Free Sins of the Father by Christa Faust Page B

debt around in under a week, avoid the draconian vig, and still walk away with a healthy take.
    * * *
    Big Eddie’s office was above a chip shop. It had been lavishly decorated with more money than taste, but the thick, oily smell that drifted up from below reminded Peter that the thin veneer of class was just that.
    That went for Big Eddie himself, as well, sitting behind his ostentatious mahogany desk in his bespoke suit, diamond pinkie ring flashing, but you could still smell the rough, working-class sweat underneath the sweet miasma of his pricy cologne.
    A bored Eastern European supermodel wrapped up in sparkling couture bandages that barely covered the legal minimum of her long, thoroughbred body was sprawled decoratively on a nearby sofa, chain-smoking and staring into her phone. Big Eddie shooed her out with a wordless tilt of his gray stubbled chin. She didn’t even pout.
    “Sit down, Bishop,” he said in his thick Scottish accent, gesturing to the sofa recently vacated by the supermodel. “I must admit, I’m surprised to see you. Tell me, what dreadful misfortune has forced you to darken my door? Woman trouble, is it?”
    “It’s nothing like that,” Peter said, taking the seat he’d been offered. The sofa was modern and very low, making him feel a little awkward. There wasn’t enough room between it and the desk for him to stretch his legs out straight, so he had to bend them up so his knees felt almost as high as his shoulders. It had to be a deliberate move on Big Eddie’s part, forcing him to scrunch into this undignified position and look up at the Scotsman in his tall desk chair.
    “Well, then,” Big Eddie said, leaning forward in a mocking parody of earnest concern. “What exactly is it like?”
    “I need twenty-five grand,” Peter said. “I can turn it around in five days.”
    “Pounds or euros?”
    “Euros,” Peter replied, shifting his uncomfortably bent legs.
    Big Eddie nodded, taking out a small calculator from a desk drawer.
    “Right,” he said, punching buttons and scribbling in a leather-bound note book. “Collateral?”
    Peter put a hand into his messenger bag, knowing that if he hesitated for a fraction of a second or showed anything but nonchalant confidence in this moment, he’d be screwed.
    He extracted a slender file folder containing a sheaf of documents proving his five-year ownership of an upscale New Town property over on Albyn Place, and agreeing to transfer ownership to Big Eddie in the event that he was unable to pay back the loan within the agreed-upon time frame. Every page was a fake—and not his best work, given the time constraints—but he’d backed it all up by hacking into the local records and doing some creative editing, in case anyone decided to dig deeper.
    He hoped it would hold up.
    Then Peter sat back on the torturous sofa, slinging one arm over the back in what he hoped was a casual, relaxed pose while Big Eddie looked over the contents of the file. The Scotsman’s weathered face was stoic, revealing nothing.
    “Right,” he finally said. “You’ll have your money at…” He raised a hairy wrist, checking the time. Unlike Peter’s, his Rolex was real. “Half-seven tomorrow night.”
    Then he stood, reaching out to shake Peter’s hand. Peter lurched to his feet and took the offered hand. It was surprisingly large, and squeezed his fingers just a little too tight. Big Eddie smiled, his blue eyes bright and disturbingly merry.
    Peter had a little twinge of doubt in that moment, wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake.
    But he trusted Micki. She’d never let him down. It was a sure thing.
    Nevertheless, he felt a lot better once he was out of Big Eddie’s office—and out of range of that cheerful predator’s smile.

The next step of Micki’s carefully orchestrated plan involved wiring up her chosen love nest with hidden cameras. To that end, Peter paid a visit to a techie kid named Russel who could hook him up with all the necessary