Page 42 of Puck Me Like You Own Me

“It’s a local deal.”

“There’s no such thing as a local deal. Your agreement has a carve-out for anything under fifty. I put it there myself when you were nineteen. No client has ever used it, not once in my entire career.” A voice cuts in on her end; she answers with her hand over the phone. “Who papered it?”

“Marek.”

“Marek.” A pause. She types. “Right. Fine. He’s your money guy, that’s what he’s for. Send me the agreement so it’s in the file, and I’ll stop asking.”

“He’ll send it.”

“Kieran.” Her voice drops. “Forty thousand for a coffee company with two shops. Do you know what your face is worth?”

“It’s a small deal, Suze. Leave it.”

“I don’t leave things. That’s the job.”

“Leave this one.”

There’s a silence on the line that costs me more than the money would have.

“Fine,” she says. “Get me the paper by the end of the month.” She’s gone before I can answer.

I stand in my kitchen with the phone in my hand. I just lied to Suze Okafor for the first time in nine years.

He comes for me on Friday at half past ten.

“Park on the north side,” he says. “Not the visitor row. There’s a gate on the north side of the building that goes into a shipping office, and that’s the door you want.”

“You’re driving.”

“Fine.”

The waterfront in daylight is bigger than I’ve ever thought about it being. Cranes. Container stacks four high in blue, rust, green. A straddle carrier walks a box down a lane at the speed of a man on foot. Gulls everywhere. The water is the color of a nickel.

The office is on the third floor of a shipping-services building with a real receptionist, a real bill of lading on a real desk. Inside, it’s seventy-four degrees. The place smells like carpet and hot electronics.

Vera Lindqvist stands when I come in, puts out her hand. I shake it.

“Mr. Doyle. Sit down. I’m sorry about Wednesday.”

“It happens.”

“It does.” She sits. Her silver-blonde hair is pinned low. A camel-colored coat hangs over the back of her chair; glasses rest on a chain. Marek stands by the door.

She puts the glasses on and reads one page.

“Your balance this morning is one million, three hundred and forty-eight thousand,” she says. “You’ve been current since November. You’ve never been late or argued. You’ve never tried to find out who I am, which I appreciate more than you’d think.

“Okay.”

“There’s a home game a week from Tuesday.” She takes off the glasses, folds them, and sets them on the desk. “Eleven days from now. First period. I want a goal in your net.”

The room doesn’t change. The carpet is still gray. Outside, the yard keeps moving. Somewhere behind the wall, a woman on a telephone talks about a container that’s been sitting at the port for nine days.

“One goal,” I say.

“One. In the first period, while the score is level, and I don’t care in the least how it happens.” She folds her hands. “You won’t be asked to lose a hockey game. You have my word on that, and you will find that’s worth something. You’re being asked for one shot, early, in a period that decides nothing.”

“What’s it worth?”