Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues by Eric Garcia Page A

got to see her. Period.”
    Frankie slams the passenger door as he climbs out of the car. Roy lets it go. They stomp into the warehouse, Frankie in front. Roy’s got the shopping bags, the money. He doesn’t like carrying the money. Makes him nervous. He tries to watch the shadows as he walks, but the footing is tough out here. The rotting fish smell is still around. Roy can’t wait for winter.
    Saif is there to greet them, as always, arms wide, ready for an embrace. Roy gives in. He let Saif hug him the last time they came, and now he’s set a precedent. Price of doing business with Syrians. Or Turks. Whatever he is.
    “Forty grand,” Frankie tells Saif, taking the money out of Roy’s shopping bag, piling it atop a crate. “This is off the Kandinsky and the—what’s the one with the black rectangle in the middle and the orange one off to the side?”
    “The Wilder,” says Saif.
    “Yeah, that one. Twenty-five for the Kandinsky, fifteen for the Wilder.”
    Saif snaps his fingers, and a thin man dressed in a blue jumpsuit comes over, takes the cash. “And your cut?”
    “Taken out already,” says Roy. “Saves us time. If that’s all, we’ll see you tomorrow for another pickup.” He starts for the warehouse door.
    “My friends,” calls Saif. “Please, if you have a moment?”
    Roy doesn’t. He wants to get home. To get to bed. To see if Angela is asleep, dreaming. Safe. He looks to Frankie, whose eyes, hangdog, say it all. Stay. Listen to the man. “Yes?” Roy sighs, turning around.
    “Given that we have done so well these last few weeks, perhaps we are in a position to take our relationship further.”
    Roy shakes his head. “I don’t kiss till the fifth date.”
    Saif grins. “I grow tired of dealing with the same art. I have been doing it for many years, and while it is lucrative, it can be … boring.”
    “Take up a hobby,” Roy suggests. “Macramé. Golf. This concerns me how?”
    “The hobby I am looking into is your lifestyle.”
    “Our
lifestyle
?”
    “The con. The grift. I am interested in joining your situation.”
    “I thought I made this clear,” Roy says. “We don’t take on partners.”
    “Perhaps as a student—”
    “And we don’t take on projects.”
    Saif looks to Frankie. Roy can see they’ve discussed this before. Frankie nods his support to Saif, and the Turk continues. “I understand that for the larger schemes, the … the long-con … you need capital.”
    “We don’t play long.” They do, but not often. No use telling him that.
    “I understand that it can be most profitable. And I have the capital required.”
    “Money we got. Thanks, but no thanks.”
    Saif keeps talking, his words flowing over Roy’s. “Also, I have many friends with similar funding, similar capital. Many who are looking for a good score.”
    Roy makes his motions deliberate. Careful steps. Hard steps. He wants it to sink into Saif’s thick head this time. “I don’t know how many times I gotta tell you this,” he says, keeping his tone level. “Maybe I gotta scratch it into your forehead. Maybe I gotta carve it on your tombstone. But since we’re doing this art deal together, I’ll be nice one more time, and tell you plain: We. Don’t. Take. Partners.”
    Saif backs off. Lowers his eyes. “I see. Perhaps another time, my friends.”
    Another time. Roy can feel the pressure starting to build in his head, hear the sound of rushing water. The warehouse walls start to blur, and Roy knows he needs to relax. Think about hispills at home. Think about how well they’re working. Think about Angela, sleeping in the den. He can’t explode right here, right now.
    Teeth grinding, jaw clenching, Roy grabs Frankie by the upper arm and wordlessly leads him out of the warehouse, into the fish-air and the night.
    Frankie’s upset. “That’s the kinda thing I’m talking about,” he whines. “That’s the thing you do—that man wanted to
deal—
”
    Roy spins on his partner,