The fix

12

If you decide to involve yourself in economic malfeasance, even on a small level, you should pay attention to the people you're doing business with. The odds are fair that if you've surrounded yourself with people willing to commit high-level subterfuge, there's a good chance they are actively planning their own exit strategies.

It would also be wise to think about keeping a low profile. Limit the number of business cards you print, and never give a spy your business card, even if you think the spy is a gun-toting maniac who shot one of your friends and beat the other down. This is particularly true if you intend to actually go to your office and attempt to conduct business as usual when your friends are in the hospital.

White Rose's offices took up the fifteenth floor of a steel-and-glass thirty-three-story office building on Brickell Avenue, which means rents were high and the kind of people coming in to do business with the principals of the company very rarely carried guns.

"When you open your own security firm," Fiona said as the three of us rode up in the elevator, "you should definitely look into space in this building."

"I'd never have my own security firm," I said.

"Of course you wouldn't," Fiona said. "You'll be the world's oldest spy. Ninety-nine years old and still trying to figure out who burned you and why."

"Every day I'm closer to knowing," I said. If anything, what this Natalya situation informed me of was that I was making headway in D.C., enough that there were people fighting to keep me quiet without too much involvement of their own. In the last year, I'd seen so much, learned that every lead, even in failure, provided something: Phillip Cowan, the man who wrote up my dossier and filled it with lies? He was just a clue, and he was already dead. And who before him? Agent Jason Bly, who'd come to Miami to silence me, and whom I eventually had to blackmail, using my own bad reputation as the grist. And of course the others: the assassins from my past, alerted to my location and my lack of support; the assassins from my present, sent to portray bureaucrats like Perry Clark, who came to Miami to get me off the books, just a signature was all he needed… while he attempted to garrote me. What was he left with? A gut shot, a nameless death.

And now Natalya. At least she came at me with evidence first, probably out of unwarranted respect. Maybe she didn't want to believe any more! than I wanted to die.

"You and Sam can take on jobs finding lost dentures and libidos to fund your search. One day," Fiona said, "you watch."

"Day my pension comes through," Sam said, "I'm on a boat. Change in latitude. Change in attitude. Did you know, Mikey, that there is very affordable beachfront property in Nicaragua now? I'd have to keep my hat down in case any Sandinistas recognized me, but it would be a risk worth taking-"

The elevator doors opened, and the three of us stepped out into the reception area of White Rose Partners. I still had my sunglasses on. Kept things mysterious.

As per usual, there was a receptionist sitting behind a desk prepared to greet us. As per usual, the receptionist was a young woman who looked like she'd be appearing on a reality show about a tanning salon with three of her wacky stripper friends before next Christmas.

In the last week, I'd dealt with more receptionists than in the previous ten years. Most terrorist organizations, warlords and assassination targets worked without receptionists, so I still didn't have the method of dealing with them down to a precise science, but I figured I'd give this one my best game. So when she asked if she could help me, I flashed her a grin as wide as the sea and said, "Could you tell Mr. Rosencrantz that the gentleman who shot his friend Burl and permanently disfigured… uh…" I couldn't remember the third fellow's name. I'd have forgotten him entirely if I hadn't had to pull bits of his tooth and bone from my skin using tweezers that morning.

"Mr. White?" the receptionist said. Her expression belied no fear. No comprehension, either.

"Danny?" I offered.

"Oh, yes," the receptionist said, eminently cheery. "I know him as Daniel, but yes, same person."

"Great," I said. "So if you could tell Mr. Rosencrantz that the man who shot Burl and beat up Danny is here to see him, that would be excellent."

"And your name, sir?"

"Hank Fitch," I said.

The receptionist picked up her phone. "Mr. Rosencrantz, I have Hank Fitch to see you. Okay. I'll tell him." She hung up and smiled at us sweetly. "It will be just one moment, if you'd like to take a seat."

"How do you do that?" Sam said once we were sitting aside one another on a plush leather sofa.

"What?"

"That simple declarative bit where you say exactly who you are, what you've done and who you'd like to see. I mean, you told that girl you shot one of her bosses."

"I smile a lot," I said. "The sunglasses help."

"He smells nice, too," Fiona said. She was flipping through a brochure detailing precisely what White Rose had to offer its clients.

"That helps?" Sam said.

"It's all sensory," I said. "Posture. A sense of confidence. That receptionist doesn't really think I shot her boss." To prove my point, I shouted across the lobby to the receptionist: "Any word on who shot your boss?"

"No, nothing yet," she said. "Can I get you coffee while you wait?"

