradicated from Miami one Coconut-Grove-mauve-colored-open-air-shopping-district at a time.

  I’d agreed to go with Sam on his errand primarily because he’d shown up at my loft looking more vexed than usual, as if maybe he hadn’t had his proper number of mojitos yet, which, for a Saturday, was troubling. More troubling, however, was that he asked me if there was an extra MAC-10 around that he could borrow for the afternoon. And also that he was dressed in a navy blue suit.

  “An extra?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I let Fiona borrow my favorite one a couple weeks ago when we shot it out with those bikers.”

  “Which bikers?”

  “You know, the murderous ones. Not the vengeful ones. Or the ones who kidnapped that kid. You remember. The bloodthirsty, evil, murderous bikers bent on killing.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I’ve got a little thing I gotta do today that would be helped along with a MAC-10.”

  “Why don’t I come with you?” I said, figuring, naturally, that if I came there was less of a chance that Sam would actually use the MAC-10.

  “Oh, Mikey, this isn’t anything you need to be mixed up in. It’s just a favor for a buddy of mine. Some freelance intimidation of a bad guy.”

  “You don’t need to pay me, Sam,” I said.

  “That’s great news, Mikey,” Sam said, “because I’m actually a little short right now.”

  “Really,” I said. I’d known Sam Axe for the better part of the last twenty years and during that time he’d almost always been a little short. But since I returned to Miami a few years ago (minus my cover, my spy credentials burned, my life thrown into regular tumult as I looked first for the people who burned me and then, later, for a way out of their net of deception), Sam has been in a slightly better financial situation. As a former Navy SEAL, he has skills, along with those of my ex-girlfriend (and occasional gunrunner) Fiona, that have allowed the three of us to earn a better-than-government salary helping people solve rather delicate problems. “I’m happy to help, Sam. Makes me feel needed.”

  “Thing is, Mikey,” Sam said, “it’s just one of those jobs that really feels beneath your time. You’ve got bigger fish to fry. This fish, it’s like a rainbow trout, and I feel like you’re out there fighting a barracuda on the line. One of those boys with big old snapper teeth.”

  “Sam,” I said, “whatever it is you’re attempting to avoid telling me? It’s not making me want to help you. And that means I don’t want to lend you my MAC-10, either.”

  “See,” Sam said, “the point of that last bit? I was hoping you’d just give me the gun and then later on, when things got bad, I’d call you and ask for help and then you couldn’t ask me any more questions, because it would be too late. It’s how we do business, Mikey, and it works. This is messing up my whole plan.”

  “Fine,” I said. I left Sam in my kitchen, went upstairs and then came back with a duffel bag filled with guns. “Here,” I said and handed the bag to Sam.

  He opened it up and peeked in. “You old dog, you gave me the Steyr TMP, too.”

  “I’d hate for you to be alone with only one fully automatic pistol at your fish fry,” I said.

  “Well,” Sam said, “I mean, if you want to come with me, I wouldn’t say no. I’m a man who likes company. You just can’t ask me anything until we get to the spot.”

  “That’s fine, Sam,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “What time were you going to pick up Fiona?” I asked.

  “It really depended on how this went,” he said. “She said she was busy dusting her knives today, so I didn’t want to bother her.”

  Fiona loved intimidating bad guys, so if she couldn’t be bothered with Sam’s errand, that was a good sign. Or what amounted to one in my life.

  “Then pretty please, Sam,” I said, “can I come with you?”

  “No questions until we get there.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “And Mikey,” he said, “could you put on a conservative suit? Something that says low-level government operative and not gallivanting spy?”

  I agreed, even to the suit, because now I had to know what Sam was embroiled in. To get Sam Axe to put on a shirt and tie, one normally needed to first promise him either untold riches or a single woman with untold riches, or at least one with a decent alimony settlement. We pulled up across the street from the office park and Sam cut the engine and for a good three minutes I kept my promise and stayed quiet. It was a Saturday, so the parking lot was nearly empty, save for a red Camaro.

  “Sam,” I said, “why does that car look familiar?”

  “I dunno, Mikey,” Sam said. “It’s a popular American automobile. And that counts as your one question.”

  “We had no predetermined number of questions I could ask,” I said. “And just so I know what the operation is, should I be keeping an eye on that car? Because it both looks familiar and reminds me of several previous bad experiences.”

  “That car could belong to anyone,” Sam said.

  “Sam,” I said.

  “The thing is,” Sam said, “people tend to remember cars emotionally. So my thought is that you probably had an experience with a red Camaro sometime in your childhood and now, well, now it’s just a harbinger of bad things.”

  “That’s Sugar’s car,” I said.

  “Sugar?”

