Silas Read online

  We are a motley crew, I thought, a group of reformed con artists still conning. But for the greater good. It was silly. Laughable. But we were who we were. My parents always said you could take a con out of the game, but you'd never take the game out of the con.

  I was who I was. I did things my way, not my parents' way. They saw everyone as a mark, no matter what. And if you had a vulnerability, it made you a better target. My parents abhorred weakness.

  When I turned eighteen, I vowed to do things differently - to use my skills only on people who deserved it. It wasn't until I'd gotten together with Iver and Emir and Oscar that everything had fallen into place.

  Iver spoke, his voice insistent. “I never said we should pursue him,” he said. “In fact, we should set the bar higher for him.”

  “Make him jump through more hoops,” Oscar said, raising his glass.

  “Please don't tell me that you think this is a good idea, Oscar,” I said. “You're always the voice of reason. We don’t take excessive risks. You taught me that. We can regroup and figure out something else - Emir can hack his accounts.”

  "Hacking is too risky," Emir said.

  “You should listen to what Iver has to say,” Oscar said. “When we got your text, we discussed other possibilities.”

  “This is mutiny,” I said.

  Iver tossed his head back, laughing. “Mutiny?” he asked. “Are you suggesting you're the captain of this ship?”

  “I always thought of myself as the captain,” Emir said, and Iver gestured toward him, with an impish grin.

  “See?" Iver asked. "You’ve hurt Emir’s feelings. Besides, three days ago, you were set on bringing the promoter down. Suddenly you want to cut and run?”

  I flushed. The truth was, seeing Silas had me spooked. I was trying not to be superstitious, but seeing him had to be some kind of sign.

  It wasn't a good omen, someone just coming out of my past like that.

  “I don't want to cut and run,” I lied. “I want to walk away, and live to grift another day. A wise old man taught me that.” I looked meaningfully at Oscar, who stood with his elbow on the grand piano, the picture of a harmless sweater-clad retiree. In reality, he was a brilliant strategist and one of the most successful long con artists of the last century.

  “Well,” Oscar said. “I think this is a viable option.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “What’s the plan? Sell me on it.”

  “The promoter embarrassed himself,” Iver said. "His fighter was worthless. You were hunting talent before, and investors for a legitimate television channel, but maybe you’re not hunting for talent. Maybe you’re really looking for the opposite of talent.”

  “Guys to take a fall,” I said.

  “More than just a fall,” Iver said. “What if you're actually looking for fighters for a private no-rules network, right? Maybe it’s the ultimate in no rules. Totally off the books.”

  “Snuff?” I asked, shaking my head.

  "I wouldn't sell it that way," Iver said. "A gladiator channel. The real kind of gladiator. A fight to the death."

  "So, snuff," I repeated.

  Iver made a tsk-tsk sound. "Potato, po-tah-toh," he said.

  “Coker would probably be more than happy to provide the product for something like that,” I admitted.

  “It’s also dirtier,” Iver said. “Which means involvement would be more expensive. Riskier.”

  “Better for us,” Oscar said, winking at me.

  “Which means more money. A bigger payoff. How much?” I asked, looking at Emir.

  Emir smiled. “I’ve been going through his financials,” he said. “We can go higher.”

  There was something sick about the thrill that rushed through me at the prospect of upping the ante, taking a larger risk. It must be the same kind of rush gamblers get, I thought.

  But it was the right thing to do, I told myself. Coker was the ultimate dirtbag. And then there was the matter of Iver's housekeeper's husband - he deserved to be taken care of, after what Coker had done to him.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m game.”

  "This is it?" I asked. The tiny house in front of us was surrounded by a small, mostly-brown yard, the only green color coming from the ragged weeds growing up in patches that dotted the dirt. A child's bicycle was propped up against the front steps. On the other side of the street, three men stood in front of an equally depressing home, leaning against a beat-up truck and talking. I could feel their eyes on us as we got out of the car.

  "Yeah, man," Trigg said. "It's no good. Johnny and Deborah had to move here a couple months ago. They were able to get out of some of the hospital bills, but it took everything they had."

  "Shit. I can't believe they're living in a place like this. I've sent them money, but it wasn’t much, since I owed that money to Fat Harry. I didn’t know it was this bad. Coker should pay for what he did." I exhaled heavily and pocketed the car keys before I looked over at the guys across the street. "Elias is going to fucking kill me if his Mustang gets jacked. He's crazy when it comes to this car."

  "Well, it's a sweet car. It makes sense he'd be psychotic about it. We'll watch it from inside," Trigg said. He lifted up the hem of his shirt to reveal the handgun tucked into his waistband. "But I brought this, just in case."

  "How's their little girl doing?" I asked, as we walked to the front door.

  "She's okay," Trigg said. "Johnny said she's been having some problems at school. But that's no big surprise, if the school is in a neighborhood like this, you know?"

  The door opened before we even knocked, and Deborah stood in the doorway, an apron wrapped around her waist. She wiped her hands on the fabric, and waved us inside, glancing behind us at the men across the street. "Silas, Trigg, come in," she said. "What are you doing here?"

  We stood awkwardly just inside the doorway of the small house, and Trigg angled himself near a window after giving Deborah a hug. "I'm just going to keep an eye out for the car," he said.

  "It's my brother's car," I explained, aware of how it seemed, us driving into this neighborhood in a car like that, like a couple of rich assholes. The truth was that we were far from it.

  "It's probably a good idea to watch," Deborah said, shaking her head. "The men there, they're no good. Drugs, I think. A lot of people go in and out of the house."

  "Trigg said you moved here a couple months ago," I said. Deborah gestured toward the table and chairs, and I sat while she busied herself in the kitchen, getting glasses and a pitcher of water.

  "The hospital bills cleaned us out," she said.

  "It happened a year ago, though," I said, shaking my head. "I thought the hospital bills were all taken care of. Johnny had insurance."

  "All of the hospital bills were taken care of, the ones from what happened at the fight," Deborah said. "But, months later, he was hiding the problems with dizziness. He was still having - what do they call it? - Vertigo. He couldn't operate heavy machinery, and then he lost his job as the equipment operator at the plant a couple months ago. Everything started going downhill."

  "I'm sorry, Deb," I said. "I left and - I didn't know. I'd have sent more, if I could."

  She waved her hand dismissively. "Please, Silas," she said. "You've already done so much. After what happened with you..."

  "I was lucky," I said, changing the subject. I didn't want a pity party. "What is Johnny doing? Is he okay now?"

  Deborah shrugged. "We'll make it," she said. "He's bagging groceries, picking up odd jobs here and there. He still has the dizziness, and migraines. We just needed to downsize a bit. We'll be fine. Tell me about you. How are you doing? Are you back in town to stay? Johnny will be real happy to see you. He's working late today, though."

  I shook my head. "I’m just popping in," I said. "I had a fight the other night."

  Deborah's face paled. "You're back with Coker?"

  "No, no, of course not," I said. "Abel called me to be in his corner for a fight, but he ended up in the hospital, so I too