"Beer?" Sam said. He tried with the smiling and the posture, which was met with a coy hair flip in return. "Perky girl."

Fiona handed me the brochure she was reading. "This sounds like a very enticing package," she said. In a glossy brochure featuring the stylized photos of representative properties, I learned that White Rose specialized in preforeclosure properties, which would mean, in essence, any property, and that they used funds derived from equity partners of which, if you were reading the brochure, you could now become one of. And what was promised? Securitized first mortgages. Interest above market rates. A full equity balloon payment and bonuses on resale of properties.

Basically? Horseshit.

Stanley Rosencrantz stepped into the lobby then and filled it with unbridled enthusiasm. "Hank," he said. "A pleasure. Won't you and your associates come into my office? I was just thinking I needed to contact you."

"Of course you were," I said.

After the next great plague, or after the ice caps melt and the world floods, or after the sun superheats our planet to 145 degrees in the shade, the only humans left standing to tend to the roaches, rats and flesh-eating zombies will be real estate agents. Stanley Rosencrantz might have his very own religious faction in his name by then.

The four of us-Stanley, Fiona, Sam and I-sat in a conference room together. Stanley had insisted on showing us his entire office, which seemed odd, until I realized he actually thought I just might be the kind of guy who wanted to come into an office every day, check on my criminal empire. Dixon Woods, I'm sure, never bothered to show up. Not if Eddie Champagne was smart.

Stanley made a great show of where Fiona and Sam could have their offices, too, though he had no idea who Fiona and Sam were and never bothered to ask, only referring to them as my associates. There were at least twenty-five people working in the office that morning-file clerks, secretaries, that sort of thing- who didn't look to have any idea what they were a part of. That Stanley, Burl and Danny did the collecting made sense, finally: keep the circle as closed as possible, only involving those who needed to be involved. Outsourcing muscle just to collect from Cricket would be expensive and unneeded-Eddie knew that. Best just to send his business partners.

We passed the offices for Burl and Danny as we walked-their names etched in glass on their doors- but Stanley didn't even mention them before finally opening up a conference room filled with bagels, coffee and juice, where we now sat.

"First thing," I said. "New rules." Stanley visibly flinched, but didn't bolt. I felt like I owed him just a little reassurance. "Don't worry. I'm not going to shoot you."

I told Stanley that he was going to transfer five million dollars into Cricket O'Connor's account in the Dominican and gave him the account number Barry had texted me for the Banco Leon. "But before you start, here's the new rule, Stanley," I said. "I don't want that money coming from any of our investors' accounts."

"I'm sorry," Stanley said. "I'm not following you."

"How much liquid do we have here, Stanley?" I liked using our and we as each time it made Stanley wince.

"Liquid. Well. That depends on several factors."

"Just give the man a number," Fiona said. The thing about Fiona, she's done this sort of thing before, and not in the Robin Hood sort of way.

"Eight million dollars," Stanley said. "Maybe nine. Things have been difficult lately."

"Okay," I said. "And what about in your personal accounts. You, Burl, Danny, Dixon. How much do you four have?"

"Well, I don't have access…" Fiona reached into her purse and pulled out her gun, set it on the table. We hadn't really talked about this precisely, but that's what I loved about Fiona: She understood things as they were happening, adjusted on the fly, made things happen. "Another ten. Maybe twelve. Dixon kept his money elsewhere."

Of course he did. "Good," I said. "You transfer the five million dollars from your personal accounts."

"But that's money we've earned, Mr. Fitch," Stanley said.

"Really?" I said. "Is this a time to start arguing, Stan? Aren't I going to take care of your problems? Aren't I going to get rid of Dixon for you? That's not your investors' problem, now, is it?"

"The potential for a red flag to go up is…," he started to say, but this time Sam, feeling emboldened by his conversation with Lenore no doubt put a hand up to stop him.

Sam put on his own sunglasses, which made his face look sort of round, put a stick of gum in his mouth and started snapping it with his tongue. Before it got to the level of performance art, Sam leaned across the table and extended a finger toward Stanley. "You want to know what a red flag looks like? I'm a red flag."

I had no idea what that meant, but Stanley seemed to know and that was enough. "Fine," he said. "Fine."

"And let's make it look right," I said. "I want you to set Cricket up as an investor in your company. What do you call them?"

"An equity partner," Stanley said.

"Right, an equity partner." When the Feds came sniffing, Cricket wouldn't be liable for anything. She'd have invested millions and taken at least a slight loss. Just like everyone else was about to. "And one last thing," I said. "I'm interested in getting started quickly out here, so I'd like a capital infusion of my own."

