Page 50 of Misadventures of a Biker

She raked her fingers into the sides of her hair. “What if he doesn’t want it?”

“He wants it,” I said. “My guess is it’s going to be a matter of what the owner’s willing to accept. I just hope he doesn’t submit a lowball offer.”

She blew me a kiss. “I’m going to go vomit.”

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth afterward,” I said with a laugh.

I wanted the home to sell as much as she did. If it didn’t, there wasn’t anything I could do to change it. In following my morning routine, I started my playlist and turned the volume to a moderate level. As I scoured the internet for gift ideas, “Sinister Kid” by the Black Keys began. Tapping my fingers to the music, I looked up.

Vinnie’s black Cadillac approached the front door at the pace of a crawl. Blocking the sidewalk from any pedestrian traffic, it rolled to a stop.

The passenger door opened. A middle-aged man with the upper body of a deadlifter struggled to fit his body through the door opening. Wearing an old-school zip-up track suit, he looked the part of an Italian triggerman.

The car’s trunk popped open.

The musclebound passenger waddled to the trunk, reached inside, and produced a small gym bag. After draping it over his shoulder, he slammed the trunk closed.

While I gazed at the oversized thug with curious eyes, Vinnie got out of the car and stretched. He gestured toward the front of the building. The goombah nodded. Together, they sauntered toward the front door, each of them having the same bravado characteristics to their gait.

The thug opened the door and held it. Vinnie stepped through the opening and did the same thing I did when I saw the entrance for the first time. He gawked at the newly decorated space.

He slapped the meathead’s massive bicep. “Talk about nuotare nell’oro.”

The tracksuit-wearing thug nodded.

Vinnie met my gaze as he made his way to my desk. “Fuckin’ old lady wrecked her Bentley in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts. We couldn’t get out of there for thirty fuckin’ minutes. Puttana ran the red light. Van hit her, truck hit the van, and one of those fuckin’ Mini Coopahs hit the fuckin’ truck. Bam! Bam! Bam! Just like that. Watched it through the window. Paulie pulled the door open on the Mini Coopah. Girl didn’t have a fuckin’ scratch on her.”

“Sounds like a hell of a wreck,” I said.

“Truck had a load of roofing materials. Fuckin’ shit’s spread from here to that island down south. If anyone’s leaving, tell them to take Vanderbilt or be prepared for a fuckin’ wait.”

I turned down the music and stood. “I’ll do it.”

“You and me,” Vinnie said, leaning against the countertop. “We can talk. Just you and me?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. I nodded anyway. “Absolutely.”

“Theoretically speakin’, I can buy that house with cash. No?”

For effect, Hollywood movies portrayed a million dollars as being physically larger than it is in real life. In reality, a million dollars in hundred-dollar bills weighed twenty-two pounds and could easily fit into a small backpack, a briefcase, or a gym bag. Nevertheless, sixty million dollars would require a few wheelbarrows, sixty backpacks, or sixty briefcases, and weigh roughly half as much as the Mini Cooper Vinnie was referencing.

I wondered if the gym rat was carrying a down payment in his bag.

“Sure,” I said. “We could work out something with cash. What are you thinking?”

“Let’s say I have Brunei ten-thousand-dollah notes. They’re the same as Singapore notes. The exchange rate is one to one. For the hassle of getting it exchanged to US dollahs, I’ll give the puttana the US equivalent of sixty-two million in Brunei dollahs.” He cocked his head to the side. “We got a deal?”

My heart raced at the thought of him buying the home, but I had no earthly idea if we could accept that much cash. Hell, I didn’t know if we could accept Brunei money at all. I knew that banks typically exchanged foreign currency. In Naples it had to be a common occurrence, considering the foreign population. Sixty million dollars, however, was a little excessive.

“You’ve got sixty million in cash?” I asked, knowing there was no way he was carrying one-tenth of that much money.

“Sixty-two million,” he replied. “In US equivalence.” He nodded toward the goombah. “Paulie’s got eight thousand four hundred and thirty-two bills in that bag. It’s worth sixty-two million in US dollahs at today’s exchange rate.”

Simple math told me that eighty-four hundred ten-thousand-dollar bills would weigh roughly eighty-four percent of what a million dollars weighed. In short, less than twenty pounds.

“I’m about to piss my pants,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I was headed that way when you came in. Can you give me a minute?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”