Do you have any enemies?”
The following morning, I stumbled bleary-eyed into my office, suckling on my to-go mug of coffee, ready to take on the strangest case I had ever faced.
Then the damn phone rang.
I flopped in my chair, reluctantly set my coffee down, and picked up.
“Have you thought anymore about getting your daughter back.” His breathy act sounded all the more staged this morning. I had never thought someone pretending to be a perv could over-sell it to the point of sounding like a sniveling villain from a kid’s puppet show.
“Fuck off. Sheila told me all about you, Hersch .”
He pulled back on the hyperventilation shtick, but his chuckle still resembled one of the pair of cartoon idiots from that old MTV show. “She did, did she?”
“I already called bullshit on your con. But now I know who you are. You best drop this shit before I track you down.”
“Did dear Sheila tell you what else she let slip about you, Mr. Brone?”
“I don’t really care. You played her. I get it. I’m not interested in your grift.”
“Then hang up on me.”
“Fine.”
“How’s Autumn doing?”
That jammed a rock in my throat. I swallowed it down. When I spoke, I heard the abrasion to my voice and hated myself for it. “I wouldn’t know.”
“She still loves you.”
“I don’t know what you’re playing at now, but you can give it up. I couldn’t give two shits about Autumn.”
“Then why haven’t you hung up yet?”
My face burned as if I stared straight at the sun—on a clear summer day, not this disgusting winter gloom. The muscles in my arm turned to stone. I couldn’t hang up. Couldn’t move.
Hersch tittered. “That’s what I thought.” He cleared his throat which worked like a switch. When next he spoke, the dumb dropped right out of his voice, replaced by a clear and wicked-sounding baritone. “I went to visit your girlfriend in prison. She’s so desperate for visitors, she agreed to see me even though she didn’t know me.”
I wanted to say I didn’t care, he could suck it, I’m through with this conversation. I didn’t.
“She wants to see you, Ridley. She wants to know how your efforts to find her daughter are progressing. How are they progressing?”
“What do you want?”
“Money, of course.”
“You’re not getting it from me. Why are you wasting my time?”
“I’ve decided to play a game with you. I like games. Video games, board games, word games. Name it. That’s why I do what I do. I’m not a con man, Mr. Brone. I’m a gamesman.”
“See, I grew out of games when I was a kid. I don’t play anymore.”
“Not even poker? Blackjack? Solitaire?”
On slow days at the office, solitaire on the computer was my go-to before the porn. But I had no intention of playing along with him. “I’m pretty game free these days.”
“So you don’t want to play my game?”
“No thanks.”
“The rules are simple.”
Last night, I ended up drinking six more gin and tonics than the zero I’d planned. Now I wished I had gone for an even ten and woke up with a hangover that would have kept me in bed and away from this stupid phone conversation. “Why don’t we play my game instead? It’s called ‘Hang up on the inept grifter and take a much deserved nap.’”
“I like mine better. It’s called ‘Who can find Ridley Brone’s daughter first?’”
A bolt of lightning cut through me as if I had dared God to strike me down. An electric ache shot from the top of my skull right into my groin and knocked the wind out of me.
“Would you like to hear the rules now?” Hersch asked.
I couldn’t answer. I didn’t have the breath to carry my voice.
“There’s really only one special rule. Obviously it’s a race. But you have a chance to win before the starting pistol even fires.”
I tried to say something and only managed a strangled gasp.
“Give me one-million dollars and I’ll step out of the race.”
I had to speak, no matter how hard. “Go
The following morning, I stumbled bleary-eyed into my office, suckling on my to-go mug of coffee, ready to take on the strangest case I had ever faced.
Then the damn phone rang.
I flopped in my chair, reluctantly set my coffee down, and picked up.
“Have you thought anymore about getting your daughter back.” His breathy act sounded all the more staged this morning. I had never thought someone pretending to be a perv could over-sell it to the point of sounding like a sniveling villain from a kid’s puppet show.
“Fuck off. Sheila told me all about you, Hersch .”
He pulled back on the hyperventilation shtick, but his chuckle still resembled one of the pair of cartoon idiots from that old MTV show. “She did, did she?”
“I already called bullshit on your con. But now I know who you are. You best drop this shit before I track you down.”
“Did dear Sheila tell you what else she let slip about you, Mr. Brone?”
“I don’t really care. You played her. I get it. I’m not interested in your grift.”
“Then hang up on me.”
“Fine.”
“How’s Autumn doing?”
That jammed a rock in my throat. I swallowed it down. When I spoke, I heard the abrasion to my voice and hated myself for it. “I wouldn’t know.”
“She still loves you.”
“I don’t know what you’re playing at now, but you can give it up. I couldn’t give two shits about Autumn.”
“Then why haven’t you hung up yet?”
My face burned as if I stared straight at the sun—on a clear summer day, not this disgusting winter gloom. The muscles in my arm turned to stone. I couldn’t hang up. Couldn’t move.
Hersch tittered. “That’s what I thought.” He cleared his throat which worked like a switch. When next he spoke, the dumb dropped right out of his voice, replaced by a clear and wicked-sounding baritone. “I went to visit your girlfriend in prison. She’s so desperate for visitors, she agreed to see me even though she didn’t know me.”
I wanted to say I didn’t care, he could suck it, I’m through with this conversation. I didn’t.
“She wants to see you, Ridley. She wants to know how your efforts to find her daughter are progressing. How are they progressing?”
“What do you want?”
“Money, of course.”
“You’re not getting it from me. Why are you wasting my time?”
“I’ve decided to play a game with you. I like games. Video games, board games, word games. Name it. That’s why I do what I do. I’m not a con man, Mr. Brone. I’m a gamesman.”
“See, I grew out of games when I was a kid. I don’t play anymore.”
“Not even poker? Blackjack? Solitaire?”
On slow days at the office, solitaire on the computer was my go-to before the porn. But I had no intention of playing along with him. “I’m pretty game free these days.”
“So you don’t want to play my game?”
“No thanks.”
“The rules are simple.”
Last night, I ended up drinking six more gin and tonics than the zero I’d planned. Now I wished I had gone for an even ten and woke up with a hangover that would have kept me in bed and away from this stupid phone conversation. “Why don’t we play my game instead? It’s called ‘Hang up on the inept grifter and take a much deserved nap.’”
“I like mine better. It’s called ‘Who can find Ridley Brone’s daughter first?’”
A bolt of lightning cut through me as if I had dared God to strike me down. An electric ache shot from the top of my skull right into my groin and knocked the wind out of me.
“Would you like to hear the rules now?” Hersch asked.
I couldn’t answer. I didn’t have the breath to carry my voice.
“There’s really only one special rule. Obviously it’s a race. But you have a chance to win before the starting pistol even fires.”
I tried to say something and only managed a strangled gasp.
“Give me one-million dollars and I’ll step out of the race.”
I had to speak, no matter how hard. “Go
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