Misdirection (Malcom)

[Sam Caraway]

There was something Sam loved about being in places after they had closed.

There was always an air of the clandestine, a feeling that you were up to no good – and if there was something Sam really enjoyed, it was being up to no good. That was the whole reason he enjoyed these poker evenings in the empty bar over the road from Kali’s Kafe: it brought back that small thrill, the frisson of excitement.

It wasn’t big money, and the stakes weren’t high. They were easygoing guys, men who worked in the local businesses – Sam enjoyed their company, and he’d never used his probability manipulation even once during any of their games. That would take all the fun out of the situation: he wasn’t here to win, he was here to play. In Vegas, the idea would have been laughable – but in Pilot Ridge, it made sense, somehow. He wasn’t conning people any more, and he even used his real name when he introduced himself. These poker games happened about once a month, and they were getting a bit of a name for themselves.

They started at eleven on a Monday night, after the bar had closed – half an hour of drinking and chatting, then the cards would be dealt. It was completely different to the games Sam was used to playing: there was an edge of competition, sure, but it wasn’t all about that. It was for fun, a chance to unwind and use their brains in a different way. He’d won a lot since he’d become a part of the group, but not too many times – not enough for anyone to get jealous. He could have won more, but Sam was too circumspect: just because he was the best player at the table didn’t mean that he had to show off about it, however much he would have liked to. So he came along every month, he played, he had fun. He’d made friends.

‘Did you hear, Reed’s bringing a new guy?’ Sam looked over at the speaker, a fellow bartender named Theo, and shook his head.

‘I hadn’t. Who is it?’

A shrug. ‘Some security guard, apparently. I think he works at the school.’

When locals said ‘the school’, they only ever meant Hammel. Needless to say, Sam had never mentioned that he had once attended it. Nodding with interest, he stepped back a little to include Theo in the conversation he’d already been a part of: counselling Jens, the owner of a local pizza place, on whether or not his wife was cheating on him.

It was nice to come to these and be completely normal – just a normal guy who didn’t have a meta-human ability or lots of money. Woe is you, Sammy. You should hear yourself. But it was the truth – things like that got in the way. There was a reason Sam hadn’t even told Josef about how rich he was, yet. He was still trying to work out the point in a relationship at which that little announcement should be made.

So he was his relaxed and talkative self, back to the door, when the final two guests at the poker night entered the otherwise empty bar.

[Malcom Black]

Welp. That hadn’t lasted long. There was an issue with staying clean, Malcom had realized. It was so much harder than having fun. Being clean was like being on a health food diet. Sure, you felt better about yourself. You were telling yourself that your body was free of toxins, that you were no longer eating enough Ramen to salt a small ocean, and that this was Good For You. But your body couldn’t help noticing that health food tasted like cardboard and chalk, and that you weren’t really good at cooking vegetables, and within a month of two you’d reverted back to the deliciousness of chocolate and Ritz crackers (which Malcom would solemnly swear were the best invention when it came to processed food) and felt like shit, but were oh so much more happy.

As far as Malcom could see it, this wasn’t really falling off the wagon. This was more pausing it so you could climb down and take care of business. This poker game was not high stakes. He’d gotten into far more intense ones. In reality, this was more of a game between friends. And as Malcom knew most of the people in town—mostly ‘cause he’d owed them money at some point or another—he’d gotten invited along. He’d tried to burn the bridges that led to late-night poker games in shadowy rooms. He really had. But he’d helped Reed move into his apartment, and had taught him some tricks about poker. He didn’t want to cut Reed off. And the first time Reed had invited him, he’d said no. Then he’d reflected how nice it was to sit around a table with guys and a beer and just talk. How relaxing it was, and the challenge that came with trying to read someone well enough to get some money off of ‘em. How it wasn’t like calling GA or AA to talk about all their issues—how there were no issues other than losing money.

Besides, these were for low stakes. So he’d capitulated, He told Reed he’d meet him there, and arrived—dressed casually and with a fairly small amount of money in his pocket—he’d told Reed not to let him bet more than that, and Reed had just rolled his eyes and asked if he was going to be the babysitter. Malcom hadn’t wanted to admit that the answer was a yes, so he’d laughed it off and slipped inside with Reed.

And paused, because a man he hadn’t thought he’d see in Pilot Ridge of all places was already there. He’d met Chance in Vegas—and not at one of his shining moments, either. Chance had been a high roller, and together, they’d made quite a bit of money. Malcom had even managed to save some of it. He knew Chance was a meta, so he had a reason for being here—but that didn’t mean he expected on it.

“What’s the matter with you, Mal?” Reed called. “See a ghost?”

“Huh?” Malcom glanced away, almost looked back at “Chance,” then laughed. “Nah. Just nice to be back, that’s all. I’m Malcom, by the way. Malcom Black. Friends call me Mal on my bad days.” He went around to introduce himself, then pulled out a seat next to Chance and offered his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr…?” There was a slight hint of a challenge in his eyes, but a hint of a smile if you knew where to look. Chance had been good for him in Vegas, and good to him, as much as you could be in a city where people didn’t really have friends, just competition and drinking buddies. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t very interested to see what name he gave in this environment.

[Sam Caraway]

Sam heard Reed call out to someone, and turned – he hadn’t realised that more participants had arrived. Everyone started to pull their seats around the table, and Sam paused for a moment to size up the newest member of the group: and found himself staring at the profile of someone who was very familiar.

Malcom Black. Never before had Sam been more grateful for his control over his facial expressions – there was no hint at all of the way his breathing caught, and the bolt of adrenaline which ran straight down his spine and into his stomach. No, he took his seat as if nothing was untoward at all, still joining in with the joke he’d been setting up on the man on his other side. They laughed, even while Sam was listening to Malcom introduce himself, and when his old friend (friend? He was using that word in all sorts of inappropriate ways lately, and this was just another of them) sat down next to him, he swallowed a grin.

Because in spite of the fact that this was definitely not going according to plan, Sam couldn’t help but feel exhilarated. Malcom knew things about Sam that he didn’t want anyone here to know, and Sam wasn’t at all sure that he could trust the other man to keep his mouth shut – but things had been too easy recently, and this was just part of the fun. By this point in his life, Sam was used to his ability making strange and unexpected things happen: it was almost a pattern, and he had been waiting for something like this to occur. Now Malcom was sitting next to him (Malcom, who had taken part in some of his most successful illegal activity, and who didn’t even know his real name), and he was offering him his hand to shake with an expression Sam definitely approved of.

