Page 71 of Tamed Enemy
It’s not clear if he’s passed out or if he’s merely asleep. Pliers rest on top of a car battery at the edge of the tarp. The room stinks of piss and shit.
Sawyer Best stands in front of the chair. He’s the only Sawgrass man not in uniform. But even in a dark navy suit andan open-neck white shirt, he’s the one who looks most like a general.
“Sorry,” I say to everyone. “We got caught in a ground delay at Teterboro.”
Best nods. “Fucking summer monsoons.” He looks from me to Kate. “You sure you both want to be here?”
I can only guess how much it costs her to keep her voice rock solid as she says, “Fucking positive.”
Best smirks and says, “Understood.”
I wasted an hour arguing with Kate on the flight down from New York, telling her she’s still recovering, that she needs to get her sleep, that I’ll relay Best’s full report once we’re done. But she countered every one of my arguments with, “Collins was working for Tarasov.”
I know when I’ve lost.
So now she’s standing firm in a slim, black business suit, her white shirt crisp against the tangled fire of her hair. I had the clothes delivered to the Plaza this morning from Gallagher Samson, the same boutique where she got her wedding dress. I hope the hotel incinerates the outfit she left behind.
“Okay,” Best says. “Let’s get started.”
A bucket of water sits near Collins’ feet. Best slings it with an easy motion, soaking the restrained man’s face.
Collins splutters as he rouses. It takes him a moment to focus on Best, but when he does, he starts to babble. “Sir. There’s been a misunderstanding. I’ve tried to explain… They won’t listen to me. It isn’t true, what they’re saying.”
“Easy, son,” Best says, settling a hand on his shoulder.
Kate stiffens beside me. She doesn’t want anyone showing compassion to the lying sack of shit who got Tarasov into that club. I shift my weight until our sleeves barely touch. I won’t embarrass her by taking her hand or folding my arm around her waist. She’s strong enough to face whatever is about to happen.
Best glances at Jacobson and nods toward the tarp. A folding chair materializes from somewhere. Best straddles it, leaning his forearms over the arched metal back. “Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Walk me through everything so I can be certain I understand. Can you do that?”
Collins gapes as if he’s just accepted Best as his personal savior. He sounds eager when he answers, like he wants a gold star. “Yes, sir!”
Best waits.
Collins says, “The beginning. I came to Sawgrass right out of the Navy. Six years ago, this September.”
Best says, “We don’t have to go that far back. Tell me about when you were posted to Baltimore.”
“It was the Bukowski job. Watching that warehouse down at the docks.”
“Tough assignment.”
“We never should have lost Rodriguez.”
“You were out for what, fifteen weeks, rehabbing that shattered femur?”
Kate leans closer as Collins nods, her jaw set. She doesn’t want to feel sorry for Jeremy Collins. She only wants to make him pay. I recognize her expression because it’s the same as mine.
Collins says, “Short-term disability. Sixty percent of my salary.”
Best prompts: “And you had other expenses.”
Another nod.
“Tell me about that,” Best says.
Collins sighs. “Sports bets. Fucking Ravens. They were supposed to go all the way.”
Kate smothers some sound at the back of her throat. The Canton Crew ran betting parlors across half of Baltimore inthe days before gambling was legal. She knows exactly what a football team can cost a betting man.
