Page 23 of Bidding War

Shit. “But we’re not prepared for that kind of thing?—"

“No. We are not.” The gray SUV has armored doors just like the black one, but Moss usually keeps only two guns in it. The black SUV is practically an armory on most days. Despite this, he pulls over in front of the convenience store.

“What’s the plan, Moss?” This is definitely off-book. I don’t like to admit it, but I’m sweating this.

“We will say hello.” He unbuckles his seatbelt. “Come on.”

I don’t like it, but I don’t get to say no, either. Not if I want to be the good son.

To my relief, he doesn’t go to the rear of the SUV where the guns are. Evidently, we really will just say hello. Walking into the convenience store, I see the wariness in the owner’s eyes. He’s a Chinese man, and when he smiles at Moss, it is nothing but nervous.

To my surprise, Moss asks him something in Cantonese. I shouldn’t be surprised by Moss anymore. The man comes off as a street thug, but I’ve heard him speak Russian, Italian, Cantonese, and German in the past few weeks. When he chooses the music in the car, it’s always classical. As much as he appreciates the low-rent world of strip clubs, he’s also a fan of the opera.

When Moss laughs, the Chinese man does, too, so I smile and nod along. The owner sees us to the back through some plastic flaps that serve as a divider. It’s colder back here and dark, but with Moss in front of me, I worry less about a hail of bullets and more about a fistfight breaking out.

Instead, it’s a poker game.

The man in the blue coat sees Moss and bolts out the back door. I step to chase him, but Moss puts his arm out to stop me. I follow his lead and shrug it off. The owner says in English, “He loses a lot. That’s why we like him. You didn’t have to chase him away.”

Moss chuckles, his massive shoulders bouncing. He pulls out a wad of hundreds and peels ten off. “This make up for it?”

The owner nods once. “Thank you, Moss.”

“Keep him out. He is persona non grata in your games until he pays.”

Another nod.

Moss tells me, “Let’s go.”

Once we’re back in the SUV, my curiosity gets the better of me. “Has Dad said anything to you about me?”

“Only that he wants you to join me in doing this. Has he spoken to you about it?”

“Just that day on the boat. I want to make things up to him, Moss. I’ve never understood my father, but I’m starting to. Any suggestions?” Anything you can tell me that might give me leverage?

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “Mr. West likes cooperation. He rewards it. Keep cooperating, and you will be rewarded.”

“Things are sketchy at work, too,” I tell him, sitting back in faux-resignation. “So, I’ve been applying to places in New York just to see what I’m worth. You know, fishing.”

He nods. “A man should know what he is worth.”

“That’s just it, though. Dad keeps blocking me, calling in favors to get my interviews canceled. I have stellar credentials, and I get no callbacks. Nothing. So, I don’t get to know what I’m worth. That seem fair to you?” I will drive a wedge between them with the flimsiest of things if I have to.

He makes a noncommittal grunt. His favorite sound, I think. “It is not for me to decide what is fair for another man’s child. I raise my girls a certain way. He raises his boys a certain way. I do not judge.”

Dammit. “I’m thirty, Moss. I’m not a boy.”

“Aye, no, but you are still his son. You will always be his son.”

Biologically, yes. But in reality, no. Not ever.

13

JUNE

Sunlight creeps in at the edges of my curtains, and I want it to stop. But with a huff at myself, I throw the covers back to get started with my day.

I don’t want to. In fact, all I want to do is stay in bed all morning. And afternoon. Evening, too. But I did that yesterday. Today is a day for action.

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