"How much?" Stanley said.

"Three," I said. I handed him Hank Fitch's Dominican account information, too. "And that you can cut from the investors, Stanley."

Forty minutes, several calls to bankers, all of whom seemed to be more mail willing to do whatever Stanley asked, and which buttressed the claims Sam's IRS contact had, and two darkening rings of sweat under Stanley Rosencrantz' armpits later, it was done. Cricket O'Connor had five million dollars, legally. Hank Fitch had three million, illegally, but I didn't plan on keeping it. I just needed it for evidentiary purposes.

"Have you heard from Dixon?" Stanley asked casually after he printed out all of the appropriate documents.

"I haven't," I said.

"He said he was going to deal with you," Stanley said. He made a shooting motion with his hand. "Said something about you being in the wrong on the California deal, but that he'd settle it once and for all and that I had nothing to worry about. That after he got back from Afghanistan again, he'd deal with everything."

Afghanistan. Right. "He's wrong," I said. "About everything." Stanley nodded. He looked rather grave. He would look worse in a few months when he was doing federal time. "You have an address for Dixon?" I asked.

Stanley said he didn't, and for some reason, perhaps because there was no reason for him to lie, I believed him. "All I have is his cell," Stanley said, which I took. "You'll take care of him, right?"

"Didn't I say I would?" I said.

"Yes, Mr. Fitch. And in terms of Ms. O'Connor, I can presume she's still alive? That that issue has been cleared up to your satisfaction, and we can continue forward in our business dealings one to one with no fear of reprisal?"

"For now." This satisfied Stanley, as much as Stanley Rosencrantz could feel satisfied about anything, knowing, as I'm sure he did, that he was in with people way beyond his real estate training. "Do me a favor, Stanley," I said. "Send Burl and Danny fruit baskets in my name. Let them know there're no hard feelings, that I look forward to purchasing preforeclosure properties alongside them for many, many years. You can do that, right?"

Before Stanley could answer-and really, I don't know if he had a suitable answer, since he probably saw the course of his life and realized he'd need to cut and run as soon possible-we walked out of the conference room and left Stanley with what were probably his considerable thoughts.

"That went well," Sam said.

"Eight million dollars," Fiona said, "and you only shot one of them?"

"It's all posture," I said.

Ten minutes after we got back into the car, Nate called. "Were you expecting guests over at Cricket's?" he asked.

"No," I said. "What does the guest look like?"

"I can't see his face," Nate said. "He's wearing camo pants and a white T-shirt."

"Does he have a gun?"

"I can't tell if he's strapped or not."

"Do you?"

"I'm always packing," Nate said. I was afraid of that.

"Where are you?" I said.

"Upstairs. He just docked his boat. He's sort of pacing around, trying to act nonchalant. Taking a lot of time to tie it up. He just nodded at a woman walking her dog."

"What are you doing upstairs?"

"Cricket said she left some earrings up here that she wanted, so I thought I'd look for them."

I'd hold off on commenting on that until a later point. It would take us at least forty minutes to get out to Fisher Island, and that was if the ferry was just waiting for us to board. "We'll be right there. If you can," I said, "don't let him in, but don't let him leave if he gets in."

"On it," Nate said.

"Wait," I said. "Don't hang up." I told Fiona to call Eddie Champagne's phone, just to make sure that it wasn't the real Dixon Woods showing up to Cricket's, a situation that would be beyond Nate's limited scope.

"Ringing," Fiona said.

"Tell me what you see, Nate."

"Okay," Nate said. His voice turned official, which made me sort of want to climb through the phone and shake the life out of him, but you take what you can get in these situations. "Perp is fishing in his pocket for something. Perp is pulling out a cellular phone device. Perp is looking at cellular phone device. Perp is hurling cellular phone device into the ocean."

Hello, Eddie.

"I'll be there," I said. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Why would I start?" he said.

Shit.

In a situation where it seems like the best course of action is to call the police and let them protect and serve, you should call the police. Seems is a nebulous emotion one should ignore. You should deal with certainty. You should know that if there is a man who has swindled a woman out of millions of dollars, a man who has swindled many others out of much more, you should be certain that that person needs to go to prison.

Unless, of course, you need to use that person as a pawn.

The facts were simple: We had Cricket's money back, but if I wanted to get out of my situation with Natalya, I needed Eddie Champagne. And I needed him alive or at least in reasonably decent shape. I needed him to have a paper trail.

