"Deal, Mr. Coker?" I asked. "You don't even understand the project."
Coker gestured to the seats reserved for us in a cordoned-off area ring-side, and I sat, crossing my legs and smoothing my skirt. I was out of place here, in my black skirt and designer stilettos, my expensive handbag and earrings.
The outfit wasn't entirely conservative - I was playing an international television producer, so I'd streaked a bit of purple through my hair and gone heavy-handed on the makeup, black eyeliner and red lips. More rocker chick than boardroom executive. It was eye-catching in a place like this, and that's exactly the effect I was going for.
It was a fuck-you-I-do-what-I-want vibe that I was putting off. At least, that was my intent.
Coker sat beside me, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. With his balding head and his paunch and his drawl, his entire presence screamed oil tycoon, not fight promoter. "I wouldn't have requested to meet with you if I didn't have an idea of what you were here for," he said. "Carl over at Burning Sands MMA told me what you're doing, that you’re not just scouting one fighter here. He said you’re starting a new fight channel – bringing fights to an international audience. That guy can't keep his fucking mouth shut. He thinks we're friends instead of rivals. He doesn't understand how business works. Not the way you and I do."
Coker laughed, and I smiled, the corners of my mouth drawn tight.
"He told you why I was here, did he?" I asked. "He assured me he would be discreet. Well then, I'm afraid I'll no longer be interested in his talent." The truth was, my crew had been setting this up, spreading word that I was scouting for local talent within Roy Coker’s circuit. Coker needed to know what I was doing here in Vegas, but he couldn't know it from me.
The mark should always think the con is his idea.
"Well," Coker said. "It’s his loss. And my gain."
"I do hope you understand that discretion is extremely important to me, and to the people I work for," I said. "Lack of discretion is simply...unacceptable."
Roy Coker made a fake zipping motion with his fat hand on his fat lips. "Mum's the word," he said. "I am as discrete as it gets. But I want you to know that I'm ready to do whatever it takes to get in on the deal."
I wrinkled my nose in an expression of disdain. "I’m here to see your fighter. Anything more than that would require greater capital than you could possibly have."
I was deliberately evasive, since I was counting on the fact that our cover story had gotten to Coker. Our cover story was that we were scouting talent for an international fight channel with a huge Middle Eastern and East Asian audience. One of the members of my crew, Emir - hacker and tech expert extraordinaire - had already uploaded videos, supposedly taken from our international fight channel, and posted them online, backdated through the past six months.
The key was that we'd hinted that there was a potential opportunity for a promoter who might want to invest in one of the shows. And that was the message we’d been spreading through whispers and rumors in the fight circuit. That was the message we wanted to get back to Coker.
"Try me," he said. "What kind of capital are you talking about?"
I waited a moment, listening to the sounds of the people gathering around, all of them waiting for the fight to begin. "Half a million dollars," I said, leaning toward him. "I'm here to see your fighter, because I'm curious, and I'm staying because I enjoy seeing an attractive man pummel another man. But I'm afraid investing like this is something better left to the big boys, Mr. Coker."
I kept my eyes straight ahead, but from the corner of my eye, I could see him shift uncomfortably in his chair. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
The truth is, my team knew what he could afford. Half a million dollars wasn't a number I'd just pulled out of my ass.
He was silent for a moment.
This was my favorite part of a con - the part where we got to see if what we'd predicted about the mark's behavior was true.
Would he take the bait?
The truth was, they almost always took the bait. Greedy men couldn't resist an opportunity to act on their greed.
To me, a long con didn't get any more exciting than this moment right now.
I could feel the goose bumps on my arms. My pulse raced, the blood pumping loudly in my ears, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
This part of a con was like a high. I’d never been addicted to anything, like booze or drugs, thanks to my parents, who instilled in me the importance of situational awareness. But the high of running a con beat anything else in life I could imagine.
It was like an extended version of that moment right before the dice land on the table - the ultimate gamble, fate hanging in the balance.