  “The drug dealer who used to live next door to me,” I said. “The drug dealer who took five bullets the last time he engaged us to help him. The drug dealer who let another drug dealer and his thugs smack you around. Sugar.”

  “Oh,” Sam said. “Sugar. Right. That is his car. I’ll be.”

  “You hate Sugar,” I said.

  “I do hate Sugar,” Sam said.

  “Tell me you’re not working for him.”

  “We’re not,” Sam said.

  “I never said ‘we.’ ”

  “He called me up a couple of days ago and said a buddy of his, a notary, was getting hassled by some Russians who wanted him to pay a weekly tribute.”

  “How much do the Russians think they’re going to get out of a notary?” I said.

  “Well, seems they thought notaries worked for the government,” Sam said. “So, they probably
thought he was their conduit into the deep, deep pockets of the U.S. government’s lucrative notarization coffers.”

  “Not exactly the KGB anymore,” I said.

  “Right,” Sam said. “Which is why I told Sugar I’d be happy to show up looking like a federal agent to scare them off in the event they were not scared off by the sheer amount of self-tanner he uses.”

  “What time are the bad guys due?”

  “Sugar said they usually came by around four,” Sam said. “So right about now.”

  “What’s Sugar’s big plan?”

  “He was going to be waiting inside the office instead of having his buddy there. Then he was going to let them know his buddy the notary was already paying him off. The old switcheroo. And then I was going to come in and bust them both up.”

  “How were you going to do that?”

  “The full faith and credit of Charles Finley,” Sam said.

  “That sounds like a great way for Sugar to get murdered,” I said.

  “Mikey, I trust that if these guys were really fearsome, Sugar would be smart enough not to engage them. He said they were just a bunch of lightweights in track suits.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just let Sam’s words swirl around inside the car for a few moments to see if they might land somewhere near his common sense.

  Sam drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He adjusted the rearview mirror. He opened the glove box and looked for a Kleenex. And then, finally, it hit him.

  “Oh. Oh. Oh, no,” Sam said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, this isn’t good.”

  “You have Sugar’s cell?”

  “Here,” Sam said and handed me his phone.

  “Watch for the arrival of the lightweights,” I said and then called Sugar.

  “Go,” Sugar said.

  “Go?” I said.

  “Who is this?”

  “Michael Westen,” I said.

  “Uh-oh, someone called in the big gun. We ridin’ again! How you doin’, brother?”

  “I’m fine, Sugar,” I said.

  “You down to help me with the rope-a-dope?”

  “Trouble, Mikey,” Sam said.

  Three Denalis, each with blacked-out windows and, it appeared, bulletproof frames, pulled into the parking lot and surrounded Sugar’s Camaro. Ten men stepped out of the trucks. They all wore track suits. It wasn’t clear if they were Russian, but judging by the fact that they each had a nine casually shoved down the front of their pants, it seemed clear enough that they weren’t there to get anything notarized.

  “Yeah, about that rope-a-dope,” I said. “Is there a back door where you are, Sugar?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Is that where you guys are gonna bust in when I give the word?”

  “No,” I said, “it’s where you need to run out. Right now.”

  “I don’t run from anything,” he said.

  “Sugar, can you see out the window?”

  “No, I got the blinds drawn.”

  “That’s good,” I said, “because that way the ten armed men standing twenty feet from you won’t know you were waiting to ambush them.”

  “Ten?”

  “Make that seven,” I said. “It looks like the three drivers are sticking with the cars.”

  “This ain’t what my boy told me was the situation,” Sugar said.

  “Your boy might not have known,” I said, though that didn’t sound plausible. “But if you’d like to elucidate your disappointment to your friend from this world versus the next, I’d get out of the building, Sugar. We’ll pick you up on Third Street in ten minutes. Just start walking.”

  “What about my ride?”

  “You’ll have to come back for it.”

  “When?”

  “When there’s not ten guys strapped with nines peering into it,” I said.

  “Peace,” Sugar said and was gone.

  I gave Sam his phone back and waited for him to apologize.

  “How do you want to handle this?” Sam said.

  “Which part?”

  “Well, there’s the bad guys and then there’s your awkward silence.”

  “The bad guys are going to attack an empty notary office,” I said. “If the owner of the shop is smart, he has an alarm and insurance, so he’ll end up coming up on the right side of this.”

  “That’s a great point, Mike,” Sam said.

  “But maybe write those license plates down,” I said. “And the awkward silence will end once you apologize for getting us into business with Sugar.”

  “Technically,” Sam said, “I told him I’d do this one on trade. He’s got a buddy with an in with the Dolphins. Fifty-yard-line seats and a full concession package free of charge, baby.”