‘Caraway,’ he said, for all the world as if they had never met one another before. Sam took Malcom’s hand and shook it firmly, eyes alight with what had to be laughter. He held on for a little moment longer than he usually would have before releasing his grip (always did have nice hands, didn’t you Sergeant?), and added: ‘Sam, if you’re feeling lucky.’ Nobody was looking at them, they were too busy working out who was going to deal the cards – Sam took advantage of that to give Malcom one of his cocky smirks, one eyebrow quirking before he looked back at the rest of the table.

Well, this was definitely going to make things more interesting. Theo was elected as the dealer, and as he started to shuffle the cards, Sam struggled to keep a smile from his face: he’d had an idea. His blue eyes flicked over to Malcom for just a second, but it was long enough to catch his attention – they had always been good at communicating like this, and there was a distinct challenge in Sam’s gaze for that brief moment.

C’mon, Mal, take the bait… They had been good. They had been very, very good, and Sam couldn’t help it – he missed having as much fun as they’d had when they had been seated around a poker table together. Theo was dealing the cards, and Sam let his right hand rest on the table-top for just a moment, palm facing upwards: Are you in? He didn’t look at Malcom, but he was definitely smirking as he kept his eyes on Theo’s movements.

It was the same part of his nature that made him pull pranks, and see how far he could push people: Sam loved throwing the coin up into the air and seeing how it would land.

[Malcom Black]

Chance didn’t seem alarmed to see him, although Malcom was gratified to see that he did at least have a momentary pause of recognition. Even if it was very slight—but Chance had always been good at that. Before Malcom knew it, he was already back to laughing with some of the other members of the group, and Malcom refocused his attention on his fellow card players—shaking their hands with a firm grip, because that was the best way to gather trust, and flashing grins and jokes and keeping them entertained. He liked doing it. He hated playing dour (which might’ve surprised a lot of students). It was more fun to keep them on their toes and keep them entertained by far. And people liked you better all the more for it.

So he was calling himself Caraway now, huh? One eyebrow quirked a little upward as if asking is that the best you can do?. But that almost sounded like it could be a real name—there had been Caraways attending Hammel back when the Black brood had been making their way through the school ranks. He didn’t see why not. He still had Chance’s tendency of holding his hand for longer than he should’ve, which was one of the reasons Malcom could never figure him out. Sometimes he would say the most interesting things…and then drop it. It was an itch Malcom knew he shouldn’t have scratched, but did—the desire to figure out just what Cha—ah, Sam—wanted.

“I’m always feeling lucky, don’t you know?” he grinned back to the smirk. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Isn’t that right, Reed?”

Reed grunted. He’d never been the most social while the cards were on the table. Good. That meant that most likely, the others wouldn’t pay that much attention. So he glanced back at Sam and said, cheerfully, “Well, nice to meet you anyways, Cara way.” Then Malcom shifted so he was sitting forward in his chair, and watched the man named Theo (Malcom paid more attention to names while playing cards because it made people more comfortable around him if he did remember) deal. But out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sam, because it was habit. Sam had been the reason he’d been successful in Vegas, and they had been good together. And part of it was just picking up on cues. And he was glad he had, because there was one right there.

This is a spectacularly bad idea, Malcom. Talk about falling into old bad habits again. The newly-renamed Sam Caraway was probably one of this worse ones, and here he was, at a gambling table, ready to go for it, and for what? Ten measly bucks? The thrill?

Of course. C’mon, what human being didn’t live for the thrill? And had he gotten to where he was by thinking twice about it? Nah. This was going to be his last time at this if he had any self-control. Might as well go out with a bang. So he let himself lean forward in the chair and against the table, signaling that the answer was a yes. He didn’t come as prepared as usual—he used to pack a spare deck in his sleeve just to get all the right cards he needed. But he still had a knack for sneaking them into the dealer’s hand if need be. He absently tapped twice on the table—Sam could lead this one. He was more than willing to follow. It was easier on him if one of them got caught. Not that it had happened all that often. Whatever Sam’s knack was, it was a hell of a lot more useful than Malcom’s gift was.

[Sam Caraway]

Sam had always put it down to his own luck that Malcom had never recognised him. They had never mentioned it (there was a lot that they didn’t talk about when they were together, and Sam had always been good at chattering a lot but saying nothing of any real use), but he had known that Malcom must have attended Hammel – he’d never made any comments about living abroad, as he probably would have done at least once if he’d been to Kocher. But Mal was younger than him, and Sam had changed considerably since school. Besides, he hadn’t recognised the other man when they had met, a fact he put mostly down to the fact that he had been incredibly self-involved while he had been at school.

What? And you weren’t?

He wondered if his old friend would recognise his last name – the Caraways had been like J. K Rowling’s Weasleys, with one popping up every few years to join the school. Black had rung bells for Sam when he’d first heard it, although he hadn’t been able to match any faces to the name. ‘Not too lucky, I hope,’ Sam replied to Malcom’s words with an easygoing grin, garnering a few wry chuckles from the other men around the table – they were all trying to work out if he was going to be a serious threat in this game.

It was strange to think that he was here. Sam had only just become used to playing poker in jeans and a t-shirt instead of a suit (Chance would only ever have worn a suit if he was setting foot in a casino, and he didn’t often play card games out of that supervised environment – the risks were too great if he got on someone’s bad side), and now…here was Malcom.

It was difficult to keep a wide grin from his face when the other man accepted his challenge, but somehow Sam managed it – his eyes never even flickered in Malcom’s direction. That was key: nobody should know that they were connected in any way. In Vegas they had gone to the same poker game only once every two weeks, and when Sam had assisted Malcom on the roulette tables, it had been when he was on the other side of the room. Being seen together too often was dangerous, and Sam had made it a rule that they would lose at poker just a little less than they won.

It had taken every ounce of persuasion he had to make Malcom agree to that one. But eventually the younger man had seen sense.

Malcom tapped the table, and Sam focussed everything he had on Theo’s hand movements – he was still only shuffling the cards, so there was time for a plan to come together in Sam’s quick mind. Luckily, someone had placed their glass too close to the edge of the table, and it chose that moment to fall: while a couple of the guys were mopping up the spillage and broken glass, Sam took advantage of the chatter to turn to Malcom. The men on either side of them were distracted, and he kept his body language casual. Nobody was listening as Sam murmured: ‘When I give you the go, you switch the cards.’ There was an infectious smile on his face, an almost child-like grin of delight. ‘Think you can do it?’ he asked, laughter in his voice, and then the group all turned back to the dealer.

