Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

14

“Don’t say my name.”

The words came through the phone low and gravelly. The accent, the tone of voice, the cheap cell connection, brought a cold bolt of surprise directly to Lowell Gantcher’s stomach. Dwyer.

“Why would I do that?” Gantcher finally managed to answer, groping for the breezy tone of the successful real estate developer he’d once been.

“Fuck if I know-just don’t,” the voice came back through the line. “We need to meet. About the situation.”

Gantcher’s head dropped into his hand. He was in his godfather office, but he was no godfather. He’d just sent an e-mail to the accountant, to tap a final line of credit in order to cover operating expenses and a partial payroll down at the company. It didn’t get less godfather than that.

“You’re in the States, then?” Gantcher asked.

“Not only.”

The surprise became fear. “You’re here?” Gantcher said. “In Indy?”

“Fuckin’ ’ell.”

“Well, where are you staying?”

“Stand by. I’ll give you a location to meet when I decide it.”

“Okay,” Gantcher said. His gut instinct suddenly told him not to meet. Some inner voice he didn’t hear from very often was screaming it, in fact. He didn’t know whether he should try to run, hire a bodyguard, or lawyer up and go to the police. Maybe all three.

“When?” he asked.

“Tomorrow night,” the voice said.

“Tomorrow,” Gantcher said. He clicked on his calendar, having suddenly become a method actor, and saw it completely empty. “I don’t think tomorrow’s going to be possible-”

“Tomorrow night,” the voice repeated, and the line went dead.