Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues by Eric Garcia Page B

to have a use,” says Klein.
    “You’re a good guy, doc.”
    Dr. Klein stands and walks behind his desk, opens a file cabinet. “We’ll talk about it more next time, if you like,” he says, and pulls out a bottle of Roy’s pills. Tosses it across the room. Roy snatches it from the air, pockets the bottle. “This is a month’s supply, but I’d still like you to come back every week. Will you do that?”
    “Just to shoot the shit?”
    “Like today.”
    “Sure,” says Roy. “Sure, I’ll come back.”

    Three weeks later, and Roy is watching Frankie set up a blow-off on a Spanish Prisoner game they’re working three towns over. The stiff is some Joe from a dry-cleaning convention and he’s about to put down three big in the hopes that his money will allow Frankie’s younger sister over in Romania to bring the family fortune back to America. It’s a gag with gray hairs, but it still runs nice at the conventions.
    Roy’s not involved in this one; he helped to steer the guy in, but he’s been staying out of it ever since. Time to rest. The last few weeks have been productive, maybe the most productive in the last year. Nothing big, nothing too long-con, just short games run at breakneck speed. He’s got energy these days, and he can feel it. Yesterday, he pulled on an old pair of pants, and they almost fit. Waistband didn’t compress his stomach.
    And Frankie’s been on the ball, filling in where he used toslack off. Sharpened up his cue under Roy’s instruction. Good to see. Good partner, that Frankie. Getting better every day.
    When it’s all done, when the mark’s been blown off and Frankie’s back in the car with the three grand, he and Roy whoop it up. Get drive-through burgers ’cause the diner is too far away. Roy takes a pill with his meal, burger in one hand, drink in the other, knees on the steering wheel.
    “You still taking them things?” Frankie asks.
    “Every day.”
    Frankie nods, sips his drink. “That’s good, that’s good. Told you that doc was a good guy.”
    “Good judgment.”
    “You say that
now
 …”
    “What?” asks Roy. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means I can give you fucking medical advice but I can’t steer a hot item our way, that’s what it means.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Saif,” Frankie yelps. “I’m talking about Saif.”
    “The Arab.”
    “The Turk. Or Afghan, whatever—yeah, him. I been trying to set up a meeting for months. I’m telling you he’s a good guy, he’s ready to do business, and every time I bring it up, all you do is crap over it.”
    “I do not.”
    “You do, you take a massive dump over the whole thing.”
    Roy maintains, “I don’t see where we need it.”
    “I need it. Trust me on that one, okay? I need it. I got guys.”
    “Yeah, I heard about your guys.”
    Frankie finishes off his burger. He’s not letting up this time.“I’m telling you, there’s some real money in this thing, and all I’m asking for is a meeting. One little meeting, and that’s it.”
    Roy doesn’t understand why Frankie’s so agitated, but it doesn’t matter. He’s got his quirks, his little tweaks, but he’s been a good partner for years. He’s more on top of things than he ever was before. These fights, they don’t help anyone. Throw him a bone. “One meeting,” Roy says. “You set it up, time, place. And if I don’t like the guy—”
    “We split. No problem.”
    “I’m saying even if I don’t like his goddamned
hair—
”
    “Then we’re out,” Frankie says quickly. He’s excited. Like a kid, Roy thinks. A kid with his first after-school job. “It’s all your call, Roy.”
    “Bet your ass it is.”
    “You won’t be sorry. We’re gonna be swimming in cash, I promise you.”

    He’s barely inside the door when the phone starts to ring. He locks the door, fights the urge to unlock and lock it again, and heads into the kitchen. The carpet is looking good. Helps not to look