  An hour later, Sugar stood in the middle of my loft swearing at his cell phone. It was just the two of us since I’d sent Sam on an errand of my own, to track down the identity of the lightweights in the $100,000 armored SUVs.

  “Man, there never was good reception in this neighborhood,” Sugar said. “I’m happy I moved up out of here.”

  I decided not to remind Sugar that I’d forced him out of the neighborhood. He was having a bad day, after all.

  “Maybe it would help if you didn’t use stolen cell phones,” I said.

  “Like you’re all legit now? You rolling AT amp;T?”

  “I have certain technological skills that you don’t,” I said. I went into my kitchen and pulled out two yogurts and set them on the counter. “You should eat something.”

  Sugar picked up the yogurt, examined it and then put it back down. “You got anything with a cream filling?”

  “Yogurt is all cream,” I said.

  “Well, whatever,” Sugar said. “My boy Brent, he’s probably thinking all this shit is done with now, and here I am holed up like a mouse.”

  “I’m sure if your boy knows you well,” I said, “he knows that maybe there were complications.”

  “Maybe, maybe,” Sugar said. He walked over to the window that looks out over the canal on the other side of my building and actually appeared contemplative. That he was no longer looking at me also made me think maybe he felt just slightly ashamed-two emotions that I wasn’t previously aware Sugar possessed. It’s hard to look emotional when you have peroxide white hair, wear wife-beaters and sweatpants and walk around like you’re looking for a fight, even after it’s been proven you aren’t much of a fighter. “Thing is, man, I might have implied to him that Sammy was playing a bigger role in this than I was. You know how it is.”

  “How much did he pay you, Sugar?”

  “No, no, not like that,” Sugar said.

  “Then what is it like?”

  “I just wanted him to feel… safe.”

  “What didn’t you tell Sam?”

  “You know, you got a pretty sweet view from up here,” he said. “You can see all the little boats and shit. It’s very pleasant.”

  “Sugar,” I said, “you’re a guest in my home and I’m happy to have you here, but I will throw you out that window if you don’t turn around and look at me.” Sugar did as he was told. “Tell me about your friend,” I said.

  Sugar stepped away from the window and sat down on the steps leading upstairs. “I met Brent professionally a couple years ago,” he said.

  “So he’s an addict?”

  “Naw,” Sugar said, “he used to buy a little weed every now and then. And then one day I had a legal problem and needed some shit notarized and he helped me out.”

  “How old is this guy?”

  “Eighteen, nineteen. He’s still coming up in the game.”

  “The notary game?”

  “Naw, naw,” Sugar said. “That was his dad’s game.”

  “So, wait,” I said. “Were you helping out your friend or his dad?”

  “Both, I guess,” Sugar said. “Brent’s dad? He plays the numbers, you know, horses, football, baseball, whatever’s in season, and I guess he came up on some bad beats lately and just straight
boned out.”

  “Sugar,” I said, “in English.”

  “He owes a bunch of money to some bookies.”

  “So the Russian Mob wasn’t trying to shake down your friend for tribute?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you think you could handle these guys?”

  “Man, I got five bullets in me,” Sugar said. He stood up and pounded on his chest. “I’m hard to kill. You think I was scared of some guys who play fantasy football?”

  “Six,” I said.

  “Six?”

  “Bullets,” I said. “I shot you once, too.”

  “See? I survived Michael Westen, boy.”

  “Sugar,” I said, “those guys who showed up today were not just guys who run a book for giggles. They would have killed you. And if your friend is smart, he and his father will go to the police. This is not any kind of ‘game’ he wants to be involved in.”

  “That’s the thing,” Sugar said. “His dad boned out, like I said. Brent doesn’t know where he is, but these guys want their money. I thought I could explain to them, businessman to businessman, that Brent didn’t have nothing to do with his daddy’s debt. But I guess they weren’t gonna hear that, if I get you right.”

  “You get me right,” I said.

  Sugar thought for a moment. “You said they surrounded my car?”

  “I’m sure it was just a coincidence,” I said. “It was the only car in the lot.”

  “You think I could be in danger?”

  “No more than usual, Sugar,” I said. “You are hard to kill, after all.”

  “And now I can’t get my boy on the phone,” Sugar said. “You think maybe they got to him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Do they know where he lives?”

  “They might have hit his dad’s house,” Sugar said. “But Brent lives in a secure facility, you could say.”

  “He’s in prison?”

  “Naw,” Sugar said. “The dorms.”

  “In English,” I said again.

  “That was English. Homey lives on campus at the U. You can’t get into the dorms without, like, CIA clearance.”

  My cell rang then. It was Sam. “What do you have?” I said.