Guy comes up to you at the gym. A big guy, drives a flashy car.
I got an easy way for you to make some money, he says. Easy cash, zero problems.
You interested?
Ugh. He hated working out at this hour—6:30 p.m., machines hogged by time-wasting teenagers and dad-bodders trying to melt a few pounds off their beer paunches, the air a pungent aroma of funky feet and under-arm stank mingled with the cloying tang of C4 Icy Blue Razz, the caffeine-charged booster drink chugged between sets by bros trying to act swole but doing the exercises all janky.
Whatever.
Adam Albin had missed his usual lunchtime workout at XSport Fitness in Libertyville, Illinois, a chain strip-mall workout mill. But while he hated lifting with the riffraff, he hated missing a day even more. It would be fine, he told himself. Get in. Get out. Get done.
Crowded as it was, he spotted a familiar face. Rick Dugo, aka Thick Rick, aka Big Rick. Not surprising. The peak hours matched Dugo’s persona as much as they clashed with Albin’s. Bulky and tatted, a six-foot-four puffed-up hulk, Dugo pushed 260 clicks and wore his tats, including Bible verses, like a billboard—I’m a badass but also a stand up guy, Truth, Justice, and blah blah blah—while displaying the 40-something alpha-douche trifecta: glow-bed tan, muscle tank, and too-blue contacts that gave his eyes a weird radiance. Bro’s drip was on point, too: out-of-the-box Jordans, new Under Armour bike shorts.
You always knew Big Rick had arrived before he even swaggered in, the vibe having been established by him slantparking some expensive whip by the glass door—a Dodge Viper or a Nissan GT-R or a tricked-out dually pickup Albin estimates was worth around $80,000.
Dugo bragged about how he made his money to anyone in earshot, including Albin: car washes, he said. He owned six around Chicago from which he raked in $600,000 a year. He said he banked even more cash with side hustles—including one he made it a point to tell Albin about at XSport that night.
Albin had finished up and was changing when he looked up and saw Dugo looming over him. “Hey man, I have an opportunity for you,” Dugo said, according to Albin.
Dugo had always come off as a gym pal, throwing a nod Albin’s way or sidling up, arms folded, to shoot the shit about working out, cars, whatever. Dugo had taken to calling him Big Adam, and to Albin, Dugo became Big Rick. But Albin considered himself skeptical by nature, and when Dugo asked about wanting to make money, Albin hesitated.
Um, yeah, maybe, he thought. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no.
Okay, cool, so yeah, Dugo went on. He had this buddy who was general manager at Abt Electronics—you know it?
