The Giveaway by Tod Goldberg Read Free Book Online Page B

to give the Ghouls back their drugs—presuming Nick hadn’t already tried to sell them their own stuff—a good sum of it was already gone. And I didn’t feel comfortable giving anyone back a bunch of drugs—there’s no way into that situation that is safe and I didn’t particularly want to kill anyone that week. Or be killed, for that matter.
    “Nick, he’s a good guy,” Bruce said. “He just has a bad job. But who doesn’t?”
    Bruce made a convincing argument, but it might just have been his delivery. Having a sixty- five-year-old man give you a slice of prison wisdom does have a certain charm. He wanted to explain more, but before he could, Fiona came to the sliding glass window and cracked it open.
    “Zadie would like something to eat,” she said to Bruce, who jumped from his seat like he’d been shocked and went directly into caregiver mode, rushing off to the other side of the great room and into the kitchen to fix his mother a sandwich.
    Sam and I both watched him for a bit, how meticulous he was in putting together a plate for her, how he put the sandwich in one corner, a bit of Jell-O in another, how he washed by hand a few leaves of lettuce and then shook pepper onto them, followed by a dash of oil and vinegar. He then poured his mother an entire glass of ginger ale, no ice.
    “We have to help him,” I said quietly.
    Sam nodded once.
    Bruce walked past us to the patio without saying a word.
    “A complication,” Sam said, still watching Bruce. “Before I got here I ran the information on the house he hit. It was burned down last night.”
    “Not a surprise,” I said.
    “With the occupants inside of it,” Sam said.
    “How many?”
    “Two. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they found this Balsalmo in a ditch in the back if he’s as savvy as our friend Bruce is.”
    Page ten of the Ghouls’ constitution said, “You dishonor the Ghouls. The price is determined by your dishonor.”
    I guess they meant it.
     
    Trying to figure out how to return stolen property is like trying to un-swallow: There’s no actual opposite action that will return the property (or the food you’ve eaten) in its original form. There will always be an elemental difference. Steal from someone and even if they get their stuff back in whole cloth, they’re still going to feel that sense of violation. Steal from a criminal organization and whether or not they feel violated, they’re going to want revenge.
    In Bruce Grossman’s case, he didn’t actually want to return everything he’d stolen. He wanted to keep the money and give back the drugs and the paperwork and the box of patches that he’d also lifted and just call it even, which wasn’t going to work. There’s no even when three hundred thousand bucks is left out of the equation. And stealing a gang’s patches is maybe worst of all. It’s silly, but these grown men live and die for a stitch of cloth.
    “Here’s what I don’t get,” Sam said. We were back at my loft. I was eating blueberry yogurt. Fiona was doing this thing where she sits quietly flipping through a fashion magazine but is really listening to everything and waiting to make proclamations that will solve all the problems we’ve encountered. Sam was doing what Sam does: drinking my beer and asking questions. “If you’re a criminal mastermind, like Bruce thinks he is, why would you be so stupid?”
    “He’s not a criminal mastermind,” I said, “so that solves that.”
    “He’s closer to a criminal mastermind than either of you are,” Fiona said. She didn’t even bother to look up from her magazine.
    “Because we’re not criminals,” I said.
    “Have you ever tried to break into a safe-deposit box?” she asked.
    Sam and I looked at each other. She had a point. Kind of.
    “I’ve cracked into a few secure locations,” Sam said. “And Mikey here could have Fort Knox renamed Fort Westen in no time. Right, Mikey?”
    “Uh, right,” I said.
    Fiona was heading somewhere. This