Page 67 of Twisted Enemy
“The first time was when Shannon pulled a Badger Game on a shop steward in the Teamsters.”
“What’s a Badger Game?”
“You get a man black-out drunk, then take pictures of him in compromising situations. He pays up to keep you from sharing the photos with his family or his employer. With the public if he’s running for office.”
“That guy was running for office?”
“For school board. So pictures of him going down on Shannon while she wore a schoolgirl uniform brought in a major payday. Until he came around with a couple of union enforcers, asking for a refund.”
“Why’s it called a Badger Game?”
“I don’t know. Shannon didn’t either, when I asked her.”
“How far did you have to go, to be safe?”
“We spent a year up in Pennsylvania, in a little town twenty miles past nowhere. The Badger mark’s wife caught him with his mistress and put a bullet through his forehead. It was safe to come back after that.”
I blink hard. I don’t tell stories about growing up in the Canton Crew because there aren’t a lot of people who want to hear about Da coming late to Sunday Roast, stopping to lean a bloody crowbar against the dining room wall. But Cole would understand, if I ever decide to share.
“You saidthe first time. How many other times did you run?”
“There was the time Megan ran a Short Count at the corner store.”
The instant he says her name, I picture her sitting across from me at the Four Seasons restaurant, running her hands through her chartreuse hair. I’m surprised Cole just mentioned her. He hasn’t said her name since he threw her out of the house. I’m only a second or two slow in asking, “What’s a Short Count?”
“You buy a fifty-cent pack of gum and pay with a ten-dollar bill. After you get your nine bucks and change, you realize you had a one all along so you offer to trade back—the nine bucks you got you plus your one dollar, for a ten-dollar bill. When the clerk makes the trade, he’s holding a five and five ones and you’re holding a ten, so you’re even. But then you realize you have a different ten in your wallet, and you ask to tradeitfor a twenty. He makes the trade again and you walk away with ten of his dollars.”
“People actually fall for that?”
Cole nods. “If you talk fast enough they do. Or if you distract them by asking a bunch of questions. But if you’re Nutmeg, you do it too close to home. And when the store owner collects with a baseball bat, he breaks out every window of the crappy rental where you’re three months behind on rent. Then you run. We went to West Virginia that time. We were there for six months before Shannon scared up enough cash for first-and-last month and a deposit back in DC.”
“Sounds like Megan made a rookie mistake.”
“Well, shewasonly five.”
I laugh, and he does too.
We trade stories for the rest of the trip—Cole teaching me half a dozen con games and me sharing the glamorous life of an Irish mob princess. I’m surprised when we pull up to a security gate that looks worthy of Fort Knox.
Cole produces ID, and we’re eventually cleared to drive onto the premises. We make our way to a parking lot between twomodern glass-and-steel office buildings. A low structure made of shimmering white brick sits to our right, rising out of a soft hill.
Cole gestures toward one of the taller buildings with his chin as he pulls the Mercedes into a wide parking space. “That building holds the galleries. Most of it is underground. Andthat’swhere the work gets done—lawyers, curators, all the other professional services.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, pointing toward the white brick building.
“A private home.”
“Who lives there?”
“Trap Prince, the freeport’s founder and CEO, and his Chief Operating Officer, Alix Key. There’s Alix now.”
Alix turns out to be a tall, slender woman dressed in a suit that looks like it cost ten thousand dollars and was hand-sewn to accommodate her extremely ample chest. She’s speaking on a mobile as she rounds the corner of the house, holding back her long thick hair from the breeze.
She freezes when she spots the Mercedes. She’s too far away for me to be certain of the expression on her face, but she says something into the phone before dropping her hand to her side. It takes a moment for her to start moving again, but by the time Cole and I have climbed out of the car, she’s found a bright, professional smile to paste onto her face.
“Cole,” she says, her voice a trifle cool.
He makes the introductions, and she gestures for us to enter the office tower. Security here is as tight as at the front gate. Cole and I present IDs, and we wait for the guard to check, double-check, and triple-check records on his computer. We have to pass through a metal detector before we’re allowed past the lobby.