He could have done it on his own – his ability would have been enough to ensure that the cards were dealt the way he wanted them to be. Do you want the truth? Sam had been intrigued enough by Malcom’s methods to want to use them – and the other man had needed the money, so Sam had ‘adopted’ him. Things had been getting too easy, so he had taken Malcom up to make them more interesting. It wasn’t because he needed Malcom, it was because he wanted him.

It was a good trick: Sam would make lucky guesses as to the cards, and Malcom would switch them so that one of them had the best hand. The chatter around the table died as Theo started to deal, and Sam felt a small smile come to his lips: this was the fun bit.

When they were sitting across a table, Sam would come up with a nervous habit to use as a signal. This was much easier – he could simply tap Malcom’s knee under the table when a switch needed to be made. The cards needed to be moved three times, and each time he tapped Malcom’s leg at exactly the right moment.

Eventually Theo was done, and Sam reached for his own pile of cards – he didn’t have anything particularly special in his hand, so he allowed himself a momentary glance at Malcom’s face: had the younger man managed to get a good hand?

[Malcom Black]

Malcom laughed along with the rest and shrugged his shoulders as he shifted back. “Nah. If I felt that kind of luck, I would’ve played the lottery.” Although he hadn’t. Even with the jackpot that had been offered, he’d felt no inclination to win it. Or try to. Staying clean, right? Besides, he had enough family that he doubted he’d see any of the money for very long if he had managed. “All right.” He grinned at the others. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

When they’d been working together in Vegas, Malcom wasn’t going to deny that he’d chaffed at some of Sam’s restrictions. He’d like to say that he’d been young and stupid, but it hadn’t been that long ago and he already knew he wasn’t that bright to begin with. Today, he’d probably still fight it if he hadn’t know why Sam had put in those restrictions. They were smart. Chan—Sam wasn’t a fighter. He was a gambler. Malcom was used to taking risks and being put in bad situations while Sam tried to avoid them.

Although Malcom had often complained, only half-jesting, that it just wasn’t as fun when he didn’t have to run like hell for something. The adrenaline junky part he had recovered from. Mostly. But he did wonder if he could possibly talk his rediscovered friend into bungee jumping.

Malcom had shifted to help with the glass—had almost reached out with his telekinesis just out of habit—but froze as Sam turned to him and sank back in his seat, turning to listen because he thought that it wouldn’t be noticed too much. Yup, he was out of practice when it came to this. He smiled at Sam’s comment, then snorted at the question and winked.

“Just watch, kiddo,” he muttered, then turned back, shaking his head. Think you can do it my ass. But a smile lingered on his lips anyways. He let it stay there, because there wasn’t much harm in seeming friendly, right? And then he turned his full attention to the game. Shifting cards for the dealer was a tricky thing. It was easier to get the cards into your own hands. That was where Sam came in—he indicated where and when the good cards were, and Malcom just had to focus on moving them. Not that this was easy. You had to make sure the dealer didn’t know what was being done, make sure they got put in the right hands, and so on. Mostly Malcom could do it by shifting the cards slightly in Theo’s hands so it wasn’t necessarily the top one he pulled. Or even shifting Theo’s hands themselves—he wasn’t above that. And if all else failed, a judicious sneeze that caused polite company to shift their attention allowed a card to end up in a completely different position in the deck. In Vegas, he’d had to substitute that trick because no one would pay him attention. So instead he’d splashed a little whiskey onto himself before the game and had, if the dealer was really skilled, fallen on someone. There was a reason Malcom had trained to stop himself from having any physical indications of using telekinesis (not the only one, mind. There were more important ones, like pranking his siblings into thinking there was a ghost in the house, or darker ones when he’d been in active combat). It was amazing how much more you could get away with because you didn’t have to use your hands.

He had never been sure if Sam had appreciated his extravagant moves, though. Probably not. Oh well.

The result of their labor was when Malcom picked up his cards, he had a straight flush. He was rusty at hiding his tells—and he’d never been as good at it as Sam was anyways—so a faint smile curved up his lips before he banished it. It wasn’t the best hand, but it was damn close, and the one thing Malcom had been wary of was getting the best hand. That was what people got suspicious of. But he did lean back in the seat and, because he knew Sam was watching, tapped his leg twice to show the hand, and then stretched a little to ask if he should play it or not. Sometimes the answer was no—Sam knew the group better than he did, and Malcom was good at swapping out a couple cards to make a good hand worse.

[Sam Caraway]

Sam had always enjoyed Malcom’s efforts to distract people while he was using his telekinesis. It was better when Sam was the one diverting the attention, because it made people less likely to connect Malcom with what was happening to the cards, but when the younger man did try a bit of misdirection, Sam always watched with great enjoyment. (Except, of course, when the other man made things too obvious – on those occasions, Sam was always ready with a withering look and some choice words later on.)

He saw the smile (good peripheral vision always paid off), and had to stop himself from chuckling: Malcom had always been bad at hiding what was going on in his head. Sam would have been lying if he hadn’t used that to his advantage on numerous occasions, but it didn’t really help when you were trying to play poker. Their nonverbal communication was coming back to him with every passing moment, and if Mal had met his eyes, he would have seen approval there: neither man needed to give any telltale glances to see if the other was watching – they could just take it for granted that signals would be picked up and utilised. Two taps…that meant a straight flush as far as Sam remembered, and for a moment he paused. In the old days he would have done something to his tie (straightened it, perhaps, or smoothed out a crease) to give the affirmative, but he was without that important piece of equipment today. So Sam reached out under the table and tapped Malcom’s leg twice, a conscious echo of his own signal: go for it.

They fended for themselves now – any sort of communication during the actual betting rounds would have been too obvious, and they both trusted each other to make the right decisions. Sam’s job in this was to keep going as long as he could no matter what his hand was (he was a cold-eyed better, and often outlasted people who had higher cards than he did, purely because he could make them think that he was holding something much more useful than it actually was), and drive the money up – that way, the pot they would win would be much bigger.

