Page 10 of Violent Possession
This is part of the problem with men like Karpov and, subsequently, Ivan. They think intelligence is tied to an academic notebook, a diploma in a gothic font, and a square root. They don’t think intelligence mixes in a putrid ring like this. But on that, part of the time, they’re right.
The so-called Iron Arm sets off an unbearable alarm. And honestly, I don’t know whyhisis the name that sticks in my head. Something in the way he fought, in the way he transformed into something other than human the moment the bell rang.
The main idea is to rip away the business Karpov’s deceased uncle left in his lap, letting him play gladiator with his band of “strong men”. My family—I—will have 100% control over the drone routes, and Karpov would surely like to rid himself of the burden in exchange for a good deal to focus solely on his little fights. By then, with the right structure and the right face on the posters, even this filth can be repackaged, promoted, and made profitable on a scale he can’t even imagine. It can be made to look legitimate. And anything that looks legitimate can be used to make dirty money clean.
I hate getting involved. But this will prove fruitful. I’ll make sure of it.
“Put him in the ring against the opposite of Rat,” I say after a sigh. “A man who, for a change, knows what he’s doing—boxing, judo, muay-thai; it doesn’t matter.”
The idea lights up Karpov’s face for a second, then it fades. “A real professional is expensive. The purse would have to be high. I don’t have that kind of guy on my payroll.”
And I detest babysitting.
I slip a hand inside my suit and take out my wallet. There’s always a stack in there for minor contingencies, insignificant amounts on our monthly spreadsheets. I count out hundred-dollar bills.
“We’re in a partnership. Your success is my interest.” I separate a few tens of thousands; a minimal, thin green block, and extend it to him.
His eyes gleam green with money. The instant he reaches for the stack, I pull it out of his reach.
“I have conditions, Karpov.”
He sighs and straightens his spine. Poses as a man again—but this time, as the worst kind. He forces a wide, yellow smile, searching for the right words to convince me to hand over the cash.
“Of course, my friend, of course. What are your conditions?”
“Your drone operation,” I say. The reason I came here in the first place. “We’re willing to finance it, but we want a larger percentage.”
“Larger thanfifty? Ah, Malakov, now you’re fucking with me...”
“This offer covers the fees for your future fighters. If our route expansion plans would increase your profits by 30%, partnering with better fighters will... establish a higher standard. I can create a profit growth plan if you provide me with the numbers.”
Karpov stares at me, the yellow smile still stretched across his face, but his eyes sparking with the humiliation of being treated like the dog he is. Greed always wins with men like him.
“Sixty percent,” I say, “and total control over data security. In return, I’ll finance your entry into the professional fighting circuit. You get money, status, and the chance to rub it in Sacramento’s face that you don’t bet on losers.”
He chews on the offer. Sweat shines on his forehead, despite the relatively cooler air up here. “Fifty-five,” he tries. “Fifty-five percent for you, and we have a deal.”
“Sixty,” I repeat, starting to put the stack of bills back into my suit’s inner pocket. “The offer expires in five seconds, Karpov. After that, you can go back to organizing bar brawls with your toothless champion.”
“Deal! Deal, goddammit!” he says, too quickly, extending his hand. “Sixty. It’s a deal.”
I don’t shake his hand. I extend the stack of money and tap his palm with it.
He grabs it like an addict. He thumbs through the bills, pressing the currency strap that holds the stack together.
“Find a real fighter,” I order. “I hope you learn to manage your own ring,” I say quietly.
My assistance should raise his level. It would be difficult to lower it at this point.
The primate in the suit nods, enchanted by the money.
I roll my eyes. “Consider that amount a courtesy. Send me the price for a decent fighter when you have one.”
Karpov has an orgasm, an epiphany of profiting for nothing. He becomes pliable. “Ah, Mr. Malakov, you truly are a very special man.”
He doesn’t call memisterexcept in moments like this, kissing my ass and hoping it will secure him more easy money.
He holds the stack with relish. I can see it from here: reddish stains on his hands, on his face, even on the tip of his nose. He shouldn’t wear corduroy in the heat.
