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Chapters (57)
  1. Welcome to the Game
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraphs
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Six months later . . .
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. Back Cover

Spencer’s days were filled with detail: a homeless person in a bright ski jacket, an I VOTED HILLARY bumper sticker, a truck’s gouged and rusty rear underride guard, the bare metal exposed by some inattentive driver. The minutiae of a life on the city roads. As his mind quested for signs of danger, he saw it all. And now he wondered whether there’d been a glut of maroon Chargers of late, or just a lot of one in particular?

He knew that paying heed to his driver’s sixth sense could make the difference between champagne bubbles or burning. He faded out Cal’s words of wisdom on how the Tigers could do better and feinted a move into the left turn lane while watching his mirrors. And there it was.

“We got a tail.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said McGrath. Its presence actually seemed to make him happy. He was working his phone.

“Stay on the ninety-six. Head for the bridge. I hope you remembered your passport.”

Batiste watched the twin towers of the Ambassador Bridge recede in his mirror as they swept west on the seventy-five. Now they knew why it had been easy to keep up with Spencer. They couldn’t just follow a suspect vehicle into Canada without warrants. To add insult to injury, they also suspected its monetary cargo had been dirty all along.

What they didn’t know was that it had also been easy for a man hanging back on a motorcycle to pick their car out.

25

25

Playing to Lose

“What’s up?” said McGrath without lifting his eyes from his phone.

Their car was sailing high over the Detroit River on the Ambassador Bridge, heading for the Canadian border.

“How come you don’t worry the cops are, you know, wise to you, to us?” said Spencer.

“Should we all not go to work because the cops are sniffing our asses?”

Cal laughed to himself. It unnerved Spencer even more.

“But if they are on our case, am I going to get busted for carry­ing a ton of drug money around?”

“Ah, see that’s better. Maybe it’s a British thing, but oftentimes you seem to be saying one thing but thinking something completely different.”

“I’m glad you approve of the way I’m speaking today.”

“Yep, I do.” He went back to his phone.

The car fell silent again. Spencer’s pulse was racing. He glanced in the mirror, but Cal was gazing out the window, giving him nothing. Paranoia warped his thoughts. Why was McGrath being so blasé? Was that Dodge Charger working for him—or the cops?

Or both? Maybe they’re going to sell you out? Pin the three bodies found in your car down in Delray on you someday?

Spencer’s mind flashed back to when McGrath suggested he retrieve his shit from the car before the Yo-Yo lit it up.