It wasn’t for the money this time, though. Sam sat back in his chair and joined in with the smiles and the banter, and made his bets, and felt happier to be in Pilot Ridge than he had done in a long time. He doubted that he’d have come to gambling if he hadn’t possessed the meta ability that he did, but Sam had always figured that he would have had some other adrenaline-inducing activity to partake in if he hadn’t been sitting at a blackjack table. He needed this, needed the kick he got out of trying to decode people and make sure that they would put the money into the middle of the table. And it felt good to have Malcom at his side, as well – Sam had always preferred working with another person to being on his own.

It took about an hour and a half, but the betting reached its’ highest point. Sam, Malcom and Jens were the last people left in the game, and Sam folded with a rueful grin after he’d made a show of trying to stare down the other men. He watched with the others as the final two showed their cards, joining in the chorus of groans when the newcomer beat Jens hands down. Malcom had won, and Sam clapped him on the back with the rest of them before gesturing to the room with his empty glass: if Malcom wanted to stay on side, he should use his windfall to buy everyone else a drink each.

There was another hour of drinking and then they disbanded, pulling on coats and grumbling about working the next day. ‘Paddy’s? Anyone?’ Sam asked, looking around hopefully, but the others shook their heads. Rolling his eyes, Sam sighed. ‘Fine,’ he said theatrically, 'Y'all are pussies.' He joined in the round of goodbyes, but his blue eyes found Malcom’s, and his small smile said it all – he expected the other man to follow him to the bar he had just mentioned.

Soon he was in Paddy’s, sitting in a corner with two glasses of Scotch in front of him. He was slouched casually in his chair, the picture of relaxation – but his eyes rarely left the door.

[Malcom Black]

He suspected that Sam was amused by his shows this time around—that, and the fact that he never could keep a half-way decent poker face. That fact he wasn’t ashamed of. So he wasn’t always good at keeping a straight face. He’d gotten better at it when he was working in Vegas. He’d been a little younger in those days, and had been a little closer to the horror of wars and so had adapted to deal with it without showing much. He’d been a sergeant with young, green trainees to deal with. You couldn’t let them know that you were terrified. And of course, he’d learned a lot from Sam too. Sam was a master of keeping a straight face. He’d definitely tried to mimic that to his own advantage. But it seemed he’d lost that knack while Sam had kept it. That wasn’t fair at all.

But they hadn’t lost the knack for silent communication. Sure, it was a little less sophisticated. Leg tapping was something they didn’t use so much in Vegas because they were rarely seated near each other, and because it was something that could be tracked with cameras and security men and things. Plus, Sam had always portrayed himself as straight, if he recalled (except for the curious flirting remarks he would make occasionally make), and leg tapping could give people ideas, that was for sure. But he repressed his smile this time, leaned forward, and took the cue to go for it.

He’d never been good at disguising when he had a good hand, but he managed it with a combination of self-depreciating humor, light teases, and calm stares when he needed to. His poker face was lousy, but his flinty-eye stare hardly had an equal. To his utter lack of surprise, Sam made it into the last round, and he was happy enough to put down his cards and shake the other man’s hand before coming to join the others. He promptly took Sam’s hint and loudly declared that he would buy the group a round. That seemed to make them a little more cheerful, but Sam was always good at that too. He resisted the first round of drinking, claiming that he didn’t need it and that he had work the next day, but by the second time, a glass had ended up in his hand. And before he knew it, it was empty too. Well, it turned out that he couldn’t even stay clean on that. Well, if it was going to be a night for lasts, he might as well enjoy it in all forms. He hung back as Sam mentioned the bar and shook his head like the others, but this was another show—this one to avoid being accused of being in league with Sam. But when they left he turned up the collar of his coat against the chill, waved goodbye to the others, and then headed in the direction of the bar.

One day he really needed to learn to stop following Sam mindlessly. This was a bad idea. Sam had gotten him into all kinds of trouble, and would likely get him into more. But it didn’t matter, because soon he was walking in anyways.

After all, he had to divvy up the money, right? He’d just say that was the reason.

He stopped at the door to shrug off his coat, then caught Sam’s bright eyes and grinned at him.

“I gotta say, Cha—ah, damn. It’s Caraway now, right?” He shook his head. “Anyways. What I’m trying to say is that this is the last place I expected you.” He crossed over to him and offered his hand to shake, then grinned and fetched the money from his pocket, counting out the bills and putting them out on the table. “There ya go. I wouldn’t have forgotten our little arrangement. This for me? Why, Sam, you shouldn’t have.” He laughed and sank into the seat. “So what has taken you from your native Vegas habitat, then? There’s gotta be a story behind that.”

[Sam Caraway]

‘Sam doesn’t have friends’, a teacher had written when Sam was fifteen. ‘He has followers’. He hadn’t been sure how he’d felt about that one – for one thing, it had been written as if that were a bad way to be. And secondly, he did have friends. What was Mason, if not a friend? Still, however much he disagreed with it, it was a piece of feedback which had stayed with him over the years – and he was reminded of it once again, when Malcom stepped through the door of the bar he was sitting in. Was Malcom a friend, or a follower?

In a way, he’d always thought of himself as being the one with the upper hand in the relationship they had (they’d never been straightforward friends, not really). Sam was the one with the expertise, the mentor instead of the learner. Malcom had mostly done what he was old, and had taken a lot from Sam’s teaching. It was never been on an equal footing between them, and Sam couldn’t resist thinking that he was the one in control. But Sam was quick to make first impressions, and looking at Malcom now, he could tell that things had definitely changed. He hadn’t weakened at all, but he had mellowed – and Malcom definitely looked more sure of himself than the younger, ex-soldier Sam had known in Vegas. Sam wasn’t worried, exactly, but he didn’t want to push things too far. Malcom no longer looked like the kind of guy who would unquestioningly do whatever Sam told him.

He had done everything so far, though. That was telling.

Sam smiled up at Malcom, one of his sunny grins, and shook the proffered hand warmly. ‘Of all the poker games in all the world…’ he chuckled at the surrealism of the situation, and watched with a satisfied expression as the younger man counted out their spoils. He definitely seemed in high spirits – Sam had almost forgotten the kind of high Malcom got from a good win. Reaching out, Sam collected his pile of bills and folded them into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I’d hunt you down if you had forgotten,’ he told Malcom teasingly, pushing one of the glasses of whiskey in his direction.

He didn’t answer Malcom’s question immediately, instead lifting his own glass and offering it in a toast: ‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ he said, taking a sip and relaxing back into his chair. Malcom had always been curious, and there had always been a number of times when Sam had refused to answer his questions – he considered doing so now, but figured it wasn’t worth it. Sam liked keeping his cards close to his chest, but what was the point in Pilot Ridge? Everyone knew everything about everyone else, and a few well-placed questions would give Malcom all the answers he wanted.