I should have mentioned the reasonably decent-shape aspect to Nate. Because, after an hour of driving across Miami, waiting for the ferry and then finally making the slow crawl across the island back to Cricket's home, all without any word from Nate, I began to have concerns.

So when we walked into Cricket's house and found Nate and Eddie sitting at the kitchen table having a drink of Old Grand Dad, I must admit I was surprised.

That Eddie was bleeding from his head and had a package of frozen peas ACE bandaged around his neck, not so much.

"This is the guy I was telling you about," Nate said to Eddie when I walked into the kitchen. "We've been getting to know each other. I gotta say, Eddie has lived the life. He wrestled a polar bear once. Right, Eddie?"

"God's witness," Eddie said. He tried to raise his hands to give the Boy Scout salute, but I saw that Nate was smart enough to plastic flex cuff Eddie to his chair. Which explained the straw Eddie was using to drink with.

"Nate," I said. "A word?" I dragged Nate into the backyard and let Fi and Sam watch the drunken and beaten Eddie.

It was the afternoon and by all accounts another beautiful day in Miami, high in the eighties, a light breeze, blue sky, and my brother holding a bloody and beaten Eddie Champagne hostage in the kitchen of, in a way, his own home.

"You care to explain?" I said.

"I did as you said," Nate said, "except I amended the plan."

"Yeah, I see that."

Nate said that when he got off the phone with me, he started thinking about how awful he felt for Cricket, and for all the other people he was sure Eddie had rooked, and just couldn't control his emotions any longer. So he walked downstairs, unlocked the front door and, when Eddie came though a few minutes later, hit him in the back of the head with his gun.

"But then he started gushing blood," Nate said, "just prodigious amounts, and it was all matted with hair, and I thought, Oh, no, I don't want a stiff on my hands. So I tried to dress his wound the best I could."

First perp. Now stiff. I didn't know if I'd be able to handle Nate in his new crime-fighting mode for much longer. "Frozen peas?" I said.

"The freezer was all out of ice," he said. "And then he came to and was really complaining about the pain, crying, moaning, the whole experience, so I figured, you know, a swab of old Old Grand Dad on the wound would dull the sensations and keep out infection, like in those Westerns Dad used to watch."

"That was TV," I said. "You ever hear of Bactine?"

"Yeah," Nate said, "that thought came to mind after the whiskey really got poor Eddie jumping, so I figured, give the guy a couple sips, see if that made a difference."

"Poor Eddie?"

"The guy has had some tough breaks," Nate said.

"I'm sure," I said.

"Anyway," Nate said, "we got to talking. Comparing notes. He's really done well for himself in this real estate game."

"He's a crook, Nate," I said.

"If you can look past that," he said.

"I can't," I said. "Neither should you. He tried to bleed Cricket dry. God knows how many people just like her didn't get out. The guy is a predator, Nate. Do you get that?"

"Okay," Nate said. "Okay. Breathe, man. You're all bunched up looking now. Your eyes are all buggy. Big mean spy guy going loco."

I unclenched my jaw. I loosened up my forehead. I took a moment to stare at the sea. I thought I caught a whiff of someone grilling chicken.

Nothing worked.

"Nate," I said, "did he tell you what he was doing here?"

"He said he was worried about his wife," Nate said.

"I'm sure," I said.

"Yeah, I didn't believe that, either," Nate said. "So I asked him again after we'd had a couple. But that's the story he's sticking to. Said he figured if some crazy psycho was willing to kill her in the name of someone he was just pretending to be, that he owed it to her to set the record straight."

"A real come-to-Jesus moment," I said. "You did good, Nate. I appreciate it." I meant it, even if Nate's methods were a wee bit on the unorthodox side.

"Yeah?" Nate said.

"Yeah."

"Just keeping my pimp hand strong," Nate said. I started to walk back inside, since I had an idea how I'd use this situation with Eddie to the fullest, but Nate stopped me. "Do you remember coming out here when we were kids?" I told him I did. "What was it, some kind of field trip or something?"

"Yeah," I said. "Something like that."

"I remember you and me just running around that big-ass resort," he said. "And then I sort of remember us hanging out with a security guard. Weird. I haven't thought about that in years."

"It was a good time," I said. I didn't have the heart to tell him what I remembered, the circumstances, the repercussions.

"Was it?" he asked. He turned his head, as if trying to get his memories to line up.

"Sure, Nate," I said. "Sure. Not like when we went to that potato chip factory and Justin Pluck stabbed you."

