Confidence

The con, for Myka, is a set of moving parts: a puzzle solved through reason, the application of logic over time. Work is deduction, a mapping-out and a thinking-through – the human elements largely abstracted to component pieces, moving together as she needs them to. For Pete it's different, more linear and less cerebral - every assignment an assault course laid out against a new geography, every mark an obstacle to be conquered. He feels his way, and for the most part it works; his instincts, she knows, are better than hers, finely-tuned where hers are blunt, nurtured where hers are left to wither. Artie, as long as she's known him, has framed the job as something more competitive - a zero-sum game, the mark's loss adding up to his gain, to theirs. Privately, she understands the three of them as complementary archetypes: The Thinker, The Doer, The Player.

Claudia, she thinks, could be another Artie, for all her technologies: playing and strategizing; acting and reacting; two moves ahead, or twenty.

And Helena – Helena is a different kind of puzzle.

"You seem very deep in thought," she says, eyeing Myka through the rearview mirror.

"Just wondering about next steps," says Myka.

"After today?"

"After tomorrow, I guess. Once we're done here."

"I find it simpler not to plan too far ahead."

"You planned this."

"I did. And I daresay I'll plan the next one, when it presents itself. But if I were to be planning the next one now, while this one is in progress... Who knows what that might do to my concentration?"

Myka looks down at the dash, at the moving dots of her phone's GPS.

"He's catching us up," she says.

"Let him," says Helena. "It's easier if we all arrive together. I certainly have no desire to wait around in this heat."

Easing off the gas, Myka signals left; turns the Maybach into a rising stretch of suburban road marked by ever-larger brick and stone-clad houses. At the very end of the road she sees their final stop, a Greek Revival eyesore ringed by white concrete pillars. She drives towards it; hits the brake beside the pair of sleeping lion statues that separate the driveway from the sidewalk.

"It's perfect," says Helena, taking in the house from the back window. "So wonderfully gaudy; I can almost taste the satin furniture."

"Pete chose it," says Myka. "Between you and me, I think he's watched Scarface one too many times."

They leave the car – Helena letting herself out, this time – and position themselves on the sidewalk.

Half a second later, Leavenworth's Maserati pulls in behind them.

"Here we go," says Myka, under her breath.

"What are you doing here?" says Helena, as he steps out of the car.

"Same thing you are," he says. "Your girl gave me the address."

He's more confident than before, Myka thinks; more cocky, more disdainful.

"Just gave it you?" says Helena. “Of her own volition?”

"Well, no," he says. "I might have pushed her, just a little. But she knows she's got a good thing coming, if I make this happen."

"You think this is a bidding war?"

"If it is: I hope you bought your checkbook. Because for me? Money's really not a problem."

He brushes past her, up the driveway and towards the steps that lead to the front of the house. Helena chases after him, Myka on her heels.

The front door is solid oak, more suited to a medieval fortress than a home in the mountains. It opens before they can knock; reveals Pete just behind it, resplendent in white linen jacket, red silk shirt and sunglasses.

Myka smothers a laugh.

"Yeah?" he says.

"I'm here to see Mr. Whitefield," says Leavenworth.

"All of you?" says Pete, glaring at Myka through his sunglasses.

"They're not with me," says Leavenworth.

"But I would also like to speak to Mr. Whitefield," says Helena. "If he's available."

"He know you're coming?" says Pete. "Any of you?"

"No," says Leavenworth.

"Not exactly," says Helena.

"Mr. Whitefield doesn't do unscheduled visits," says Pete, and closes the door.

Leavenworth picks up the brass door-knocker; slams it hard against the wood.

Pete opens the door a second time.

"I thought I made myself pretty clear," he says.

"Come on, man," says Leavenworth. "I just want to talk to him."

"You need to be gone," says Pete, sliding his good hand inside his jacket. "Now."

Leavenworth takes a step back.

"Tony?" says a voice from inside the house. "What's going on here?"

Pete opens the door wider, affording them a view of a wood-paneled atrium, and a carpeted staircase, and Artie, in nothing but a bathrobe, descending the stairs like Scarlett O'Hara.

"People to see you, sir," says Pete. "They were just leaving."

Artie walks towards the doorway.

"For God's sake, Tony!" he says. "If they're here to see me, send them through! Come in, come in," he adds, beckoning them into the hall.