‘Would you believe me if I told you that Sam Caraway is my real name?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow and giving Malcom an amused smirk. Sometimes he said that when he didn’t want to tell someone something (it made it sound like he was saying ‘my real name is Sam Caraway’, but in fact, if you look closely, he wasn’t saying that at all), but that was what his conversation with Malcom had always been like. Sam had started off by flirting in an attempt to make the younger man uncomfortable (their first conversation had involved a comment about a ‘nice smile’, after all), and the tone had been set for every other encounter. ‘I’ve got family here,’ he told Malcom, a slight smirk still on his face as if he didn’t expect the younger man to believe him. ‘How about you? Does Pilot Ridge offer the best rates for security guards?’ Sam gave a curious frown. ‘I thought you went clean, anyway? No more gambling after that whole thing at the last game?’

[Malcom Black]

Malcom knew that he was a follower. That was part of being in the army, he supposed, and never rising into the rank of officers. You had to be good at following orders. And as a younger man, lost and not sure what he wanted to do with his life, the military had offered a very good form of guidance. And when it had no longer provided the kind of support he wanted, and he’d had to leave, he’d been lost again, and then he’d stumbled into Vegas and right into Chance Grey, who’d been all the wrong kinds of examples for a young man but had also provided guidance of a sort. But now he was a man of his own ways and means (albeit limited), and somewhat more confident. But he had to admit, his latest job still wasn’t the kind that required him to think for himself. Still, he was the rare position to change that now, and the question was—did he want to follow Sam? It sure seemed like he wasn’t changing that trend by his actions. But he’d see how that went. His own eyes crinkled up in response to Sam’s sunny grins and laughs, and he shrugged his shoulders and leaned back to watch as the other man counted out the bills with seemingly great care.

“It was one hell of a coincidence,” he agreed with an easy-going chuckle. “And hey, you need to count, honestly? Don’t you trust me?” But the glint in his eyes indicated that trusting him probably would’ve been a spectacularly bad idea. Yes, winning always made him feel good. But it was partially nerves, too. He liked Sam, but he wouldn’t call the man a friend. Not yet at least.

He raised his own glass in a wry toast and knocked it back, enjoying the burn of the alcohol as it rushed down his throat. He’d never been much for savoring the taste. His goal had always been for the buzz, and that particular old habit hadn’t changed all that much. “To business,” he agreed, then set the glass down and leaned back again, tilting his head to the side to listen.

He grinned at the question. “Would it surprise you if I did?” he mocked, although he’d admit that he was trying to remember where specifically he’d heard the name Cara—aha! He coughed on his next sip of scotch and, once he’d regained his breath, laughed. “Damn. You’re the Caraway, aren’t you? The one who’s file is kept under lock and key so students won’t try to beat some of your pranks. I read through it when I need a good laugh. Aw, you gotta share some of your secrets. Unless, of course, you just want to go by Chance again…in which case, I’ll just have to buy you more booze.”

Malcom also believed that Caraway had family there—he’d lived in Pilot Ridge for a while now, after all, and so just nodded amiably. Mind, it was Chance. Uh, Sam. He did wonder if he was perhaps giving in too easily…

“Would you believe it if I said I’m getting a more consistent income than I was with you?” he asked aloud, then snorted. “They don’t tell me that I have to throw games. But hey, a job’s a job, and my record isn’t exactly fantastic, you know.” He shrugged and, at the question of clean, a flicker of uncertainty came back. “Oh, yeah. I forgot I had said I was gonna do that. Yeah, it never happened. Although I was doing well for about…three months. I’m in the program an’ everything. Or was before tonight.” Wasn’t that depressing? Neela was going to kill him if (but probably when) she found out. If his liver didn’t get him first. God. “You know me. Can’t stick to anything for too long. You didn’t answer my question, though, Caraway.” He pointed a finger at him sternly. “Why are you here? And don’t give me the family bullshit—you visit family and then you run away as fast as you can. Trust me, I’m an expert. So what really brought you here to Pilot Ridge?”

[Sam Caraway]

In answer to Malcom’s question, Sam just gave him a smug smile. ‘I trust you…oh…about as much as you trust me.’ He made a show of counting the money, and gave a satisfied nod when he had confirmed that it was all there. When Malcom knocked back his drink quickly, Sam paused for a considering moment - before he did the same. Why the hell not? He didn’t have anywhere to be tomorrow morning, after all. And it was a long time before he’d gotten drunk with Malcom Black.

‘Really? You’re serious?’ a smile of pure delight spread over Sam’s face, and he regarded Malcom with blue eyes alight with laughter. ‘They hide my file? Damn. I knew I was good, but I didn’t know I was that good.’ He shook his head, looking thoroughly self-satisfied. Mason had never told him that little detail – but then, maybe Mason didn’t know. His file would probably be there too, after all, as every prank had involved both of them. Sam couldn’t keep his grin from his face, and he resolved to let Mason know of their infamy as soon as he could. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked when Malcom mentioned secrets, still obviously trying not to laugh. ‘I’ll stick with Caraway, thanks – but you’re always welcome to buy me a drink…’ Just because he had money didn’t mean he needed to spend it all, did it? And if the offer was there, Sam liked to take what was on the table.

‘I never promised ‘consistent’,’ Sam pointed out. ‘I was just in it for the fun.’ He laughed at Malcom’s sly digs, raising his hands to denote his own innocence. ‘Hey! Your ass would have been kicked a whole lot more than it was if you hadn’t lost as much as you did,’ he told the younger man, trying (and failing) to keep smugness to a minimum.

No, I don’t know, the words were on the tip of his tongue when Malcom mentioned his record. They had never really opened up to each other, or spoken about things like that – Sam had never been one to have heart-to-heart discussions with people with whom he was participating in illegal activity. Malcom hadn’t spoken about his military career, and Sam had never asked. So he just shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he had no strong opinions on the subject, and tried to work out what territory they were in, now. Was he supposed to be asking these questions? Did Malcom want him to?

A slight frown crossed his expression when Malcom mentioned being on the wagon – had Sam’s bad influence been able to reach that far? He was sorry if it had. He almost expressed his concern, but then he checked himself: Malcom was a big boy, and if he wanted to behave badly, then he was allowed to do just that. So Sam just smirked. ‘Yeah, I remember that. Your concentration span hasn’t got any better, then?’ Sam was good at playing the long game when it came to conning people, but Malcom had always become fidgety after too long at one roulette table, something Sam had never stopped mocking him for.

