The Bad Beat (3 page)

“Where are you going to be?” Sam said.

“I’m going to go meet our client,” I said.

2

When attempting to infiltrate a secure government facility, you have to assume that smart people have created the devices meant to keep you out. These smart people are usually a lot like you. They’ve been trained by the best minds the government has access to. They’ve been given state-of-the-art machinery to play with. If given the choice between spending one dollar and one billion dollars, the smart people will spend the one billion dollars. They will overprepare. They will train for the one day they get to fight you.

If these people are exceptionally smart, they will arm the most vital entry point with the world’s best tactical weapon: a person with a clipboard. If you have a clipboard, you don’t need a gun. You don’t need to know five different martial arts. All you need is the ability to look down at your clipboard, examine the names on it, and say a single word: no. “No” is a difficult word to get beyond, even for a spy, since it is both an answer and a threat.
No
, it says,
you are not allowed in
. But it also says,
No, you are not allowed in and if you attempt to get in, proper authorities will be called, since this clipboard tells me that’s the next step
. When you don’t have a gun, the authority you possess is the conviction of your beliefs.

So when I saw two twentysomething University of Miami students—a young woman and a young man, each with a clipboard, and each with so many Greek letters on their clothing you’d think they were guarding the Parthenon—sitting behind a small desk in front of the doors to one of the two Hecht Residential College towers, a Soviet-looking dorm complex consisting of two 12-story towers (except that the Soviets were never big on adorning their buildings’ green space with lush palm trees, deer grass and well-maintained topiary), I knew I had my work cut out for me if I wanted to go up to see Sugar’s friend Brent Grayson.

They were the first line of defense, but the building also looked to have a key-card system in place and it was surrounded by security cameras. This was good. If anyone came here with the intent to hurt Brent, it would be easy to identify them and it would also be at least somewhat difficult for them to get inside to do the hurting.

“Try calling your friend again,” I said to Sugar. We were only twenty yards or so from the tower and I could see that the sentries were doing their job fairly well, steadily turning away visitors at a nice clip. They both looked awfully perky. It’s hard to deal with perky people. They don’t take offense as easily as muscle-bound bouncer types do, which means there’s less opportunity to punch them in the mouth or break their wrists.

Sugar pulled out his phone and dialed, but after about a minute he clicked it off. “Still nothing, bro,” he said. “What if he’s on a dirt nap?”

“It’s unlikely,” I said. “He’s not worth anything dead to the bookies. And I can’t imagine the Russian Mob would need to kill him for any reason, can you?”

“Man, people kill one another every day for no reason, you know?”

I guess I did. “Okay,” I said. “Just follow my moves here and don’t say a word, all right?”

“Cool,” Sugar said.

“I mean it. Don’t speak.”

“I get it. Silent and deadly.”

“No,” I said, “just silent.”

We walked up to the desk and waited patiently behind a kid named Zach while he tried to convince both the young man and the young woman that he needed to get up to the computer lab, even though he didn’t live in the building. He had a skateboard under one arm and with his other free hand he kept nervously pulling at his long goatee.

“Zach,” the woman said, “if I let you in, I could lose my job. So it’s not about doing you a favor. I need the priority registration if I’m going to graduate on time.”

“I totally appreciate that,” Zach said, “but I’d just run up and run right back down. If she’s up there, cool. If she’s not, I know she’s lying to me. And that’s not cool. I should know that, don’t you think? Ben?”

The young man, apparently named Ben, shook his head. “I feel you, dog. But Tiff is on point here. You’ve got to respect our position on this. You call and get someone to sign you in, bingo, you’re in. Otherwise, dog, it’s just not going to happen. No disrespect.”

Zach took this news poorly. He pounded his fist on the desk, hard enough to make both Ben’s and Tiff’s clipboards jump up. “Hey, hey,” Ben said. He stood up and I saw that though he was festooned in Greek letters, he was also covered in muscle. He reached out and grabbed Zach by the shoulder, but not in an aggressive way. He conveyed strength without conveying asshole. If I were still actively employed, I’d give the kid a card, see if he might want to consider a life in the spy arts after college. “Dude, that’s not cool. You have to get ahold of yourself. You can’t just be hitting our desk, okay? The desk didn’t do anything to you, okay? Just be cool.”

