Page 69 of Bidding War

I can't tell if that was romantic advice or not. But I get out of the car and follow him into the building. It smells like floor wax throughout the halls. Wooden doors line the walls, and fluorescent lighting burns into my retinas. I've always hated places like this. Their garish lighting and endless halls make me feel like a rat in a scientist’s maze.

I'm relieved when Moss picks a door to stop at. “Here we are.” He knocks.

The chair scrapes the floor inside before footsteps carry to the door. No privacy in this place. Not if others were not working from home. Every sound carries, and I'm very, very glad that there's no one else around. The door opens, and a small man greets us. He is white to the point of being translucent. I would guess the UK is somewhere in his background. Thin nose and thinner lips. He has scant hair on the top of his head. His clothes are far nicer than I would have imagined he could afford.

But then again, if he has a $100,000 gambling debt, the man is probably making a decent living.

He nervously looks at Moss and stutters, “You brought company?”

“Do not worry about the company I keep. Can we come in?” It is not a request.

Jonesy opens the door wide for us, then closes it. “Can I get you some water?”

“We are not here for a visit, but you knew that.”

The office is far nicer than I expected, given the exterior. I'm unsure if he has a habit of overspending or if a CPA makes this kind of money. The floors are hardwood. His view is of the nice pond in the back. There's even a fountain. Expensive paintings hang on the walls, and the chairs and couch are from the same designer as my Dad’s private office pieces. I do not get the impression that he has the money for this. The man has cheap shoes. Spending beyond his means tells me that he is going to not want to pay up. I'm surprised that Moss calls him a good client.

He has a bit of a hunch as he walks to his desk chair. “No reason not to be friendly, right, Moss?”

Following Moss’ lead, I sit in the guest chair next to him. Moss grins. “I am always friendly, Edgar.”

“So then, who is your friend?”

Before he can speak, Moss puts his hand out in front of me, indicating I should keep my mouth shut. “That is not important. What is important is you pay Mr. West.”

“Right.” He gulps. Loudly. “The money.”

“Since I do not see a large bag around here for the money, does that mean it is a wire transfer?”

I have never heard of my father accepting a wire transfer. But maybe because he's a CPA, he knows how to hide it. The intricacies of money laundering have been tricky for me to learn.

“Moss, um. I've … I've had trouble getting the money.”

“Wife find out you lose money?”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. A spouse finding out that their partner owes us money is a dangerous proposition. That means witnesses. Witnesses mean legalities. None of us want that. Jonesy says, “She … she doesn't know anything. That's how I like to keep it.”

“So do I, Edgar. So do I. Which is why you must pay. I do not want your wife to find out anything. You do not want your wife to find out anything. It's much cleaner this way, right?”

“Yes, but taking that kind of money out of my 401K sends up too many red flags. I can't get the money.”

Moss takes a beat. “You mean to say you will not pay?”

Jonesy gulps again, then nervously licks his lips. A bead of sweat trickles down his lined forehead. “I won't.”

Moss sighs, then cracks his knuckles. “That is unfortunate, Edgar. I have always liked you. I want to keep liking you. Most important of all, you would like me to keep liking you. But today, you make a liar out of me.”

“How … how’s that?”

“I told my partner here that today is easy day. I want easy day. He want easy day. End of the three of us, you want easy day most of all.” He sits back. “So you make me liar, and I don't like that. I am a man of my word. That is difference between us. I give my word, I keep it. You give your word, you break it. That means I break things, Edgar. Things you wish I did not break. Maybe then you figure out how to pay.”

He stands up, and the hackles of my neck rise. I hate this part. Moss gave him plenty of lead-up. Gave him plenty of time to back out and agree to pay. Even after he said he couldn't, Moss still tried to give him that time to figure out how to pay. But now his time is up.

I brace my stomach for the sight of it. The sight of a cowering man is terrible. It’s worse when he’s getting the shit beat out of him. This kind of thing is my second least favorite thing about the job.

The first least favorite thing is all the murder.

I saw you trying to keep my eyes on the target, but it's hard. I can't imagine what's going through his mind right now other than fighting the urge to run. It must be hell to be in his head right now.

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