Laughing at Malcom’s question only hurt his side a little (he was almost recovered from his injuries, something which he was profoundly grateful for), and he fixed the younger man with an amused expression. ‘This is a very revealing interrogation, Sergeant,’ he pointed out, raising an eyebrow at the other man. ‘Just because you run away from your family doesn’t mean I run away from mine.’ Sam was still smiling, though, and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘My sister’s having a baby. I’m making sure that being a single mom isn’t any more difficult than it has to be, by running her business for a while.’ Would Malcom believe him? Sam wasn’t sure he would believe himself. Ironic, really, that he could come up with truth which would hound more implausible than a lie. Chance, the family man? Not likely.

‘Go on, your turn: you gave it all up to be a security guard?’ Malcom had been so exhilarated by their business in Vegas – had he really been able to step away from it all so easily?

[Malcom Black]

That was a fair answer, although Malcom did roll his eyes to it. But what else had he expected? Chance had always been suave and cool to the end. Why should Sam Caraway be any different at all? “See?” he asked. “So much for your lack of faith. I always keep my word.” And it was true. He might squirm and he might whine, but Malcom would never break his word once it was given. Mind, that meant that you’d have to get him to give it in the first place—and Malcom knew as many weasel words as a second-rate car salesman.

If Malcom had needed any confirmation that this was indeed Chance’s real name, he would’ve gotten it just by the way that Sam’s face lit up at the mention of the file. He still didn’t get how Caraway had managed so long in Vegas. He was a guy who liked to have his skills recognized—perhaps not as much as others, but still. But a smug smile only flickered over his features for a moment before he was laughing at the self-satisfied look on his face. “Now don’t you go getting the wrong ideas, Caraway—yours isn’t the only file in there. There’s a couple that are even worse. Take this kid, Lani.” He paused. “Mind, his isn’t due to pranks, but I’ve never seen a kid who got off the campus so many times. It gives me shivers, it really does. What I want to know is….” He paused, reviewed the pranks, then grinned. “How’d you get coffee into the water heater? I’ve got an old drill sergeant I want to try it on. For that trick, I’ll buy you the drink, no problem.”

Not really, but he had older brothers galore who could use some retribution. Mind, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever told Sam about his siblings. He used to tell stories about them, sure. It was yet another example of a good way to distract people, make them ease up. Almost everyone had sibling issues, and Malcom had enough stories about them to put people at ease with just a grin and a wink and a rueful laugh about his younger brother Isaiah, the poor kid. But he and Sam hadn’t been in it to make friends. As a result, they hadn’t shared a lot of details at all. So Sam wouldn’t know that Malcom had a hard time keeping jobs after getting out of the military, and that he’d taken up the job with Sam because he’d been desperate to turn something that was very bad for him into something that at least wasn’t making him lose all his money.

He did notice the frown, however, and his smile turned wry as he leaned forward. “Don’t think too highly of yourself,” he told him. “I was screwed up before you got close, got it? You weren’t that bad of an influence.” It was the closest Malcom would ever get to saying something like it isn’t your fault. It wasn’t. Sam hadn’t helped the problem, but Malcom hadn’t had the self-control to say no. Sam had taken advantage of that, but Malcom knew that was what people did. It was nature. “Besides.” He shrugged and offered a grin that seemed fairly sincere, if with a hint of strain, “I hear relapses are common around this time. I’m just going through the cycle. You live. But I’d like to think it is.” He laughed. “Although I put it to the test. That kid I was telling you about—Lani—tried to run from me one night and destroyed a good half of the library in the process. It took me and him hours to right it but we managed. I only got chewed out for a couple of hours for that mess. Does that count for concentration?”

Malcom just waved off the comment toward his own familial habits—if you had nine siblings, you learned that running was the only practical approach, or it’d eat your whole life without even a burp—and blinked at the statement. “Damn. That seems almost decent, Ch—Sam. My bad. So you’re, uh…” He snapped his fingers. “Kali’s sister, then--? Oh, my bad. I meant brother.” A low blow, but his grin indicated he wasn’t sorry at all. “That’s nice of you. Wish I could’ve done the same when my sister got pregnant. But I wasn’t here.” And unable to come back, too. Ah, well. He’d made his choices.

The question made him pause, and he eyed him, then shrugged. “I dunno, Sam. I think you and I had different goals when we started that. You just admitted it—you were in it for the fun. I…I don’t think I knew what I was in it for, but it wasn’t for a laugh.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t healthy. I had to get out. And I wasn’t meaning to be a security guard.” He grinned. “I don’t know what I was planning. I just fell into it, that’s all. Dunno. I’m thinking of becoming a power trainer, or something. I’m in my thirties for Chrissake’s. Gotta do something with my life. How about you? What will you do with all that money you’ve earned?”

[Sam Caraway]

‘Make it two drinks, and it’s a deal. Show me the goods.’ Sam made a point never to give something until it had been paid for, and it was only when another shot of liquor was on the table in front of him that he leaned forward with one of his conspiratorial grins. ‘Okay, this is sensitive information, right? People have tried and failed to get it out of me before. You’re lucky I like you so much.’ He was smirking, and he took a sip of his drink before he continued. ‘I don’t know if the school’s plumbing system is the same as it was, but when I was there, every shower room had a huge boiler tank just behind it. The locks were easy to get through if you knew how, so we could sneak into the boiler room and jimmy the lid of the tank.’ Sam’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm for his former escapades. ‘The tanks were always full of hot water – they start to re-fill themselves when the water goes below a certain point – and there are around five showers per tank. So we waited until they were full, and until we knew that a certain person was going to be using a certain shower, and we poured a shitload of instant coffee into the tanks of that particular shower section.’

Sitting back with a smug smile, Sam looked over at Malcom with a hint of nostalgia in his expression. ‘Is the gravy in my file? Or the jell-o? That was a good one.’ This was exactly the kind of thing he was looking forward to telling Josef’s niece, Harmony – maybe he could make Malcom’s life a little more interesting if it paid off.