“I’m sorry,” Zach said. From behind, I could see that the kid’s shoulders were shaking. The poor guy was crying. “I’m just so, well, you know.”

Ben gave Zach’s shoulder a squeeze. “You need to get ahold of yourself,” he repeated. Zach nodded once and sulked away. It was impressive work on Ben’s part.

All four of us—even Sugar—watched Zach for a few moments as he attempted to ride his skateboard and cry simultaneously. It was more difficult than one might expect.

“Poor guy,” I said.

“He’s sweet,” Tiff said, “but he’s a little on the stalker side.”

“He’s gotta nut up,” Sugar said.

I glared at Sugar. A wonderful development: Five seconds in and he was already speaking. I wondered if maybe he had a touch of ADD. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to follow directions. Tiff and Ben didn’t seem to notice or care that Sugar was speaking, but both were looking at him with something near recognition. Another not great development.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My cousin sometimes says things when he shouldn’t.”

“It’s true, though,” Sugar said. He smiled at Tiff. “No means no, right, baby doll?”

“Right,” she said. She stared at Sugar and then smiled. “How do I know you?”

“I don’t think you do,” Sugar said. “Yet.”

“How do I know you?” Ben said. There was just a hint of menace in his voice. I liked Ben already.

“I don’t think you do, either,” Sugar said. He shifted his weight a little bit and then stared at his feet, which was good because I was drilling holes in the side of his head with my eyes.

“What year are you?” Ben asked.

“I don’t go here,” Sugar mumbled.

“You play ball? High school maybe?”

“No, no,” Sugar said. “I pretty much just stay home and keep to myself. Like to read and shit. You know.”

Sugar’s answer was met with silence. Of all the people who looked like they stayed home and kept to themselves, much less read . . . and shit . . . Sugar was among the least likely.

“He sells drugs,” I said. I let that sink in for a second or two and then laughed and clapped Sugar on the back as hard as I possibly could without actually putting him on the ground. He might have been hard to kill, but he wasn’t hard to beat up and at that moment I regretted not leaving him in the car or, better yet, the notary office. “Oh, my, my,” I said. “I can’t take him anywhere without people thinking they know him. Usually they think he’s Eminem. I personally don’t see it, do you?”

“Little bit,” Ben said.

“Totally,” Tiff said.

“I usually think he should just button up his shirt and stop dyeing his hair,” I said, “but then I’m old-fashioned.”

“OG,” Sugar said, which earned him another glare from me.

“Anyway,” I said, “we’re here to check up on my nephew. Brent Grayson.”

“That’s mine,” Ben said. “I’m A through L.” He flipped through his clipboard and then ran his finger down a page until he landed on Brent’s name. I could see that he had no names listed and also that he was in room 804. “Brent doesn’t have any approved guests listed, so unless he called a pass down for you, I can’t let you in.”

“I understand that, of course, of course,” I said. “It’s Ben, right?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And you’re Tiffany?” I said.

“Tiff,” she said. “ ‘Tiffany’ makes me sound like I’m a thousand years old.”

“Well, Ben and Tiff,” I said, “here’s the problem. Can I expect a level of confidentiality here?”

“Of course,” Ben said. Tiff didn’t look so sure, but she nodded in agreement.

“My nephew, he lives on the eighth floor, correct?”

“That’s correct, sir,” Ben said.

Sir. That was nice. I looked up the side of the building. “That’s a pretty long fall, isn’t it?”

“Remember there was a girl on the sixth floor who jumped last fall?” Tiff said to Ben. “It was the saddest thing. She got her first B and that was it. Splat.”

“So you understand the situation here,” I said.

“Oh,” Ben said. “Gosh. Brent, really?”

“He’s had a rough go of it lately,” I said. “And now we haven’t been able to get him on the phone for the last two days, so, as you can imagine, there’s some concern.”

“I could go up and knock on his door,” Ben said.

“Yes, you could,” I said, “and under normal circumstances, I think that would be more than enough. But in this case, I’m afraid he’d know that, well, we broke his confidence. How well do you know Brent?”

“I see him around the building,” Ben said.

“I don’t even know him,” Tiff said. “Do I, Ben?”

“He’s the—pardon the expression, sir—he’s the squirrely one.”

“Oh, no, really?” Tiff said.

