The Collectors Read Free

sunglasses. “I said party’s over. Pick up your cash and disappear,” she said in a voice notched an octave lower.
    She’d already noted that the bets left on the table had vanished the moment she started speaking. And she knew exactly where they’d gone. The tosser
was
good, reacting to the situation instantly and taking control of the only thing that mattered: the money. The crowd fled without bothering to argue about their missing cash.
    The muscle took a hesitant step toward the intruder but then froze as her gaze cut into him.
    “Don’t even think about it, because they just love fat boys like you in the federal swamp.” She looked him up and down lasciviously. “They get a lot more meat for their dime.” The muscle’s lip began to tremble even as he fell back and tried to fade into the wall.
    She marched up to him. “Uh-uh, big boy. When I said clear out, I meant you too.”
    The muscle nervously glanced at the other man, who said, “Get out of it. I’ll look you up later.”
    After the man had fled, she checked the tosser’s ID, smirking as she handed it back to him and then made him stand against the wall for a pat-down. She picked up a card from the table and turned it around so he could see the black queen. “Looks like I win.”
    The tosser stared unfazed at the card. “Since when do the feds care about a harmless game of chance?”
    She put the card back on the table. “Good thing your marks didn’t know how ‘chancy’ this game of chance really was. Maybe I should go and enlighten some of the bigger guys who might like to come back and beat the crap out of you.”
    He looked down at the black queen. “Like you said, you won. Why don’t you name your payoff?” He took a roll of cash from his fanny pack.
    In response she took out her creds, slipped the badge off her belt and dropped both on the table. He glanced down at them.
    “Go ahead,” she said casually. “I have no secrets.”
    He picked them up. The “creds” didn’t authenticate her as a law enforcement officer. Behind the plastic shield was a membership card for the Costco Warehouse Club. The badge was tin and engraved with a brand of German beer.
    His eyes widened as she slipped off her sunglasses and recognition instantly came. “Annabelle?”
    Annabelle Conroy said, “Leo, what the hell are you doing cooking monte with a bunch of losers in this crappy excuse for a town?”
    Leo Richter shrugged but his grin was wide. “Times are tough. And the guys are okay, a little green, but learning. And monte’s never let any of us down, has it?” He waved the wad of bills before stuffing them back in his fanny pack. “Little dicey pretending to be a cop,” he scolded mildly.
    “I never
said
I was a cop, people just assumed. That’s why we have a career, Leo, because, if you have enough balls, people assume. But while we’re talking about it, trying to
bribe
a cop?”
    “In my humble experience it works more often than not,” Leo said, fishing a cigarette out of a pack in his shirt pocket and offering her one. She declined.
    “How much you making on this gig?” she asked matter-of-factly.
    Leo glanced at her suspiciously as he lit his Winston, took a drag and blew smoke out his nostrils, neatly matching at least in miniature the fetid clouds coming out of the smokestacks overhead. “The pie’s split up enough as it is. I’ve got employees to take care of.”
    “Employees! Don’t tell me you’re issuing W-2s now?” Before he could answer, she added, “Monte’s not on my radar, Leo. So how much? I’m asking for a reason, a good one.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the wall waiting.
    He shrugged. “We usually work five locations on a rotation, about six hours a day. Clear three or four thou on a good one. Lotta union boys ’round here. Those guys are always itching to lose their cash. But we’ll be moving on soon. Another round of factory layoffs coming, and we don’t want people