‘I’ve heard three months is the ticking point,’ he commented with a shrug. ‘It’s usually threes, isn’t it? Three weeks, three months, three years…’ Sam knew enough people who’d tried to get clean from several different things, and they’d told him that certain times were always more difficult than others. Then he grinned at Malcom’s description of Lani. ‘Sounds like a handful,’ he said almost admiringly. ‘You better hope this kid never discovers pranks. If he’s that bad when he’s not even trying to make trouble?’

He could hear the near-slip, and offered Malcom an easy grin. ‘You can call me Chance, go ahead,’ he shrugged. ‘I got that nickname on the bars, people have been calling me Chance since I was twenty-one.’ It had stemmed from his hobby of flirting with customers by using magic and card tricks, and his tight-lipped smiles whenever anyone had asked how he had done what he did. ‘It’s just by chance,’ had been his typical infuriating reply, and the name had been the result. When he’d moved to casinos, it had made sense to use a name he knew that he would answer to, and one which was far enough from his own name that nobody would associate the two.

The smile Sam gave to Malcom’s ‘brother’ comment was sarcastic, but still amused. ‘Cute,’ he told the other man, and then he paused thoughtfully. ‘You know Kali?’ he asked – the world was turning out to be a lot smaller than it had been the day before. Sam wasn’t sure how he felt about that. ‘I’m just glad I was here,’ He looked down at his nearly-empty glass (they always had been good at putting away their liquor, he would give them that) and motioned to the bartender for two more. ‘I wouldn’t say it was nice of me. That implies I have a choice – I mean, I’m not being made to stick around, or anything, but why wouldn’t I? I look after my sister. What else would I do?’ Sam finished his drink and smiled in thanks when another one was brought over, pushing the other glass over to Malcom.

He watched Malcom with interest as the other man explained how he felt about the gambling, an inscrutable expression on his face. ‘That’s…’ Sam felt a small smile of approval creep onto his lips. ‘That’s really good. I know so many people who are just…stuck, you know? But you got out.’ He nodded slowly, clearly impressed. ‘Well done, Sergeant.’ Sam knew how lucky he was – sure, he liked gambling a hell of a lot, but it was never a compulsion for him. It had been a career, a job, and maybe he did too much of it, but he would never have described himself as having a problem. He’d seen a lot of hollow-eyed people in the desert, people who couldn’t climb out of the holes of debt they had dug themselves into.

‘Hang on, say that again – you’re in your thirties?’ Sam was frowning, mouth twisted in confusion. ‘How old are you?’ He’d always assumed that he was older than Malcom, had never bothered to make a lucky guess as to his age – but in Vegas, he’d been the one with the answers. He may not have been physically older, but when it came to the business they had been doing, he was definitely the one with the knowledge. There, he’d felt older, but here? Vermont seemed to have a way of surprising him. Sam took a thoughtful sip as he considered Malcom’s question, and looked over at him with a small smile.

‘I don’t have a plan,’ he said frankly, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I’m running Kali’s bar at the moment, and I’m actually really enjoying that – just got a head for figures, I guess.’ Sam liked people, he liked the work, and he liked the business side of it. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of investing around here, I’m just going to see if that leads me anywhere.’ Sam didn’t do ‘plans’, he much preferred to sit back and see what happened. ‘I can see you as a power trainer,’ he said with a grin. ‘You wouldn’t let them get away with any crap. Mine were always too soft on me,’ he took another mouthful of whiskey. ‘What’s it like, working at Hammel? Has it changed a lot?’

[Malcom Black]

“Oh, fine, fine.” Malcom rolled his eyes and made a motion at the bartender for three—he was already a couple in, and as his tolerance was probably a little down from weaning himself off alcohol for a while, he decided it was better to take it a little slow. Having a good time was all well and good, but making an ass out of himself early on in the game was a little far for him. Nah, better to take it slower. And once the drinks were there, he smiled at him. “All right, Caraway. Spill.”

He leaned back as Caraway told his story, and his lips turned up into an admiring grin. Had he been a braver man, he would’ve brought this attention to the security officials and probably been hailed as a hero. Actually, this was a lie. They might’ve taken it as compensation for the time Lani destroyed the library. Or the time he might’ve tipped the fridge over in the staff lounge. He would have liked to make some kind of excuse for it, but for that one…there really wasn’t one.

“You’ve got a sick mind,” he told Sam. “That, or you’re brilliant. Whatever it is, I would hate to get on your bad side.” But he’d always known that, so he supposed he couldn’t be surprised that the fact had been confirmed. “Good to know. If I ever get fired, I’ll keep that in mind before I leave.” He chuckled, then sat up straighter. “All right. We’ve got the gravy one, but I have yet to hear the jello one. C’mon. You can’t just leave a guy hanging like that. It’s only decent to tell. And you’re buying the next round, by the way—so don’t try that trick either.”

As Malcom had heard that too, he just nodded in agreement to the comment. Three months was a tricky point (or one of them), and tonight hadn’t changed his mind about getting clean. It had just postponed it a little. But he’d work it out. He had to work it out. Besides, Neela would kill him if he changed his mind. But he did straighten up at Sam’s tone and gave him a severe look. “Caraway,” he warned, pointing a stern finger at him that might’ve swayed only a little. “If you get near that kid, I’ll have your intestines as my wallpaper. The last thing he needs is a bad influence like you.” And he slumped back. “So far, he hasn’t discovered pranks. I think he’s just frustrated. Telekinesis is hard to deal with, especially when you’re young. Things fall over all over the place and you’re always getting headaches. But he’s stubborn. He’ll work his way through it, even if it gives me and the rest of the security team heart attacks.” But he did tilt his head in honest consideration when Sam told him to call him Chance, and he shook his head.

“Nah. It’s not you. Chance was the polished southern gen’leman in a suit who had a knack of scaring me. You still scare me—I’m not stupid, although…” He did have to pause again. “I’ve got some teachers who would—anyways, that’s beside the point. Right now, you strike me as more of a Sam. I don’t think Chance ever would’ve been this relaxed ‘round me in any case. And c’mon.” He snorted. “It’s a small town. She owns one of the best—and only—cafes. But to be honest, I only know of Kali, not know her personally.” He decided to keep the fact that he’d found her extremely sexy—you know, in a cute, bubbly way—to himself. Not the kind of thing you told brothers. He should know. “But you never know,” he said aloud. “Enough brothers don’t stick around. I think you’re being a good guy, Sam. But don’t worry—I won’t spread the word.” And he grinned and took the next glass, offering it in a toast, but drinking it more slowly than before. He was definitely beginning to feel the effects now.

