BioShock: Rapture

“I dunno, boss,” Garcia said, scratching his head. Garcia was a chubby second-generation Cuban in a cheap three-piece suit, chomping a cigar that had never been anywhere near Cuba. “I get how knowing about Steele throwing the fight’ll get us paid off if we place our own bets through our guys,” Garcia was saying. “But, boss, I don’t see how you’re going to get the kinda money out of it you’re talking about…”

“’Cause he isn’t going to throw the fight. All the smart mob money’ll be on him losing—and we’ll bet on him winning. And we’ll take ’em big-time when he surprises ’em!”

Garcia blinked. “They’ll take it outta Steele’s hide, boss.”

“And how’s that my worry? Just you make sure the mob’s up to their neck betting against Steele. They’re gonna be sad little monkeys when they lose. But they won’t trace it to us. If you see Harley, tell him to keep an eye on that poker game up at the hotel, got some real big money suckers comin’ in…”

He walked over to Morry, to have a gander at the take, and heard a couple of the dockworkers talking over their flask. “Sure, Ryan’s hiring big down there. It’s a hot ticket, pal, big paydays. But problem is—real QT stuff. Can’t talk about the job. And it’s dangerous too. Somewhere out in the North Atlantic, Iceland way…”

Gorland’s ears pricked up at that.

He slipped outside by the side door and set himself to wait. Less than a minute later a couple of the deckhands came out, weather-beaten guys in watch caps and pea jackets, headed for the docks. The deck rats didn’t notice him following. They were too busy whistling at a group of girls having a smoke across the street.

He shadowed the sailors close to dockside, then hung back in the shadows of a doorway, sussing the scene out. The deckhands went aboard one of the ships—but it was another one that caught Gorland’s eye—a new freighter with a lot of activity on its decks, getting ready to cast loose. The name on the bow was The Olympian. That was one of Ryan’s ships. There was a guy in the lee of a stack of crates near the loading dock, smoking a pipe. Something about him said G-man. It wasn’t Voss—probably one of his men, if Gorland was any judge of cop flesh.

If Andrew Ryan was attracting G-men, he must be up to something of “questionable legal status.” Which meant, at the very least, he could be blackmailed—if Gorland could find out exactly what to blackmail him for.

Seemed like the agent was watching the two guys arguing at the gangplank of Ryan’s freighter—but he wasn’t close enough to listen in without them noticing.

Gorland tilted his hat so the G-man wouldn’t see his face and strolled over, hands in his pockets, weaving a bit, making like he was drunk.

“Maybe I can get me some work on one of these ships,” Gorland said, slurring his words. “Mebbe, mebbe… Back bustin’ work, they got… Don’t care for it… mebbe they need a social director…” He did a good drunk—and all three men discounted him immediately as he approached.

Gorland paused near the gangplank, muttering to himself as he pretended to struggle with lighting a cigarette. All the while, he listened to the argument between the man standing on the roped gangplank, and a mustachioed man on the dock who looked like he might be a deckhand.

“I just ain’t shipping out to that place again, and that’s all there is to it,” snarled the deckhand in the black peacoat. He wore a knit cap on his head and a handlebar mustache on his upper lip. A swarthy type, eyebrows merged in a single black bar. But getting old, maybe—skin leathery, hair salt and pepper, hand trembling as he jabbed a finger at the ship’s officer. “You ain’t going to make me go out there! Too goddamned risky!”

“Why, percentagewise, they’re losing less people than building the Brooklyn Bridge,” said the officer. “I have Mr. Greavy’s word on that. Stop being such a coward!”

“I don’t mind being on the ship—but in that hell down below, not me!”

“There’s no use trying to say you’ll only take the job if you stay on the ship—it’s what Greavy says that goes! If he says you go down, you go down!”

“Then you go down in my place—and you wrestle with the devil! It’s unholy, what he’s tryin’ to do down there!”

“If you leave here now, matey, you don’t get paid a penny more! Get aboard this instant—we sail in ten minutes—or you can say good-bye to your contract!”

“Two weeks salary for my life? Pah!”

“You won’t die down there. We had one run of bad luck is all—”

“I say it again: Pah! Good-bye to you, Mr. Forester!”

The deckhand stalked off—and Gorland realized the ship’s officer was glaring at him with unconcealed suspicion. “You—what are you doing hanging ’round here?”

Gorland flicked his cigarette butt into the sea. He grinned drunkenly. “Just having a smoke, matey.”

He set off to follow the deckhand, wondering what he’d stumbled onto. It was like a trail of coins gleaming on a moonlit path. If he kept following the shiny little clues he’d find the moneybag they were leaking from.