Page 18 of Bad Blood
“Clear my schedule,” I instruct, following the stench of corruption and cheap aftershave into my office.
Opening the door, I find Monroe Spader bent over the side of my desk, the back of his greasy brown hair bobbing as he tries every drawer like his life depends on it.
“They’re all locked,” I note, closing the door behind me. Monroe’s spine stiffens as he slowly rises to his full height.All five foot eight inches of it.“Nice try, though.”
“Carrera,” he stammers, flashing a smile as sincere as a used car salesman. “I was just—”
“Save it.” Motioning for him to get the fuck out of my way, I collapse into my desk chair. “I’d be more offended if youdidn’ttry to break into my files. Any business partner worth my time would never take a man’s word at face value.”
None that are still alive at least.
“So are we…?” He hesitates, fisting the lapels of his suit jacket.Nerves.They always manifest whether you want them to or not.At my silence, he clarifies,“Business partners I mean.”
“You tell me.”
The answer had better be a confident “yes” with a lot of ass kissing. Our proposed partnership stands to not only line our pockets, but to carve deep inroads into enemy territory as well.
A deal that infiltrates the one place they aren’t protecting, and all arranged by the stupid grinning puppet staring down at me.
I’ve known for a while that Atlantic City’s chief gaming commissioner is a pious prick with his hand out. Like most politicians, Monroe’s morality is a two-faced whore: one face spews political promises while the other sits on a back-alley auction block.
One who can be collared and screwed for the right price.
Then again, the video footage I sent of him fucking his mistress sped things along.
“I don’t like the imbalance of risk, Santi,” he says, tugging at his collar.
I cock an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
“I’m the one shouldering all of it. If this deal goes south, I lose everything—my job, my reputation—hell, if enough violations add up, maybe even my freedom. What the hell do you have at stake?”
The fact that he has to ask irritates the shit out of me.
“Fuck your stakes. Your white-washed political risk means nothing. Jobs can be replaced. Reputations can be rebuilt. Even freedom can eventually be reclaimed.” Gritting my teeth, I jab my finger onto my desk. “But if this fucks up, I don’t get a reprimand,pendejo. I get tossed in the Hudson with a bullet in the back of my skull. You wanted to play in the big leagues, well here it is.” I spread my arms wide. “Welcome to the upper echelon. You either win big or lose your life. Those are the stakes. You still want to play?”
Sweat beads across his forehead, but to his credit, he doesn’t fold. Instead, he releases his death grip on his lapels. “Yeah, I still want in.”
Dance, puppet, dance.
“Good.” Turning, I motion across the black lacquer desk at the two empty chairs. “Have a seat and update me on the status of the New York situation.”
The New York situationhas been a thorn in my side for months. After successfully turning Legado into a gold-plated laundromat, it only made sense to replicate a winning formula and spread it across enemy territory. Unfortunately, a bunch of sanctimonious pearl-clutchers managed to get New York’s gambling ordinance revoked five years ago.
But I don’t accept defeat. I always find a way around it.
“I don’t know how he did it,” he says, shaking his head while lowering himself into the chair directly across from me. “But Senator Rick Sanders managed to get another ‘State gaming commission proposal' passed through the General Assembly. After burying it deep within an eight hundred and ninety page Senate bill, all that’s left is to get it approved by the State.”
“Any chance they’ll kill it?”
“Not likely. Sanders has solidified a damn-near unanimous vote.”
Unsurprising.New York’s flashiest senator is used to swaying the opposition in his favor. Twenty years ago, he ran New York’s cocaine distribution for Dante Santiago. These days he hides behind that American seal pinned to his lapel while his adopted son plays bitch boy to Santiago’s newest protege.
Edier Grayson: the other side of this fucked up East Coast coin. A piece of currency he’s going to wish he never stamped his face on.
A smirk tugs at the corners of my mouth. It seems Slick Rick has lost his edge. For all his street smarts, the Brooklyn asshole-turned-political prick didn’t think twice in sliding a few hundred thousand Monroe’s way in exchange for his expertise in crafting a new gaming bill.
And in screwing me over.
