Bermuda Schwartz by Bob Morris

Trimmingham’s face.
    â€œIt won’t do you any good to go to the police,” he says. “I haven’t done anything illegal.”
    â€œYou stole two million dollars from my account.”
    He holds up a finger, wags it at me.
    â€œPoint of fact,” he says, “as the legal and designated nominee of your account, and a signatory under the banking laws of Bermuda, I have full authority to transfer, withdraw, or deposit any funds …”
    I grab his finger and bend it backward. I’m pretty sure I feel something crack.
    Trimmingham lets out a yelp and yanks his hand away, clutching it against his chest. All eyes in the bar are once again on us.
    â€œArthritis,” I tell everyone. “It flares up on him every now and then.”
    People go back to minding their own business. I go back to my little tete-a-tete with Trimmingham.
    â€œPoint of fact,” I say. “You’re going to be in a lot worse agony than you are right now unless you tell me exactly why you took my money.”
    â€œAll right, all right, I’ll tell you,” he says. “See, this investment opportunity came along, a very good one. But I had to move fast. I was working on your behalf, of course, and fully intended to notify you once everything was complete, but …”
    I stomp on his foot. I hit the bony top of his arch and I can tell that it stings. Trimmingham jolts his leg away and jostles the table. I manage to grab my beer, but Trimmingham’s drink topples over before he can save all of it.
    â€œFuck all, that hurt,” says Trimmingham.
    â€œThe truth, Trimmingham. Or else you aren’t going to have many parts left that don’t hurt.”
    He looks away, jiggling the ice that remains in his glass.
    â€œThe truth is, I’m in a bit of a jam, OK?” He looks at me. His eyes are pleading. “I was wrong, I admit it. But I didn’t think you’d notice. You opened the account six months ago and it has been inactive ever since. I figured you were one of those guys who just wanted to put his money in the cooler for a little while. That’s the way it is with lots of these accounts I handle, especially those that come through Arzghanian. So I thought I could use the money for a few weeks, then return it, and no one would be the wiser.”
    â€œUse it for what?”
    â€œReal estate investment. Guy I know is building some condos out near Tucker’s Town. A place called Governor’s Pointe. Ultra high-end. Very exclusive. I bought six of them at preconstruction prices, thinking I could flip them.”
    â€œAnd you haven’t been able to.”
    Trimmingham shrugs.
    â€œThe market has gone soft. It’s taking longer than I predicted.”
    â€œSo why are you sweating it? It’s my goddamn money sitting out there.”
    Trimmingham looks down at the table.
    â€œIt’s more complicated than that,” he says.
    â€œI’ve got all the time in the world.”
    I settle back in the booth with my Tennants. Trimmingham jiggles the ice in his glass, finishes off the little bit of gin that’s left.
    â€œI’ve had to borrow money from other people to get me over the hump,” he says. “Payment on the property is running almost seventy thousand a month.”
    â€œHow much have you had to borrow?”
    â€œA lot,” he says. “And the interest on it is piling up.”
    â€œAm I right in guessing that the people you had to borrow this money from are not the kind of people who are amused when you miss a payment?”
    â€œBloody understatement, that,” says Trimmingham. “Listen, I really need to use the men’s room. Why don’t you order us another round.”
    He slides out of the booth and disappears down the hall. I watch as the hall floods with daylight, then goes dark again as the back door slams shut.
    Men’s room, my ass.
    I’m not the only one who sees Trimmingham