The Giveaway by Tod Goldberg Page A

this,” I said, “you’re going to need to put that magazine down.”
    “If I do that,” she said, perfectly calm, “I might be inclined to use it as a weapon.”
    “Fine,” I said. I sat down on my bed, across from the chair she was sitting in. “Let’s hear it.”
    “Well,” she said, “do you consider me your friend or your associate?”
    “Yes, technically, I believe both are accurate descriptions.”
    Fiona hurled the magazine at me, but fortunately she hadn’t slipped a sharp piece of broken glass into the pages beforehand, which is a nice trick if you want to really hurt someone. So the magazine just fluttered to the ground.
    “Wrong answer,” she said.
    “Fi, look, I’m not comfortable categorizing who we are to complete strangers, particularly not people like Bruce Grossman. He’s not exactly a confidential source.”
    “I’m not speaking of him solely,” she said. “It would just be nice if, every now and then, I knew where I stood before I was offended by your boorish behavior.”
    “Okay,” I said, thinking, I have no idea where we stand, moment to moment . “How would you like me to describe you?”
    Fiona stood up then, went into my kitchen, poured water into a teapot and began preparing a cup of tea. It was as if I wasn’t even in the room. I watched her for a few moments, the simple, fluid motions of her actions, the lack of wasted space she conveyed. After about five minutes, the water came to a boil and she fixed her tea. She sat back down in her chair and played absently with the steeping teabag. “Any ideas come to you yet, Michael?” she asked.
    “A few,” I said.
    “Good,” she said. “Remember them when next the moment arises.”
    I nodded. “In the meantime”—I paused—“most elegant Fiona”—I paused again, to see how that went over; well, it turns out—“we need to figure out what to do with Bruce Grossman.”
    “How much time do you presume he has left until the Ghouls figure out who did the job?” she asked. “Assuming Balsalmo didn’t tell them?”
    “How many people living in Miami that they don’t already know could do the job?” I said. “Someone in Miami, other than Barry, other than Balsalmo, likely knows who Bruce Grossman is, especially if you did and you’re not even from these here parts.”
    “Then maybe you should just go tell them before they find out.”
    “You are elegant,” I said.
    “I know,” Fi said. She got up from her seat again and poured her tea down the drain.
    “You just made that,” I said.
    “Merely as an instructional tool,” she said. She looked at her watch. “Have you called your mother lately?”
    “No.”
    “You should,” she said, “seeing as I am the only person who has the kindness to actually return her calls.”
    “What does she have you doing?”
    “I’ve agreed to take her shopping for lamps this afternoon.”
    “You have fun with that,” I said.
    She walked over and kissed me once on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said.
    “For what?”
    “For watching,” she said, “and for wanting to watch.”
    Sometimes, just like a real person, all Fiona wants is to be appreciated.
    After Fiona left, I called Sam. “That was fast,” he said.
    “You just have to know the right words,” I said.
    “I’m not even at the Carlito yet. Right words or not, I figured this for a good day-or-two-long fight. Maybe with injuries. You have all of your limbs?”
    “Present and accounted for.”
    “She even hit you?”
    “Not this time,” I said.
    “She’s full of surprises,” Sam said. “When she does hit you, though, that actually hurts, right?”
    “It never feels good to get punched, Sam.” Sam started to respond, but I stopped him before he could begin exalting again the pleasures of the Flying Lotus, and instead I asked, “How long would it take for you to get your hands on a few bikes?”
    “I got a guy I could talk to,” he said.
    “Talk to him,” I said.
    “How many?”
    “Two,”