"You know I ran into Justin Pluck a few years ago," Nate said. "Married, a couple rug rats, working at Costco."

"Was he still missing most of his hair?"

Nate laughed. "I didn't get too close. I didn't want whatever he had rubbing off on me."

"What did he have?"

"Normalcy," Nate said.

That was something he-we-would never have.

After sending Nate home, I went inside, brewed a carafe of coffee, sat down with Fiona and Sam in front of Eddie Champagne and started pouring him cups of black coffee.

"Drink," I said to Eddie.

"That's a myth," he said. "Coffee doesn't sober you up. Best thing for me would be a nice, long nap. Clinically proven."

"I'm sure it is," I said. I nodded at Sam, who reached over and squeezed Eddie's nose closed for about ten seconds, until Eddie popped open his mouth to breathe and Fiona shoved a straw in. "Now be a good boy, Eddie. Drink."

Eddie did as he was told, downing two cups of coffee in record time. I made him a couple pieces of toast and made him eat those, too. When he started to show signs of actually being able to comprehend reality, I let Sam take a look at the gash on the back of his head, which was still leaking blood, but not quite the torrent Nate had mentioned.

"He'll need stitches," Sam said.

"How many?" Eddie said.

"I'd say about fifty," Sam said.

"That's about two hundred less than you would have required if it had been me here," I said. "About a thousand less than you'll need if you don't tell me what I want to know now."

"First thing you need to know," Eddie said, "I am not the guy you're mad at. Dixon Woods? That's just a name I picked at random. This is a big misunderstanding."

"I know who you are," I said. "And I know you just lied to me. I'm not the police, Eddie. You're not on tape. We're just two guys having a conversation. Granted, one of us is cuffed and one of us isn't, but I'd like you to feel like you can tell me the truth, Eddie. I gave you coffee. I made you some toast. So I'm going to give you a chance to correct that last statement. If I like what you have to say, I won't spray salt water into your head wound."

Eddie Champagne's eyes darted around the room. He didn't look scared. He didn't even look worried, exactly. He sort of seemed to be enjoying this.

"You know," he said, "we redid this kitchen."

"I didn't know that," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "I moved in, it was stainless steel. Real cold, uninviting. It was my idea to put in those glass-faced cabinets. I picked out the granite for the island, made Cricket get one we could put chairs around. She wanted to have a sink in the island, but I told her she wouldn't need it since she wouldn't be doing that much cooking. She liked that idea. Let me tell you. What lady wants to cook?"

He looked at Fiona then and gave her a crooked smile, which probably gave other women a warm feeling, but which only caused Fiona to glare at him. That had a silencing effect on Eddie.

"When did you decide to bleed her?" I said.

"You don't just decide that sort of thing," Eddie said.

"More of a life choice?" Sam said.

Eddie cleared his throat. "I've got a few abilities," Eddie said, "none of which make for a good living. But after I met Cricket, I really thought she was the kind of lady I could get used to loving. But then, once I got in it, all these lies I'd already told, what was I supposed to do?"

"Telling the truth would have been an angle," I said.

"Not gutting her life," Fiona said.

"Not stealing money from wounded soldiers," Sam said.

"So there are three choices," I said. "You want more?"

Eddie pointed to his coffee cup, indicated he'd like some more. In a show of good faith, I clipped off Eddie's cuffs, told him that if he did anything outwardly stupid with his hands he'd lose the use of them, permanently. I poured him another cup and watched him take a few sips. He held his pinky out at an angle, like he was of the royal class. He had all the moves.

"Guys like you and me, Hank, we can't always deal in truth. Look at you and your crew here," he said. "I don't presume to know what your game is, but I'm going to say you've never met Dixon Woods, either, or else you wouldn't be trying to play that psycho. That pussy Rosencrantz just swallowed your whole bait. Teach me to work with educated people. Am I right?"

Smart. Trying to make a connection with me. Attempting to get an empathetic response. Probably thinking, like Stanley Rosencrantz before him, Here's a guy I could make a deal with.

"Eddie," I said, "we're nothing alike."

"Don't be so sure," he said. "I mean, here you are with Cricket, too. Similar tastes, right? And anyway, I came back today. I was ready to take you out. See? End of the day, I felt bad. Contrite. Ready to make amends."

"Yeah," I said. "Listen. I hate to tell you this, but I do know Dixon Woods. And I'm afraid, Eddie, that you're going to need to deal with him yourself."

