Backup Men by Ross Thomas

concerned about his health. That’s all. The rest of it you assumed.”
    “But this arrangement of yours with the Gothars. It would—”
    “There’s no arrangement.”
    “Are you trying to cut yourself in or out, Padillo?” Gitner said.
    “I’m already in. The only question left is for how much and who’s going to pay it.”
    Gitner and Kragstein traded glances, meaningful ones, I assumed. Kragstein decided to do the talking, probably because he was better at it. “We could always work out an accommodation, Michael.”
    “What kind?”
    “We’ve accepted this assignment on an incentive arrangement. The young man is to sign certain papers as soon as his brother dies. If he does not sign those papers, we receive a sizable bonus. Our fee is still adequate if he does sign the papers, but does not return to Llaquah. We receive virtually nothing if he does sign the papers and returns to Llaquah.”
    “So you’re in a hurry,” Padillo said.
    “That’s right,” Gitner said. “We’re in a hurry.”
    “Who’s your client?”
    “Does that matter?” Kragstein asked.
    “It does to McCorkle.”
    “Really? How?”
    “He was hoping it would be the wicked uncle.”
    “Kassim doesn’t have any uncles,” Gitner said.
    “Cousins?” I said, trying to make my voice sound hopeful.
    “He’s got some aunts and some cousins, but no uncles, except by marriage.”
    “I don’t suppose they count,” I said.
    Gitner turned to Kragstein. “What’s he talking about?”
    “We were discussing the possibility of working out an accommodation with Padillo before we became sidetracked,” Kragstein said. “Shall we continue?”
    “Fine,” Padillo said.
    Kragstein nodded. “We could arrange it several ways, of course, Michael. The one I prefer is that you come to your understanding with Miss Gothar and then be not nearly as proficient as you usually are.”
    “In other words, you take a dive,” Gitner said.
    “For how much?” Padillo said.
    Kragstein pointed the end of his beard at the dirty ceiling. “Oh, say twenty-five thousand. Dollars, of course.”
    “And I’d also be expected to tip you off about where Kassim might be stashed away,” Padillo said.
    “Yes,” Kragstein said. “That would be expected.”
    “All for twenty-five thousand dollars.”
    “That’s right,” Gitner said. “Twenty-five thousand. That’s good money for doing what you’d be doing which is nothing. I’d like to make twenty-five big ones for doing nothing.”
    “How much front money?” Padillo said.
    Kragstein ran a thick, nicely cared for hand over his gleaming scalp before answering. “Possibly seventy-five hundred.”
    Padillo laughed. It wasn’t really a laugh, it was more of a sharp, wordless bark of contempt. “Both you and Wanda,” he said.
    “Both of us what?” Kragstein said.
    “You’re both working on spec. How much oil do they guess is underneath Llaquab—eighty billion barrels?”
    “Ninety,” Kragstein said.
    Padillo leaned toward him across the table and switched from German to English. “That means a country whose annual income has been hovering around zero will get to watch it shoot up to seven or eight hundred million dollars a year—which is more than Kuwait gets. But that’s all sweet bye and bye money. Right now there’s not enough hard cash in this deal on either side to buy a pack of cigarettes.”
    “The money will be there,” Kragstein said.
    “What’s your asking price, Franz, a quarter of a million?”
    “That’s close enough,” Gitner said.
    “And you’re offering me ten percent, except that all you can scrape up between you in front money is seventy-five hundred. That means that you’re both almost broke and that’s why you’ve taken it on spec—because there’s nothing better around.”
    “You’re not rejecting our offer, are you, Padillo?” Kragstein said in a new, soft low tone that made what he’d said sound more like a threat than a question.
    Padillo rose.