Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

29

“Can I get some coffee here!” Shug Saunders said, hearing the bark in his voice but completely unable to check it.

The fried eggs and hash browns were swimming on the plate in front of him, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t due to the drinking he’d done the night before, but rather what Lowell Gantcher, the mewling son of a bitch, was telling him. Either way he had a growing suspicion he was going to retch.

Heads turned toward him at his demand. The Skillet was a small place-eight or ten seats and a counter-and the regulars there weren’t used to strangers showing up in the first place, much less snarling at their waitress.

“Thank you, dear,” Shug said, trying to put some sweetness into his voice when she finally arrived with the pot, and attempting to make it loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Uh-huh,” the waitress said, and heads turned back to newspapers and plates and Shug and Gantcher were able to resume their conversation.

“Can you talk to the guy in the middle? See if he can, I don’t know, make Dwyer back off or stand down?” Gantcher asked in a hoarse whisper, his coffee cup hovering in the air between them.

“The middle guy is running shit scared right now from this whole thing, man. I don’t think I can call him for anything or make any kind of contact right now.”

“Come on. Now’s not the time for him to go MIA on us-”

“And as for the Welshman, from what I hear, once he’s turned on, he doesn’t have an off switch,” Shug said. “Which is why you hired him in the first place, isn’t it?”

“Oh god,” Gantcher said. When he noticed his cup starting to quake in his hand he put it down on the table. “What are we going to do?”

“What did he tell you he wants?” Shug said, trying to think clearly.

“Money.”

“Money?”

“That’s right. To sanitize it, I think is what it’s called.”

“How much?”

“He said a million. So I suppose he’d settle for seven fifty, eight hundred grand.”

“What the fuck? That’s complete extortion.”

“I’m not in a position to point that out.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you have it to give to him? Because that would certainly be the cleanest-”

“I don’t have a piss to pot in, Shug,” Gantcher said, scrambling it up and not even noticing. “I was wondering if you could, you know, go to Kolodnik on my behalf-”

“Oh come on,” Shug cut him off, “I can’t bring up the bill again. He’s already landed on that-he’s not doing it.”

“No, I was going to say: to see if he’d extend me a loan based on my ownership piece,” Gantcher said, his voice small.

“Oh, get real-”

“Now that I’m facing these rebuilding delays-”

“Are you a complete fucking idiot?”

The irony of the request was bringing on a migraine and Shug pinched the bridge of his nose. Three and a half years ago, this deal seemed so clear and simple. Back then Bernie Kolodnik’s political ambitions were only a distant dream, the hundred K per year advisory fee Shug collected practically free money. It was cocktail parties and introductions for Bernie, which couldn’t have been easier to make since he was a man of great success and integrity that everyone wanted to meet in the first place, and for Shug it meant access-incredible access. Hell, he was probably the second person in the world to know about the Indy Flats racino project when it was born.

“Crapsake, Lowell,” Shug hissed, “how could you mismanage things this badly?”

Gantcher had the good sense not to answer.

“It was supposed to be a simple build. A simple win,” Shug went on.

“I know it,” Gantcher said, shaking his head.

“You know how many frigging developers I could have steered this to? McLanahan, Aegis, Cyril Land. Who could’ve fucked it up like you?”

Some remnant of Gantcher’s competitive spirit flared. “Come on, Shug, no one saw this slump coming. Aegis is balls-deep in overdue construction loans as we speak.”

It was true. No one in the field was exactly unscathed at the moment. And none of the companies he named would’ve been willing to secretly kick back a piece of their end of the development in exchange for the introduction to Bernie, like Gantcher had been-which is why Shug had brought it to him in the first place.

It was to have been a straightforward build, launch, and sell. Long before Kolodnik’s political career had even started. And when the deal was done and the sale complete, tens and hundreds of millions for everyone else and a quick thirteen-million-dollar pop for Shug.

But then profits dipped. The partnership had been forced to hold and manage the damned place. Gantcher and his team weren’t equipped for that. Even in a robust economy they wouldn’t have been any good at it. Gantcher had asked Kolodnik to go to the state legislature to ask for a special assembly where they would petition for a rebate on the licensing fee, which would have seen them through the tough time to recovery, and Kolodnik had. The man had asked. But the legislature had denied the request. Then, well, then the rest had started in motion, when whispers about the sitting senator’s cancer broke, Kolodnik’s name began being mentioned, and Shug saw the sock fill with the changing winds …

“A racino, for god’s sake,” Shug muttered, “getting a damned Gutenberg press and printing it yourself is supposed to be the only easier way to make money.”

“I know, man,” Gantcher said, his head moving slowly from side to side like a steer looking to graze. “But the question now is, What can we do?”

Shug’s throat locked up. At the moment he didn’t have any answers.