22

Gregory

Riker Corgan is sweating as he shakes my hand. "I'd say you overpaid, but, uh—" He clears his throat. Corgan's a heavyset man, bald, middle-aged, wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants. "I suspect you already know."

"Consider the excess a friendly gesture. I'm aware of the risk you're taking by selling to me." I walk with him toward the conference room door. We're in a nondescript office I rented right in downtown. Bottles of water gleam in the middle of the table. I have the entire twenty-first floor, although only two rooms are furnished. "Do you need anything else?"

"A drink," he says, not smiling. "Something strong. And a plane ticket to Mexico."

"I could help with both, but I suspect you have them well in hand."

Corgan chuckles as I escort him to the elevators. We pass empty space for cubicles, empty offices, empty halls. "Can I offer some advice?" he asks, and he doesn't look like he cares whether I agree or not. I definitely don't give a damn what he has to say. He goes o