Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(36)

When she shifted, Galahad leaped down, sauntered over to her sleep chair, jumped up.

“It could be just a game, the gambling game,” she continued, and rose to join Roarke at the board. “But I put that low on the list. They put too much into it—the time, the effort, the risk, and were too willing to kill an undetermined number of people—even after beating up a woman, terrifying a kid—not to reap a solid reward. But . . . that’s relative, isn’t it? What might be a good profit for you, it’s a different level than say one for Peabody.”

“Ten times an investment—likely more if they played the margins—is, regardless of the outlay, a very solid reward. If Peabody, for instance, bought five thousand of Econo this morning, she’d sell off now, if she chose, at more than fifty.”

“I get that. And they may be more Peabody’s level, or they might be yours. They’re probably something between. Peabody told me she and McNab are going to give you ten k to invest.”

“When they’ve put it together, and are comfortable with it.” He glanced over. “Does that concern you?”

“No. Maybe. No.” She paced away, paced back. “No,” she said more definitely. “It’s their money, or will be, and you’ll be careful. Probably more careful than with your own.”

She stopped, frowned again, paced again. “That’s a thing.”

“Is it?” He strolled over, opened the wall panel for a bottle of wine.

“They could save up the money, invest it themselves, but they don’t know squat about the stock market or trading or investments. They could go to some brokerage house and get somebody to advise them, but why do that when there’s you?”

Still frowning, she took the wine Roarke offered. “So it’s smart on their part. It’s a smart way to invest, to—what do they say—spend to make?”

“They do say that.”

“Trusting you with it, that’s as close to a sure thing as it gets. And this?” She gestured to the board. “That’s what they put together. It’s not so much a gamble if you stack the deck. Yeah, it can still go south, but you’ve skewed the odds in your favor. You’ve loaded the dice,” she murmured.

“And by the time the house is wise to it,” Roarke finished, “you’ve taken your winnings and gone. We’ll eat,” he added, “then work on it. I think it’s a night for red meat.”

She sat down to steak, tiny gold potatoes, tender spears of asparagus. After the first bite, she thought Roarke had been right again. It was a night for red meat.

“When you were still on my board,” she began, “you roped me into having dinner with you here. Steak.”

“I remember, yes.”

“That was the second time I’d ever had real steak. The cow deal.”

He broke a roll in two, handed her half. “You never said. When was the first?”

“When I made LT, Feeney took me out for a steak dinner. You get so used to the fake stuff, you think what’s the big deal.” She cut off a bite, studied it, ate it. “Then you find out. First steak,” she asked him.

“I was eight, or about, and stole one when I was rummaging about in a big house in a fancy part of Dublin. People will hide valuables in their cold boxes, as if any thief worthy of the name won’t look there.”

“Freezers,” she agreed, “underwear drawers. Usually the top two. So, the steak.”

“Mick and Brian and I fried it up on a hot plate in our hideaway, and surely bolloxed that up altogether. And still, I’ve never had better, before or after.”

When she smiled, he topped off her glass. “When Summerset took me in, we managed steak a time or two, and I learned how it was meant to taste. And still, that hunk of burned meat in our little hole was ambrosia.”

“They won’t be like us. Those two,” she said with a gesture back at the board. “When you grow up hard, like we did, it can turn you mean, violent, vicious. It can warp you. Or it can make you remember the taste of something wonderful. Either way, that’s not them.”

“Mean, violent, vicious? They don’t qualify?”

“Sure, but it’s thought out, it’s calculated, it’s carefully orchestrated. Not striking out, not payback, not survival or some fucked-up version of it. They don’t have to remember. They’re going to have advantages, most likely come from decent backgrounds. I’m betting a solid education and/or training.”

Studying her, fascinated as always by her mind, its processes, he sliced a bite of steak. “Why?”

“Okay, you gamble for a trio of basic reasons. For the hell of it, which includes entertainment factor—and that means you can afford to lose, at least what you put in. Out of desperation or addiction, which usually means you lose even if you win because you’ll end up feeding it back. Or because you want more, you just want more. I lean toward the want more. At least with what I’ve got now.”

She speared a tiny potato. “I also bet you’d know about some high-stake games right here in the city.”

He cocked a brow, sipped his wine. “I may.”

“It might be a thread to tug. You own some casinos,” she continued, “but you don’t really gamble. Cards, dice, like that.”