Page 22 of Bidding War

Probably because I let him take me to his favorite strip club in Jersey. This man loves naked women dancing almost as much as he loves a strip club buffet. I’d berate him for having such low-class tastes, but in all fairness to him, I have never had better chicken wings than those at Pink Coyotes.

Moss picks me up at my building in his gray SUV. It makes me feel better about things. We’re not going to collect on debts. That’s done in his black one. Likely, we’re going to remind people of their debts or make our presence known in certain areas of town. It’s a dick-swinging thing Dad has Moss do to ensure people haven’t forgotten about him and the services he offers.

Today, we are billboards with guns.

It’s not my favorite thing to do, but it’s better than collections. I hate collections. People get squirrely. Nothing has gone as badly as the first job I did with Moss. There haven't been any more murders. At least, as far as I know. So, I’ll take dick-swinging over collections any day.

I hope we don’t run into anyone running the same game we are. That’s always tense.

As I get into the passenger side, I smile at Moss, ever the amiable fellow. He grins at me. Moss is a bald white man with the build of a former linebacker. He’s gotten a bit of a belly on him from a love of pasta and beer, but the man is as solid as they come otherwise. Tall, too. He has a few inches on me. His Italian-ish accent pops out as he says, “You are in a good mood today, ah?”

I nod. “I am. The weather is holding out, and that cute blonde from the gym gave me her number.” A lie, but a carefully crafted one.

“This is good!” He guns the engine, and we’re off. “It’s good, but my Marianna will be heartbroken.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Pretty sure if that’s all it takes to break her heart, she is in for a world of disappointment.”

He nods, still smiling. “The heart wants what the heart wants. Even at ten years old, my daughter is boy crazy. How does this happen?”

“Were Caterina or Angela like that at her age?”

“No. Caterina wants to be scientist. Always serious, always studies. She is sixteen and so pale from books and no sun. Angela likes girls. But she was never girl crazy. Only my Marianna. But she says she does not like boys. She likes men.”

“I hope your house is as well-armed as your vehicles, then.”

He laughs and nods. “Oh yes. We are prepared for when the men come for Marianna. They won’t make it past my gate.”

So, he keeps guns at home. Not at all surprising, but good to know. Before I can build up to another probing question, though, he has one of his own.

“Your father and you, things have been tense, yeah?”

I nod. “But I think it’s getting better.”

“Why do you think so?”

He asks some version of this every time we do a ride-along, so I am not surprised by the question. It’s his—or Dad’s—way of getting me to say out loud what they want me to believe. It is a mind control technique that I’ve read about in a few books on cults recently.

But if I agree too easily, it will sound as fake as it is. So, I bite back the argument in my mind and keep a level smile on my face while I lie through my teeth. “I’ve come to believe he isn’t wrong about everything. The family, for all our flaws, has certain ways of doing things. I could fight against that and make my life hell, or I can accept that we have flaws. Right now, I am striving for acceptance.”

He affectionately smacks my knee, and his hand returns to the steering wheel. “You are a good son, Anderson. This is what I tell your father. That you just needed a chance to come around.”

Even the knee-smack is textbook cult behavior. I said the thing they wanted to hear, so I get a reward of something they think I want. They think I want to be one of the boys in the in-group. And I do, though not for the reasons they think I do.

I want into the in-group to dismantle the whole goddamn thing.

After researching everything I could about the mafia, cults, MLMs, and every other controlling group I could think of, I settled on cults as the blueprint for how Dad operates. It’s not so much traditional mafia operations. I’ve never seen anyone kiss a ring or call him any of their typical titles. Dad gets off on control. Total control. Which is more cultish than the mafia. Once I made that connection, it’s been easier to operate as a spy.

Now that I know what he wants to hear, I know what to say.

It helps that, for all his murdering, Moss is a likable man. That likability lets people drop their guard. It’s easy to do, and I find myself accidentally doing so from time to time. But that works in my favor, too. As long as he thinks I’m being straight with him, I won’t get a bullet in the back of my head.

No, not the back. Moss prefers to shoot people in their face.

He grunts and juts his chin at a man walking into a convenience store. “You see him? He is not supposed to be here today.”

“The white guy in the blue coat?”

He nods. “He owes.”

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