Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

22

Spiker’s Tavern was a taproom near the American football stadium. It had sawdust on the floor; a worn wooden bar; and was in a roughish-or at least an industrial-looking-part of town, so Dwyer knew it would make Gantcher nervous. He was sitting on a corner barstool, thanking bloody Jehovah that the marketing department at Guinness had finally penetrated America as he was hunkered over a decently poured pint of the stuff when a man entered who could only be Gantcher. Dressed in khaki trousers, tasseled loafers, and a melon-colored polo shirt, the tosser was a half step away from a country club and bleeding madras. It also looked as if he hadn’t picked up a barbell in his life, and spent his time shielded from the sun in a sweet shop, pale and pudgy as he was. Dwyer watched him glance around the half-dark pub, struggling and nervous, and take a step in the wrong direction toward a punter in a Carhartt jacket before he rethought it and stopped. Finally he found Dwyer at the bar and Dwyer nodded, jumped off his barstool, and signaled to a secluded table, where they sat.

“If you want something you’re gonna have to get it from the barman. No waiters here,” Dwyer advised.

“No. I don’t really drink much. I mean, wine, but I doubt they have much of a list,” Gantcher said.

Dwyer said nothing.

“Never been here before, maybe I’ll come back later and become a regular,” Gantcher chattered uncomfortably to fill the silence.

“I’m sure you’ll be real popular in your poofter shirt,” Dwyer said, causing Gantcher to pull back as if he’d been slapped. It was clear he wasn’t used to chopsing like that.

Good, Dwyer thought, at least he’s listening now.

“We’ve had complications, obviously,” Dwyer said, using the silence. “This needs to be sanitized. Now. And I need more money.”

“More money?”

“Correct. For operational expenses and fee,” Dwyer said.

“How much?”

If word was going to get out and this was going to be the last job, then he needed the whole amount. “A million American.”

“A million!” Gantcher lunged forward. “The whole job didn’t cost that.”

“But it isn’t a job anymore. It’s an emergency override, like at a leaky nuclear plant. And the money’s necessary to buy safety,” Dwyer said, knowing the effect the threat of his words carried.

“I know it is,” Gantcher said, sounding forlorn, “but I don’t have it.”

Dwyer expected resistance. Rich blokes never wanted to pay. But when they were short of cash, they acted like they didn’t like the idea, rather than admitting they didn’t have the money. So the fact that Gantcher was sitting there actually volunteering he didn’t have the cash was problematic. “The bloody ’ell do you mean you don’t have it?” he demanded.

“I just … don’t.”

A beat. “How much do you have, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Fuck off, nothing.”

“Really. I’m tapped. I’ve broken T-bills. Drained retirement accounts, kids’ college funds. I’m drawing down lines of credit now to keep my office open, and I’m almost empty.”

“Look, man, you may think you’re having problems now, but if this thing goes unmanaged and becomes the dog’s dinner, you’re going to know sorrow you never imagined,” Dwyer said, causing Gantcher to go green.

“I’ve gotta go get to work, but we’re going to meet again,” Dwyer said, slamming his fist on the table, which lifted his pint glass with a rattle. Gantcher’s eyes bulged with fear. “In the meantime, find some fucking dosh,” Dwyer snarled, and with that he left Gantcher sitting alone in the bar.