Bagmen (A Victor Carl Novel) by William Lashner Page A

could imagine all the twisting of phallus and limbs that the picture would show. It hurt her to pass it on, and I decided I didn’t need to look.
    “Does anyone else have a copy?” I said.
    “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Herbert.”
    “An honest blackmailer.”
    “Please don’t.”
    “Okay. You’re right.”
    “I don’t really want to say anything.”
    “I can tell that.”
    “And I’ve got nothing against him. You can let him know that, the Congressman. He gave me a gift and I’m ever grateful. But the times, they force you to do what you need to do. Maybe you’re too lucky to ever know about that, Mr. Herbert, and then good for you. But here I am, trading on the one thing I have left, feeling ashamed and relieved at the same time. I guess I’ll learn the price of it after all’s said and done.”
    I tapped the envelope on the tabletop. “How much do you want, Mrs. Barnes, to keep your secret?”
    “It’s hard to say. Just enough to get by.” Her mouth tightened, her jaw jutted slightly. “Ten. Ten for now, maybe.”
    This was the moment I had trained for, in school and in my practice. You can sense weakness in a person, sense the way a tiny bit of pressure here or there can change the contours of an entire deal. One thing lawyers can spot a mile away, in addition to an ambulance or a hundred-dollar bill on the ground, is weakness. I had the proof in my hand and the money in my bag. This was my moment, why the Congressman had called on my talents in the first place. Jump the weakness, win the day.
    “Ten?” I said.
    “Ten would get us through to the next year.”
    “And after that?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Then you’d be coming back for more, I assume.”
    “I don’t want to, Mr. Herbert. Maybe things will turn around.”
    “Maybe,” I said, “but that’s a hard word to use when planning the future. Maybe the lottery will hit, or maybe a meteor, or maybe life will just go on like it’s been going on. Let me ask you, Jessica, and think carefully now. Would twenty be better than ten?”
    Her head tilted in confusion. “I guess.”
    “Then maybe you should ask for thirty. How long would thirty last you and your family?”
    “I don’t know. I do earn some. And we could take out another loan if property values rise.”
    “And maybe with thirty, your husband could find it in himself to get to a school. Learn something technical.”
    “He’s always talking about HVAC.”
    “He could find a place to get a certificate in HVAC. Use some for tuition and take out a loan for the rest. One thing we always need is air-conditioning.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “If he can wake up in the morning with possibilities, he might be able to do something more than drink.”
    “Maybe, Mr. Herbert, maybe. Thirty would do it, yes.”
    I told you she was pretty, and young, and I admit to being a sucker for the young and the pretty. And there was something about that dress, the primness of it, and those shoes, that struck a chord, like she had dressed for church. And, yes, there was an attractive weakness in her, a softness at the core, that made me want to take raw advantage. But not advantage of her.
    “Then let’s say fifty,” I said. “Will that do it?”
    “Mr. Herbert?”
    “Fifty it is.”
    I opened the bag, tossed in the proof, and then reached an arm into the bag’s now-gaping jaw. Within the protection of the leather, I picked up one, two, five stacks of hundreds and put them one by one into a plain manila envelope. I folded the envelope around the stacks, pulled off the strip, and sealed the envelope into one sharp, compact package that I placed gently on the marble tabletop.
    She leaned back, her arms crossed now, her wary eyes ever warier. “And what do I have to do to get all this, Mr. Herbert? What are you going to demand of me?”
    “Only this,” I said, leaning forward, smiling like a shark as I pushed the envelope toward her. “Go home and take care of your family. Buy your