The drive from Gotham to the Ashbury Country Club was long, gray, and flanked by choppy cold water on his right. A coastline meant to be scenic, but it looked cheap. Like everything else. He followed it straight to the club entrance, rolled in at twelve-thirty, tossed the valet his keys without a word, and headed for the front desk.
"Tiffany Haskell."
"She's on the green, sir. We'll have someone escort you."
An eighteen-year-old kid in khakis and a club polo drove him past mid-swing retirees. Haskell stood on the far green, salmon shorts, white blouse, a scowl already in place.
Tiffany was twenty-nine, with sun-kissed skin and shoulder-length brown hair. Not pretty, not plain. Not sharp, not stupid. She lived in the middle of everything except her body. That was her weapon. A slim waist, tight arms, whisper-thin rumors of implants. Of course, there were other rumors too.
She waved off her caddie. "Hitch a ride back to the club. I've got a new one."
The cart rolled away. She teed up, red nails flashing like hazard lights.
"Some hot young thing keep you tied up?" she said in a bad mock of Uptown's accent.
"I see your enjoying the luxury of successful parents…with connections."
"My parents were public school teachers—that's hardly successful—and Garry was my dad's friend."
"Still better than most in Uptown or Eastside." said Dent.
"Is this why I'm here? So you can lecture me? Like you didn't humiliate me during the election?"
He smirked at how easy it was to get under her skin. "How's Garry? Enjoying retirement after years of doing nothing?"
"Whatever you got better be worth the wait," she said, not hiding her annoyance or frustration.
"That depends on what you know."
Tiff gave a few practice swings. "You wanted this meeting, Harvey."
"And you want out of your current job."
She swung, sharp, aggressive. The ball sliced hard left, landing deep in the rough.
"Game needs practice," he said.
"I heard yours is worse."
"I only play to rub shoulders."
She tossed the driver in the bag. "I also hear you prefer a different kind of green."
"Who doesn't like money?"
"I meant the tables." She climbed into the passenger's seat.
He stepped into the driver's seat, started the golf cart.
"I heard you might like them too much," she said, watching him sidelong.
"Oh? And who told you that?"
She smiled, laid a hand on his knee, casual, like she was steadying herself. But it was placed, not slipped.
"I can offer you Dermott & Chase. That breaks you into real estate. Vester, Poe & Lowell for criminal. Maybe Meyers Weston."
"Your old firm not on the table?"
He parked near the rough and handed her a nine iron. The gambling line was a taste of what she had. If she'd offered something smarter, he might've offered something better.
"You talk to Falcone's guys," he said.
She blinked like she was caught.
"I don't gamble at Cobblepot's joints. Only two outfits run poker worth a damn. And I don't sit at Maroni's tables."
She didn't deny it. Just planted her feet, lined up the shot, and sent the ball flying.
"Tell me what you've got. If it's good, I pay."
"I don't do ifs," she said.
"I don't do blank checks."
"I'm just asking that your old firm be on the table. Why does it matter?"
"The fact that you don't understand why it matters to me is why you're in this desperate situation," he said.
Her face scrunched like he'd said a riddle. She returned to the cart, sliding the club into the bag. He could see her eyes calculating and weighing her options.
"I got a room, if you're interested," she said.
Dent smirked. "I'm not."
She stepped closer. "Not curious?"
He looked her over, weighing the offer. Words like decency and ethics never entered his mind, he didn't deal in those. He played to win and good men finished last. Then a thought, sharp and sudden. His plans never arrived gently. They rode in like bad weather. A new strategy. A new angle