den, staring blankly into the nonsense of beer commercials on TV.
‘What’s with her?’ Sinnott asked.
Cross didn’t bother looking up. ‘Who?’
‘Iris. Who else would I be talking about?’
Cross shrugged, fired the remote control at the flat-screen to change the channel. ‘I had to borrow some money. She doesn’t remember giving it to me. Whatever.’
Sinnott stepped back to peer down the hall, saw Iris through the open door moving frantically around the bedroom, piles of clothes in hand.
‘Looks like she’s moving out,’ he said.
‘Ask me if I give a shit,’ Cross said. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the TV.
Sinnott understood the situation immediately. Cross had ‘borrowed’ his fiancée’s money the same way he’d ‘borrowed’ Ruben’s. He was desperate, as were all the Class Act partners. It wouldn’t have been beneath Cross to treat someone he allegedly loved so callously under the most normal of circumstances, and now he was in the bind of his life. To him, simply taking what he needed from Iris, rather than wasting time asking for it, must have seemed like a complete no-brainer.
‘What can I do for you, Will?’ Cross asked.
‘I’ve been trying to call you all morning and you never called me back. Is your phone on?’
‘No. It’s Saturday. I’ll turn it on after lunch. What is it?’
The man was insane. They were thousands of dollars in debt to an enforcer for the Lizama drug cartel, and he didn’t think it important to have his cell phone on outside of normal business hours.
Sinnott said, ‘My father agreed to help.’
Cross finally turned around to face him.
‘It’s not the seventy grand we were hoping for, but it’s something.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty. With conditions.’
‘Shit. You couldn’t get the seventy? With conditions, you should’ve insisted on seventy.’
‘Perry, you asshole, you should be grateful he gave me a fucking dime!’
Cross had no idea how hard it had been, to what extent he’d had to prostrate himself to win his father over. Harmon Sinnott was a cold-hearted bastard who despised Cross with a passion, believing him to be both a destructive influence on his son and an associate beneath Will’s station. He hadn’t worked for a cent of the vast fortune he’d inherited from his own father but, if only for the sake of appearances, he’d always been gainfully employed running one business enterprise or another, and without the aid of others. Partnerships, in his mind, were for losers. Hence, his view of Class Act Productions, and the three young men Will was allied with under its banner, was that of a sieve, a glorified boys’ club that would never have anything to teach his son about capitalism other than how to make a failure of it and look like a drunken fool doing so.
‘So what are the conditions?’ Cross asked, finally turning off the television to fully acknowledge Sinnott’s presence in his home. ‘Aside from getting off the bottle?’
Sinnott didn’t say anything, having hoped Cross wouldn’t broach the subject until much later.
‘Ah. It’s come down to me again, hasn’t it?’ Cross stretched and yawned, then grinned broadly. ‘Well, don’t sweat it, Will. Daddy’s entitled to his opinion. And I’m sure the boys and I can figure out a way to get along without you, given thirty seconds or so to think about it.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘You’re right. That was uncalled for. Can I get you a drink? Wait, don’t tell me. Of course I can.’
Cross went to the wet bar and fixed Sinnott his usual libation, a Bulldog gin martini, dirty. It was barely noon. Sinnott watched him work the shaker, trying to generate the will to walk away, but in the end he simply walked over and took the glass from Cross’s hand, cursing his lack of backbone every inch of the way.
Maybe his father was right. Maybe he was just a puppet on Cross’s string.
‘So how short are we?’ he asked, sipping his drink with the casual,
‘What’s with her?’ Sinnott asked.
Cross didn’t bother looking up. ‘Who?’
‘Iris. Who else would I be talking about?’
Cross shrugged, fired the remote control at the flat-screen to change the channel. ‘I had to borrow some money. She doesn’t remember giving it to me. Whatever.’
Sinnott stepped back to peer down the hall, saw Iris through the open door moving frantically around the bedroom, piles of clothes in hand.
‘Looks like she’s moving out,’ he said.
‘Ask me if I give a shit,’ Cross said. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the TV.
Sinnott understood the situation immediately. Cross had ‘borrowed’ his fiancée’s money the same way he’d ‘borrowed’ Ruben’s. He was desperate, as were all the Class Act partners. It wouldn’t have been beneath Cross to treat someone he allegedly loved so callously under the most normal of circumstances, and now he was in the bind of his life. To him, simply taking what he needed from Iris, rather than wasting time asking for it, must have seemed like a complete no-brainer.
‘What can I do for you, Will?’ Cross asked.
‘I’ve been trying to call you all morning and you never called me back. Is your phone on?’
‘No. It’s Saturday. I’ll turn it on after lunch. What is it?’
The man was insane. They were thousands of dollars in debt to an enforcer for the Lizama drug cartel, and he didn’t think it important to have his cell phone on outside of normal business hours.
Sinnott said, ‘My father agreed to help.’
Cross finally turned around to face him.
‘It’s not the seventy grand we were hoping for, but it’s something.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty. With conditions.’
‘Shit. You couldn’t get the seventy? With conditions, you should’ve insisted on seventy.’
‘Perry, you asshole, you should be grateful he gave me a fucking dime!’
Cross had no idea how hard it had been, to what extent he’d had to prostrate himself to win his father over. Harmon Sinnott was a cold-hearted bastard who despised Cross with a passion, believing him to be both a destructive influence on his son and an associate beneath Will’s station. He hadn’t worked for a cent of the vast fortune he’d inherited from his own father but, if only for the sake of appearances, he’d always been gainfully employed running one business enterprise or another, and without the aid of others. Partnerships, in his mind, were for losers. Hence, his view of Class Act Productions, and the three young men Will was allied with under its banner, was that of a sieve, a glorified boys’ club that would never have anything to teach his son about capitalism other than how to make a failure of it and look like a drunken fool doing so.
‘So what are the conditions?’ Cross asked, finally turning off the television to fully acknowledge Sinnott’s presence in his home. ‘Aside from getting off the bottle?’
Sinnott didn’t say anything, having hoped Cross wouldn’t broach the subject until much later.
‘Ah. It’s come down to me again, hasn’t it?’ Cross stretched and yawned, then grinned broadly. ‘Well, don’t sweat it, Will. Daddy’s entitled to his opinion. And I’m sure the boys and I can figure out a way to get along without you, given thirty seconds or so to think about it.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘You’re right. That was uncalled for. Can I get you a drink? Wait, don’t tell me. Of course I can.’
Cross went to the wet bar and fixed Sinnott his usual libation, a Bulldog gin martini, dirty. It was barely noon. Sinnott watched him work the shaker, trying to generate the will to walk away, but in the end he simply walked over and took the glass from Cross’s hand, cursing his lack of backbone every inch of the way.
Maybe his father was right. Maybe he was just a puppet on Cross’s string.
‘So how short are we?’ he asked, sipping his drink with the casual,
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