Ghosts - Matt Rogers (warren buffett book recommendations .TXT) 📗

‘We respect that,’ Slater said.

Gates turned to King. ‘Is that right?’

King stared him down. ‘That’s right.’

Gates said, ‘What can I do for the two of you?’

‘We heard you throw a mean party,’ Slater said.

‘Do I?’

‘That’s the word on the street.’

‘Maybe I don’t like my name mentioned on the street.’

‘Then speak to your friend,’ King said. ‘That’s not our problem.’

Gates stared at him, but there was a certain appreciation behind the glare. Namely, the fact that the new arrivals were being so brazen after having a loaded gun waved in their faces. Most would tuck their tails, cower and run. King and Slater were probably a welcome departure from the stream of old men who came through the doors.

Gates said, ‘I might.’

‘Will that stop us doing business?’

‘Depends how fat your pockets are.’

‘They’re fat,’ Slater said.

Gates turned. ‘Are they, ’mano?’

‘We heard you supply the best,’ Slater said. ‘We want the best.’

‘Then you heard correctly. How young do you like them?’

‘Fourteen, fifteen,’ King said. ‘No younger.’

‘Then I’ve got just what you need. Come on in. Let’s get you both a drink.’

Gates turned to usher them inside, then whipped back around, uncomfortably close to Slater. ‘Tell me, how’d your pockets get so fat?’

‘We sell fitness programs online,’ Slater said without hesitation.

Gates did hesitate. ‘You serious?’

‘Forty a pop, five thousand sales a month,’ Slater said. ‘It’s been like that for five years. You do the math.’

‘Twelve mil,’ Gates said, razor sharp, lightning quick. ‘Not bad.’

‘Then you take that twelve mil,’ King said, ‘which is more like six mil after taxes, and you buy pure fentanyl with it, and that pure fentanyl becomes twenty times the amount of enhanced product after the lab work, and then you distribute that all over the East Coast, and your six mil becomes a couple of hundred real quick.’

Slater stared daggers at King, as if conveying You weren’t supposed to tell him that part with a single look.

Gates mulled it over, no doubt on the back foot after such mind-boggling sums had been lackadaisically thrown in his face.

Then he slapped Slater on the shoulder, and his palm ricocheted off.

‘Hard as a rock,’ Gates said. ‘I believe it.’

He turned and led them into the neon-drenched interior. They walked down a glowing purple hallway, the hue far too strong to be tasteful.

As they moved, Gates said, ‘This is going to be an issue for your new friend if you’re telling me the truth.’

‘He’s not our friend,’ King said, acting disgruntled. ‘He’s an old blabbermouth. And he’ll deny it. He’ll make up some bullshit — trust me on that.’

Gates said, ‘Of course he will. We’re all about self-preservation, aren’t we?’

King said nothing.

Slater said nothing.

‘I’ll get him to admit it,’ Gates said. ‘Trust me on that.’

King tried to feel bad, but couldn’t. The old creep had chosen his path. He’d have to accept the consequences.

An undercurrent of throbbing bass began to resonate through the building. A dance track, blaring through speakers, muffled by competent insulation, but the vibration of the bass still ebbed through the walls and floors.

Gates reached the end of the hallway first and pushed open a door.

He stood aside, holding the door open with his back, and ushered them through.

King and Slater stepped into the club.

13

It was more pathetic than Slater imagined.

And his expectations hadn’t exactly been sky-high.

Maybe it was because of the inevitable comparisons to the multi-billion dollar casinos on the Strip, but this place was a hole. Everything was DIY, from the booths to the bar to the stripper poles spaced evenly across the dance floor. The dance floor comprised the centrepiece of the room, covering most of the space, with the ring of slightly raised booths around the outskirts acting as viewing platforms.

The lights were low to mask the patrons’ flaws — what little illumination there was came from LED light bars along the ceiling, spewing ugly neon. Purples and blues and greens and yellows, moving on predetermined patterns, turning the atmosphere sickly.

The patrons themselves were few and far between — Slater figured he and King had arrived too early for peak hour. There were ten guys scattered across the booths, some in pairs, most on their own. They trended older, but there were a couple of outliers — a pair of thirty-something men in suits. They’d each come separately. One was attractive enough, with thick black hair and a jawline, but the other had most definitely lost the genetic lottery.

Overall the customers were a sad bunch, and Slater could taste the misery in the air. They were all doing their best to suppress their pitiful presence with booze and cigars and drugs, but that’s like putting a band-aid on a severed arm. There’d be no fixing their flaws — hence their presence in a dump like this — so they were trying to stifle the shame however they could.

Slater counted six girls on shift, leaving four of the guests twiddling their thumbs. Which was deliberate. Scarcity was a tried and tested business model, and it was on full display here. The girls — all of them dolled up and dressed in revealing schoolgirl outfits to accentuate the disgusting fantasy — drifted from booth to booth, never lingering on one subject for too long.

Following Gates’ instructions.

If there was an overabundance of flesh on display, there’d be no urgency to pull out the big bucks.

If you think there’s a chance you might go home empty-handed, you’ll splash out just to get something … anything at all.

Otherwise it’s a waste of time.

Slater turned to Gates. ‘How does this work, exactly?’

Gates eyed him, seeing dollar signs, smelling desire. ‘Someone’s in a hurry.’

‘I don’t mess around,’ Slater said.

‘In life?’

‘And business.’

Gates looked him up and down, eyeing the suit, the loafers, the aura of wealth. ‘I can see that.’

‘So?’

Gates turned to King and put a big spidery hand on his shoulder, gripping it tight. Stared right at him with those big dead eyes. ‘Relax, ’mano. Find yourself a booth. Get comfortable. What do you want to drink?’

‘Just your