I ran through what little I had, finding the envelope, no one around, no contact.
“Where are you now?” Iverson asked.
“Standing in the parking lot.”Staring at my car like it’s an unexploded bomb.I didn’t mention that part.
Iverson asked a few more questions, then told me to hold on. I didn’t dare talk to Zeke while we waited, because everything I said was being recorded for evidence in my little device. A bunch of people would hear it. I wanted to tell him about coming out to the team, or even bitch about the game, or something, anything normal and real. Instead, I just breathed.
Zeke murmured, “You’re doing good. Hang in there.”
Iverson came back on the line. “Looks like your uncle’s in your grandfather’s truck right now, about ten blocks from your house. Call him.”
“You want me to call him while he’s driving?”
“He can pull over. If he lets you go to voicemail, wait a minute then try again.”
“What do I say?”
“You tell him you counted the money and it’s short. Accuse him of skimming some off.”
“He’ll just say he didn’t.”
“Tell him you want to talk to Mr. Smith, or you’ll blow the whistle.”
“I don’t know…”
“Come on, Fitzpatrick. This is basic stuff. He’s no threat miles away from you. Get him talking, and demand to speak to Smith.”
“All right…”
“You can do it,” Zeke chimed in.
Iverson said, “We’ll be able to hear him on the bug Evans put in his truck. I have the audio feed pulled up now. He’s listening to country music and singing along, badly. You can’t be afraid of that weasel.”
“I’m not! Okay. Heading back to my car now. Wait. Do you think he bugged the car when he put the money in it?” We’d done it to him. Why couldn’t he do it to me?
“Doesn’t matter when you’re talking to him. But you’re right. Good precaution. Don’t call us from inside the car afterwards. Stop and get out. Maybe you’re not so slow after all.”
I stabbed the button to hang up on the conversation, because fuck that guy anyway. Once I was in my car, I hesitated, though, trying to get my head on straight.Create a story. Believe it.If I thought the money was short, I’d be angry, right? Which meant Icould yell at Uncle Wayne. Silver lining to all this bullshit— I had licence to call him every name in the book.
Except this wouldn’t work if the package wasn’t actually the money.Check before doing something really stupid.Slipping my fingers inside the discarded foil wrapper, I fumbled at the bottom of the envelope, groping it. While I’d never had even a thousand bucks cash in my hands, the wad inside the brown paper sure felt like a bunch of stacked bills.Okay. Okay.I shook the foil off my fingers, licked the oat crumbs from my fingertips, and picked up my phone.
Two deep, slow breaths— maybe five— and I set my phone to speaker so my little lapel pin would catch everything, hovered my finger over Uncle Wayne’s contact, pressed it.
After a couple of rings, Uncle Wayne answered. “Whadda ya want?”
“I found a package in my car.”
“So? You lost. You got paid. Right?”
I took a quick breath, because that was step one. Get Uncle Wayne on record about the cheating. Forcing my tone deep and loud, I said, “That wasn’t ten thousand dollars. You motherfucker, you shorted me!”
“Hey! Not my idea,” Uncle Wayne retorted. “Your pathetic team would’ve lost tonight no matter who was in goal. Why should he pay you the full amount when you didn’t do anything useful?”
I blinked, scrambling to rearrange my thoughts. I’d figured he’d deny it.So the money really was short? Um. Uh.I fumbled for the right approach. “Hey! I did what I was told. Why should I make our plan obvious by letting in extra goals when there was no need? We had a deal.”
“You’ll learn Mr. Smith can change deals when he wants to.”
“Oh, really?” I thought fast. “So his word isn’t any good? Does he know you go around telling people he’s a liar?”