Pete steps aside to let them pass.

"This is a beautiful place," says Leavenworth.

"Thank you," says Artie. "It took a while to get it just the way I wanted it. Now, what can I do for you?"

Leavenworth straightens his spine; pushes back his shoulders.

"I'll get straight to the point," he says. "I want to buy something from you."

Helena snorts.

"Buy what, exactly?" says Artie. "I wasn't aware I was selling anything."

"A girl," says Leavenworth. "A singer, Leah Fox. She signed with you in April."

"Ah, Leah" says Artie. "Great girl. Staggering talent. A real find."

"But you've not done anything with her," says Leavenworth. "No tours, no releases. From what I heard, you've still got her doing dive bars out in the boondocks."

"I'm new to this music business," says Artie. "Still finding my way. But I have plans for her, big plans."

"And what line of work were you in before, Mr. Whitefield?" says Helena.

"Import/export," says Artie. "But it's always good to diversify, wouldn't you say?"

"Absolutely," says Leavenworth enthusiastically.

He really is an idiot, thinks Myka, and wonders: is there even any fun in this, for someone like Helena?

"Let me ask you," says Leavenworth, "one businessman to another: what do you want for her?"

"She's not for sale," says Artie.

"Everything's for sale," says Leavenworth. "If the price is right."

Helena snorts again, more pointedly.

"And what about you?" says Artie, turning to face her. "Are you looking to buy something from me, too?"

"I am," says Helena. "But I'd like to think I have a little more to offer than Mr. Leavenworth here."

"Which is what?" he says.

"For Miss Fox?" says Helena. "$100,000 upfront to release her from whatever contract you have her in. 2% gross on ticket sales for the first year, 1% thereafter."

"You're that sure she's gonna make you money?" says Artie.

"I'm positive," says Helena. "I know what I can get for her, if I take her back to L.A. I have a feeling you know yourself what she's worth."

Artie nods.

"But I also know," she says, "that you don't know what to do with her. You're holding onto her because she's valuable - like a Fabergé egg you found in the attic."

"And if I were to give her to you, Ms...?"

"Chadwick. Cassie Chadwick. And if you were to give her to me, Mr. Whitefield, you'd stand to make a lot of money yourself. Without any of the time and energy and capital you'd need to invest to do it independently."

"$100,000," says Artie. "That's not a lot of money, Ms. Chadwick. Not to me. And if I were a betting man, I'd say it wasn't much to you either."

"See it as a deposit," says Helena. "The real money, that comes later. Once I get her a deal. Get her out on tour."

Artie thinks for a moment.

"In that case," he says, "I'd surely be looking for a higher percentage on those sales. If I were looking at all."

"2% gross over three years," says Helena. "That's the best I can do."

"Wait a minute!" says Leavenworth. "I haven't made my offer yet."

"Is it better than hers?" says Artie. "What percentage are you offering?"

"Yes, Mr. Leavenworth," says Helena, sneering. "What percentage are you offering?"

"What?" he says. "Percentage? I don't know."

"I guess that answers that question," says Helena.

"Looks like you and I have something to talk about," says Artie to Helena.

"Perfect," says Helena. "I'll call my lawyer and have him draw up the paperwork."

"$500,000!" says Leavenworth. "I'll give you $500,000 for her!"

"The deal I have in mind, you'll make more than that the first 18 months," says Helena to Artie.

"Sounds good to me," says Artie.

Helena pulls her cell out of her handbag; starts to dial.

"Seven-fifty upfront!" says Leavenworth desperately.

"Upfront?" says Artie.

"Do the math, Mr. Whitefield," says Helena. "It isn't worth it."

"A million!" says Leavenworth. "I'll give you a million dollars for her, today."

"Ms. Chadwick?" says Artie. "What do you say to that?"

"I can go to two-fifty," says Helena. "No higher, not upfront. But over time..."

"I like to live in the moment," says Artie, after a pause. "Who knows what might happen tomorrow? You've got yourself a deal, Mr. Leavenworth."

"I'll write you a check," says Leavenworth, smiling but shell-shocked.

"A check?" says Artie. "I don't think so."

"Mr. Whitefield only deals in cash," says Pete.

"Cash?" says Leavenworth.

"It's how I work," says Artie. "I like to keep things... liquid."

"I can have two-fifty here, in cash, tomorrow morning," says Helena, not missing a beat.

