The Bad Beat by Tod Goldberg Read Free Book Online

shrugged. It was his default body motion. A series of shrugs that stood for hundreds of emotions. “I got into the U. And I’m a pretty good game designer. You ever play any games?”
    “No,” Fiona said.
    “Not even like first-person shooter games?”
    “Not for sport, no,” she said.
    I kept clicking through the Web site until I got to the contact page. Each of the main players in the company had an e-mail address and there was a general phone number, too. “These e-mail and phone numbers actually work?” I asked.
    Brent nodded. “That was part of the assignment. It’s what got me in trouble,” he said. “I used to get e-mail from people all the time asking for more information, or for scientific data, or for a quote—people doing stories on bandwidth for magazines and newspapers would contact the press agent e-mail at least twice a month. And sometimes I’d get e-mail or phone calls from people interested in investing, which I thought was crazy, because I just made up all the science on here. I just thought ‘kineoptic’ was a cool word, you know, like combining ‘kinetic’ and ‘optic,’ so, like, there it was.”
    “This phone number,” I said. “Where does it ring?”
    “Nowhere,” he said. “It’s an Internet number. It just records voice mail online.”
    “Smart,” I said.
    “Yeah?” he said.
    “You survive the next two weeks of your life,” I said, “you should look into whether or not Langley is hiring.”
    “I’m pretty much a pacifist,” he said.
    “Well,” I said, “too bad. So people would contact you and you’d do what?”
    “I used to just say stuff like, you know, ‘A major announcement will be made next year in Zurich and we’ll be able to provide you with more information at that time.’ But then I kept getting messages from this Russian technology import-export company that was very persistent in their desire to help fund my venture. I mean, I did my Googling, so I knew they were legit. I went through and looked at the coding on their Web site and all that. Even had a friend of mine who reads Russian read all the foreign stuff on them and, like, it sounded like some big faceless company, you know? Like some big asshole company that would screw the little guy. I mean. Yeah. That’s what I thought, you know?”
    “Even though you built a Web site just like theirs, but probably even more sophisticated, in your dorm room?” Fi said.
    “Well,” he said, “yeah, but, you know, I’m an American, so, yeah. And for a long time, like, it was a big joke with my classmates. If someone needed rent money or couldn’t make their car payment or whatever, they’d be like, ‘Call the Russians!’ So when my dad disappeared and the bookies started leaning on me, that’s what I did.”
    “When did your dad go missing?” I said.
    “Two months ago,” Brent said.
    “You have any idea where he might be?”
    “No,” he said. “He’s left before, like when I was a kid, but then it was only for like a week. He’d go get money somewhere and come back. He’d hook up with a bookie in some other city who didn’t know him and then he’d show back up when he could pay off his debt. Stupid.”
    “How much does he owe?” I asked.
    “I’ve already paid off sixty-five thousand bucks,” Brent said, as if it was nothing. I didn’t say anything. “But he’s got big tabs with guys all over town. Every week, a new guy shows up asking for his money. I’m supposed to meet a guy named Big Lumpy tomorrow to pay off part of a debt my dad has to him for fifteen large.”
    “ Fifteen large . Really.”
    “That’s how they talk,” Brent said. “That’s how my dad talks. I’m just telling you everything.”
    “How do you know you’re not getting shaken down?” Fiona asked. “I don’t want to be morbid, but your father could already be dead.”
    “He’s not,” Brent said. “Because I know he’s still betting. He took money out of a shared account of ours a week