Malcom put the glass down entirely as Sam congratulated him, and for a moment, the look on his face was acute discomfort. Although he’d been told that admitting he had a problem was good for him, he hadn’t quite gotten used to the fact that he was supposed to admit it to others. Gambling addictions was one of those where you could get into a lot of trouble, and Malcom had gotten pretty good at hiding his tracks over the years. Oh, sure, alcoholics could face problems too, and it was nothing compared to illegal drugs, except…well, gambling wasn’t strictly-speaking legal too. Especially when you had it bad. But he cleared his throat, shifted a little, and offered Sam another grin. “Yup. Or trying. But I appreciate the sentiment anyways.”

But the grin turned honest at the question, and he laughed. “Caraway, did you assume I was that young? ‘m flattered. Nah, I’m 33.” And still a bum and a layabout according to everyone—eh, what did it matter? The whiskey was good and he’d really missed the buzz. “How about you? I mean, in terms of guile you’re about ninety, but I wouldn’t think we’re that far apart in age, are we?”

Still, he leaned back and listened to Sam’s comments on his life, and his brows climbed. “I never thought I’d see you settle down,” he admitted. “And the reason they never punished you is because you were too busy charming them into not being mad at you.” He’d definitely had a few of those moments. Although he hadn’t contested Sam much, because he hadn’t known exactly where they stood. And still didn’t, but it seemed a lot friendlier than it had been. He snorted at the question. “Aw, you know Hammel. It’s the same story. A bunch of characters, although there was some weird stuff that happened last year. So the answer is, that no, it really hasn’t changed much. You should’ve seen what happened at the talk speech this year, though.” He chuckled, then looked at Sam. “And what’ve you been up to, then, other than helping out your sister? Got your hands in any pies here?”

[Sam Caraway]

‘Brilliant,’ Sam confirmed with a smug nod. ‘I’m defiantly brilliant. The best one was the – ’ He paused, and smirked at Malcom. ‘Oh yeah, they never pinned that one on me, did they? Sorry. I take the fifth.’ He was referring, of course, to the last-day prank pulled by him and Mason, which had been washing-up liquid on a far grander scale than the coffee: turning Hammel into a huge cloud of bubbles. ‘The jell-o?’ Sam asked, looking at Malcom as if deliberating whether or not to tell him about it. He was only teasing, of course – Sam loved nothing more than telling people stories of his escapades. ‘I don’t think they ever managed to get me for that one, either.’ The smirk on his face was equal parts self-satisfaction and amusement. ‘We got the room key of every single person in Hammel – don’t ask me how – and overnight, we put them all in jell-o. Seriously. We had these little round moulds,’ he made a sphere with his hands to demonstrate the size. ‘And we broke into the kitchens, and when everyone woke up on April Fool’s Day – I think I was seventeen – they opened the door to their room and found their room key on a plate in front of the door, suspended in jell-o.’

He was smiling like a cat who’d managed to break into the pantry. ‘We did it to ours as well – they could never prove anything. And there were at least five of us on board, they could never have found everyone. We had a pact of silence.’ Sam had masterminded it, of course, but he never acted alone.

Malcom’s comments about Chance made Sam raise an eyebrow. ‘Someone had to scare you,’ he said with a grin. ‘You almost got yourself killed the first time you tried that stunt of yours. I was your knight in shining armour!’ There were numerous occasions when Sam had needed to turn on his steely gaze to prevent Malcom from getting into too much trouble – the idea that he was scary made him chuckle, though, and he offered Malcom one of his brightest smiles. ‘You’re right about that,’ he replied – it was true, he never would have been this relaxed in Vegas. ‘I was pretty tense in the desert. We weren’t doing particularly legal things, after all.’ He smirked. ‘And I was never relaxed around you because I was always worrying that you’d try something stupid.’ He was teasing again, though, and the smile on his face took any sting from his words.

‘Thanks,’ Sam deadpanned. ‘Don’t blow my cover, okay? I’m still a cold-hearted bastard when it comes down to it.’ He hadn’t been lying – he really didn’t think he was doing anything particularly worthy: he was just doing what anyone would do, wasn’t he? Then Malcom carried on talking about his gambling, and Sam gave him a coy glance. ‘I guess I shouldn’t be a bad influence, then?’ he asked, the light in his blue eyes making it very obvious what he was about to ask: ‘I’d been wondering if you wanted to do this again, for the money, but if you’re trying to get clean…’ he shrugged. This was the most fun he’d had in a long time, and it would be a shame not to stage a repeat performance – but by now, he’d probably lost the knack of manipulating Malcom.

Actually, no, that probably wasn’t true – Sam could manipulate anyone. But he was startled to realise that he didn’t want to mess up Malcom’s attempts at turning himself around. Huh. Maybe he was getting into this nice guy business, after all.

‘I didn’t think you were young, I just thought I was older than you,’ Sam shook his head at his own assumptions. ‘I’m thirty-one.’ The warm, buzzing contentment of the alcohol was beginning to settle in (he always had been better at holding his liquor than Malcom), and he realised how much he had missed this. He’d always liked Malcom’s company, and it was nice not to have to watch as much of what he said around someone. Malcom knew a lot of what had gone on in Vegas – Sam felt like himself.

He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure it’s ‘settling down’, necessarily,’ Sam commented. ‘I’m just seeing what happens.’ Malcom’s remark about him being ‘charming’ provoked a grin: ‘Speaking from experience there, are we?’ he asked, a flirtatious smile on his lips – he had never really known where they stood with one another, but this had always been as good a position as any. Sam flirted with everyone, all the time – it was one of the reasons he managed to get away with so much. He was on the edge of being intoxicated, and being with Malcom was reminding him of all the fun they used to have – and the fun he could have by unsettling the other man.

‘What did they do?’ Sam’s eyes brightened with interested when Malcom mentioned a prank during ‘The Talk’. ‘I always wanted to do something during the Talk, but my friends always managed to talk me out of it.’ They had figured that anonymous jell-o was one thing – something public would be altogether worse.

Sam finished his drink (how many was he on, now?) and shrugged. ‘Just investing, like I said. There’s always someone who needs money for a business – I’m working with a few people.’ There were a few bars and shops who needed an extra kick, and Sam was always good at giving people what they wanted. Then he smirked. ‘Or did you mean illegal activity?’ Sam’s voice was verging on laughter. ‘I haven’t replaced you as my partner in crime, if that’s what you were wondering…’