“Really,” I said and then I tried to look hurt by Ben’s description.
Squirrely.
What was wrong with kids today? Couldn’t more of them be like young Mr. Ben?

“I’m really sorry,” Ben said to me. “We give everyone nicknames. You know, long hours out front and we get a little nutty.”

“I understand,” I said, “and I hope you understand how sensitive this is for all of us.”

Ben bit down on his bottom lip and concentrated on his clipboard for a few seconds. He ran a finger up and down his list and then stopped, looked down and said, “Did you say your name was Kurt Riebe?”

“Yes,” I said.

He ran his finger up and down again, stopped, looked and said to Sugar, “And you’re Delmert Boggs?”

“Naw, man,” Sugar said. “Something cooler than . . .”

I put my hand over Sugar’s mouth. “Yes, he’s Delmert Boggs.” Ben made out two guest passes for us and then handed us both lanyards to wear.

“I appreciate this,” I said. “Brent will, too, I hope.”

“He’s very sweet,” Tiff said.

“Just make sure Delmert doesn’t sell any drugs inside,” Ben said. “And it would be good if Delmert didn’t show back up at some later date to try to sell drugs. Like at any of the frat houses.”

Sugar looked over his shoulder, as if someone was calling his name, and mumbled something unintelligible.

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” I said.

Ben got up and opened the door into the tower with his key card and waved us in. Sugar started to talk just as soon as we were in the lobby but I hushed him until we were in the elevator.

“How’d you do that Jedi shit?” he asked.

“I don’t look like a drug dealer,” I said.

“That shit was wrong,” Sugar said. “That was some profiling shit right there.”

“Maybe don’t sell any drugs around here for a few months,” I said.

“You know what the market is out here? I could make my full nut each month just on Adderall and HGH, but I respect that this is an educational facility,” Sugar said. “Kids learning and shit. So maybe I drop a little weed in the area now and then, but it’s not like I got kids on the black tar, man.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I said.

“You know what the kids really want, though?”

“A better life?”

“Ambien. They want that crazy Tiger Woods Ambien sex now. That’s my number one growth industry. Stupid cuz you can go to the doctor, tell them you’re not sleeping and Mom and Dad’s health insurance will pick it up for four bucks a bottle. So I get a huge markup.”

The problem with talking to Sugar about anything related to his business was that it constantly reminded me of why I didn’t like him in the first place. He’d come to me not long ago when he was in a jam and I’d gone to him not long ago when I was in a jam, but this new relationship where he was the middleman to a client just opened up my antipathy for him. The sooner I was done with him and could help his friend, the less likely it was that Sugar got bullet number seven.

When you’re a spy, you often enter into business propositions with people not good enough to spit on. Dictators. Presidents. Warlords. And the occasional peroxide blond drug dealer.

The elevator doors opened onto the eighth floor and the first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn’t death or decay or the coppery smell of blood. Instead it was a just-as-nauseating mixture of patchouli, the oversweet-smelling body lotion favored by strippers and sorority girls alike, the indiscriminate odor of young men (usually a combination of unwashed socks and unwashed hair with a couple dashes of sadness and desperation sprinkled in for flavor) and macaroni and cheese.

Students milled about the hallway in between open apartment doors from which loud rap music and the static hum of televisions bleated out. None of the students appeared to be over twenty and none of them appeared to be in a hurry to get anywhere—they all walked with a nonchalance that bordered on liquidity; it was as if they didn’t have spines like normal humans, particularly with the way their heads lolled back and forth without any seeming purpose.

A few looked at me with passing disregard, but I thought I saw at least two or three of the kids nod at Sugar.

“When was the last time you were up here?” I said.

“Couple days ago.”

“Just to see Brent?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sugar said.

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Man, I don’t know. Maybe cuz you’re all covert and shit?”

Maybe. But probably not.

On the walls, posters and flyers for various campus events were stapled haphazardly onto corkboards. Apparently Tuesday was Taco Tuesday at a local bar. Apparently Wednesday was Wicked Wednesday, also at a local bar. Thursdays, according to all of the flyers, were Thirsty Thursdays. There were also notices about opportunities to study abroad, to teach English in Korea and, oddly, to join the Marines. Looking around, I didn’t see a whole lot of candidates who’d be getting Semper Fi tattoos in the near future.