"I don't have that kind of money to hand," says Leavenworth. "It's all tied up."

"Shame," says Artie. "Ms. Chadwick, shall we?"

"Absolutely," says Helena, smiling at Leavenworth.

"I'll get it," he says. "Tomorrow. I'll get it tomorrow. I just have to... release a few things."

"You sure about that?" says Artie.

"You don't sound sure," says Helena.

"A hundred percent," says Leavenworth, glaring at her. "A million percent."

"Well, then," says Artie, "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

----

Leavenworth leaves first - the Maserati accelerating down the road and back out onto the highway before Myka can make it through the door.

Pete joins them outside; Artie follows, lips pursed and brows furrowed, and makes a beeline for Helena.

"What did you think you were doing in there?" he says. "You were supposed to push him to two million, not one."

"He wouldn't have gone further," says Helena calmly. "Did you not see him? He was panicking. Any larger an amount, and he would have backed away from the deal altogether."

"I don't know how many more times I can to say this to you," says Artie, "but it wasn't your call. We agreed on two million; two million was where you should have taken him."

"I adapted," she says, "to the conditions at hand. Isn't that what we do? Adapt?"

"Not without consulting the team first. We work together; we don't go rogue when it suits us."

"This wasn't some sort of renegade action. It was a pragmatic response to changing circumstances. I assume you'd rather a lower sum than that we abandon the enterprise altogether?"

"I rather you did what you were supposed to. And, more and more, I'd rather you weren't here with us at all."

Myka watches Helena; sees her face shift, subtly, from impassive to hurt and back again.

"I gave you this job," she says.

"And for what?” says Artie. “So you could make a little money? That isn't how we do things. We take down the marks; we don't skim off the top."

"You think a million dollars won't hurt him?"

"Two million would have hurt him more."

"He'll still need to dip his hand in the till. You can still make your call to the authorities, once we're out of state."

"You don't know that. You have no way of knowing that. God… how could I even think we'd be able to work with someone like you?"

"Someone like me?"

"A hustler. A con artist. I should have known you'd screw us over before we were done."

Helena's face changes again, from hurt to anger, then a kind of bitter resignation. She's going to leave, thinks Myka; another word, and she's gone.

"Stop," she says - to Artie or to Helena, she isn't sure.

All three of them turn to look at her.

"Stop?" says Artie.

"It isn't helpful," she says, "the finger-pointing. She did what she needed to do at the time. Right, Helena?"

"Yes," says Helena, slowly.

"And we still got him."

"We did," says Pete, holding up his phone. "He's on his way to the city now. I'd guess to the bank."

"So can you just, I don't know… let it go?" she says to Artie.

"Let it go?" he says. "She went off-script. You know we can't afford to have anyone do that."

"It's a different way of working, that's all. But different isn’t bad, necessarily. She's still part of the team."

"For now," says Artie.

"For as long as she wants to be," says Myka, looking anywhere but at Helena as she speaks.

----

They drive back to the cabin in silence.

“I’m sorry about what happened back there,” says Myka, as they walk into the living room.

“It’s quite alright,” says Helena stiffly.

“No, it’s not. What Artie said – I don’t think that. Pete doesn’t think that. I’m not even sure that Artie does – he just gets carried away in the moment.”

“He’s absolutely correct, though. We’re not the same. We have entirely different motivations.”

“It doesn’t matter. You did a great job; played it just right.”

“Nevertheless. I am, as he said, a con artist, not some… crusader for justice, or however you’d characterise yourself. And very likely I would, exactly as he suggested, screw the three of you over in one way or another, given time.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You ought to. There’s ample precedent.”

“I trust what I see. And I’ve seen nothing to tell me that’s true.”

“And what do you see?” says Helena, stepping closer.

“Capability,” says Myka, staying exactly where she is. “Professionalism. And loyalty, when it matters. I’ve seen how you are with Claudia.”

“Claudia is a special case.”

“I’m sure she is. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“I’m not the same as you. I’m not principled, or self-sacrificing. I do this because I like it. I like it.”

“You think I don’t?”

“I think it isn’t about the thrill of it, for you. I think you’re in it for the outcome, not the process.”

“Then you really haven’t been watching that closely.”

“I’ve been watching,” says Helena, her eyes on Myka’s.

“Good,” says Myka.

And kisses her.