“Jim ‘The Money’ Devereaux,” drawled the cryptic caller, “Or should I say, Jim ‘The I Got No Money’ Devereaux? Heard about your little foray into unemployment. A bold new direction for you, I must say.”

  Jim was drunk. Not legless, but not exactly legged either. His loose limbs stumbled on cue, and he leaned heavily on the bar. His phone blurred in and out of focus, and after a hard blink, he read the words: unknown number.

  He should have hung up then and there. But he was curious—an old journalistic trait.

  “Who the hell is this?” he said, slurring aggressively.

  “Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim!” said the buttery smooth voice of the mystery speaker. “Surely, a journalist should know his sources.”

  “I’m not much of a journalist these days,” Jim grunted. “More of a free spirit.”

  “That’s a shame, Jimmy, because I’m in the market for a well-worn and slightly overpriced spirit, and I was thinking yours might fit the bill.”

  Jim rubbed his temple. “Right, so you’re gonna make me an offer or something?”

  “All in good time, young Jiminy,” cooed the condescending caller. “Haven’t you heard the saying patience is a virtue?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “I’ve heard the saying ‘get to the damn point,’” Jim snapped, trying to take back control.

  But the voice was having too much fun.

  “What do you know about… fish, Jim?” purred the mystery man, letting the bait dangle.

  Jim blinked. “…Fish?”

  “Although, truth be told, they’re more than fish, aren’t they?”

  Jim sat up straighter, the fog lifting just a little.

  “You’re talking about them, aren’t you? The fishmen!”

  “I’ve read your little blog posts, Jim. Watched you ranting on that two-bit podcast. What’s it called again?”

  “It’s an investigative documentary series,” Jim said, with more confidence than he felt. “And it’s called… Something Fishy.”

  Silence.

  The name hung in the air like a bad smell. Jim winced. He’d never said it out loud before, and it sounded far stupider than he’d intended.

  “You know what it looks like to the casual viewer, Jim? It looks like a budget-less, self-funded nightmare. It looks to me like obsession. They cost you your job, didn’t they? The fishmen. And what have you got to show for it? A blog with two readers? A derelict podcast?”

  “Did you call to insult me or to make a deal?”

  “Honestly, Jim—a bit of both. But let’s transition to the deal part, shall we? I’m offering you the chance to do what you’ve already been doing—but this time, with a budget. Get close to them. Find out what’s going on.”

  “And if I find something, you get first dibs on the story?”

  “I’m not a journalist, Jim. I don’t care about the story. I care about control.”

  “Control. That’s gonna be costly.”

  “I’ve got more than enough money.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “You won’t.”

  “How much?”

  “50k retainer. And every piece of useful information you deliver will get you a $10k bonus.”

  “One more thing. I’m not working for some mystery voice on the phone.”

  The voice smiled—Jim could hear it.

  “No, Jim.”

  The voice paused, letting the silence linger—just long enough for Jim’s stomach to tighten.

  “You’re working for Crawford Thorne.”