Eddie finally seemed to leave his comfort zone. "That guy is a monster. You can't let him have his way with me." Eddie detailed his last meeting with Dixon, which involved a tire iron, a broken wrist and a lingering jaw problem. "I want it noted for the record," he said, leaning into his coffee cup, like it was microphone, "that I really did love his mother. You know, she passed on and that bastard didn't even have the kindness to come back for her funeral. No problem busting me up, but he won't do the honor of burying his mother? You look up the records, see who paid for her funeral expenses. Tell your people that."

"Noted," Fiona said.

Eddie started to say something, but then stopped, looked hard at Fiona. "Do you do any modeling?"

"No," Fiona said, though I could see where this was headed.

"You look familiar. Your lips, for some reason. And no disrespect, but your right breast, too."

"I have very uncommon breasts," she said.

"You ever do any calendar work?" Eddie asked. "Maybe I saw you online somewhere?"

"I'm in a coed naked volleyball league," she said.

Eddie again tried to say something, but it didn't seem like his mouth was working, which was good, because I was done talking to him, his very voice making me sick. "Sam," I said, "cuff and gag him."

"What?" Eddie said. "I thought we were getting along."

"Yeah," I said, "you thought wrong."

After we got Eddie subdued again, we sat him in the living room, which frankly smelled awful and would require an industrial cleaning very soon, and I snapped a few photos of him. When we had one that looked sufficiently morbid, I put in a call to Brenda Holcomb at Longstreet. Sam told me to make it a point not to call her Bolts. "She finds it disrespectful," he said.

"Brenda," I said when she answered "this is Hank Fitch. The man who didn't kill you."

"You've caused a lot of problems, Hank."

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry about that. But I'm calling you now to do you a favor, show I'm good on my word."

"I already called Dixon," she said. "What he does, he does."

"Right," I said, "I get that. But listen. I have a guy here whose been impersonating Dixon for the last two years. He's made Dixon a lot of enemies. But he's also made Dixon a lot of money."

Silence. Money always causes silence.

"You still there?" I asked.

"Go on," she said.

"I have a picture of him I'd like to send to you, that if you could forward it on to Dixon, I think we could end all of our mutual problems." Hopefully by around six, I thought. "Do you have a number I can use?"

Brenda sighed. "I lose my job, I come after you."

"You wouldn't want to do that," I said.

"Who are you, exactly? Because you're not Hank Fitch."

"I am today."

"The only Hank Fitch I could find in all of America is married to a woman named Linda and lives in Utah with his eight kids. You don't sound like the marrying kind. Or the Mormon kind."

"You'd be surprised." Brenda gave me a number and I sent the photo to her. "One other thing. My friend's car. Good faith."

"You two run a clean operation. I couldn't find a thing of use in that car," she said.

"Why don't you park it across the street, and we'll call it all even?"

"You have a strange idea of even, Mr. Fitch," she said, but then agreed, though she sounded more resigned than anything.

"Did the pictures come through?" I asked.

Silence.

"Yes," a male voice said. I guess all that silence was Brenda patching me in to Dixon. "Where is he?"

"Right now? He's sitting across from me. Where he'll be is wherever you want him to be if it means we deal. I need that product."

"Put him down," Dixon said. "Send me a photo when you're done."

"I'm not going to kill him," I said. Eddie actually sighed through his gag, which isn't something you hear very often: a person sighing with relief while bound and gagged. "I'm happy to let you." Eddie's joy? Short-lived. "I hope you can understand."

"Where's your money?" he asked.

"The Dominican," I said.

"Give me the digits," he said.

Just like Sam, just like me before all of this, Dixon had contacts. If he wanted to know how much money was in a secure account, I have every belief he'd be able to find out, so I gave him the account number.

"Hold on," he said. A few moments later, Dixon was back. His entire disposition was changed. "Where'd you want to meet?"

"Hotel Oro," I said. "That work for you?"

"Yeah," he said. "Nice place. That's the one with cabanas, right?"

"Right."

"Why don't you bring me one of Champagne's fingers as a gratuity?"

"I'll bring you something better. Eddie and his bank account information so you don't need to beat it out of him. He's been very busy on your behalf. Six fifteen?"

"I'll be there," Dixon said and was gone.

I looked at my watch. It was three o'clock now. We didn't have much time, but I was going to make this work. In order to do that, I'd need to get Eddie to calm down-since he was now apoplectic-and I'd need to get the Hotel Oro ready to my specifications.

"Sam," I said, "I'm going to need you to do me a favor."

"Whatever, Mikey," Sam said.

"I need you to blow up the Hotel Oro," I said.