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  Inside, Tommy’s office was long and lush. Black leather couches and black tables and white shag carpeting, like a bachelor apartment from the 1980s. A black and chrome bar stretched across the entire length of one wall. The other wall was one-way glass looking out over the sweaty madness of the club. Tommy could see out, but nobody could see in.

  Tommy staggered over to the bar and poured himself five fingers of Scotch. Then he grabbed a bottle of soda and splashed it all over the counter. Maybe a drop or two hit his glass.

  “Jack, you want a drink?”

  I knew better than to say no. “Sure. Scotch.” The woman beside me was standing statue-still. I could hear a faint tremble with every breath she took. She wasn’t just scared, she was terrified. Something told me she had been in this room before.

  Tommy almost tripped on the white shag as he jerked and lurched toward us, thrusting a highball glass full of Scotch into my hand.

  “Salud.” Tommy tilted his glass to his lips and drained it in two gulps. The black leather couch hissed softly as he plopped himself down.

  “Darla … Starla …”

  “My name is Janet.”

  Tommy smashed his highball glass against the tabletop. “Your name is Shut the Fuck Up!” Arm twitching, Tommy jerked down his zipper. “Get over here and suck my cock. Jack, you want to get your cock wet?”

  “Tommy, man. Come on. Let’s talk business.”

  I focused on Tommy’s eyes, those tiny black pinpricks burning with rage and hate. Leave her alone, I thought.

  “You want to talk business? Let’s talk some motherfucking business. Where’s my money, Jack?”

  “You’ll get your money. I’m putting my team together.”

  “Your team? Your team? The Brooklyn Dodgers, now that was a fucking team.”

  This was a waste of time. I might as well be wearing a leprechaun hat and dancing a jig. Tommy wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. Hell, Tommy probably wouldn’t remember any of this fifteen minutes from now.

  A knock on the door and one of Tommy’s guys stuck his head in. I recognized him. An older man with a long face and sad, droopy eyes.

  “Boss —”

  “What the fuck? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Yeah, but … we got The Leopard outside.”

  Tommy blinked and twitched his nose and wiped sweat from his brow. “The Leopard, huh? The Leopard. That prick. Where is he? He’s here? Fuck him. Fuck him right up the ass with a telephone pole.” Tommy noticed Janet cowering in the corner. “You still here?” Tommy lurched to his feet and almost tumbled face-first into the table. I caught him before he fell, but one look at Janet weeping silently in the corner made me wish I’d dropped him.

  “Get your hands off me. Come on, we got work to do. Carlo! Send that prick in.”

  Carlo pushed the door open wide. Two huge guys stuffed into charcoal-grey suits lumbered into the room. There was a tall, nervous man in a white suit and an open-collar blue shirt wedged between them. The Leopard.

  The nervous man’s hands twitched. “Tommy, I —”

  Tommy screamed, “Shut the fuck up!” In the corner, Janet jumped and hid her face behind her hands.

  Tommy closed one eye, bringing The Leopard into focus. “You fucking guys. You don’t talk first — I talk first. I ask the questions, you answer. You got that?”

  The Leopard nodded mutely.

  Tommy fumbled a cigarette into his mouth and then turned to me. “Jack. You got a light?”

  I knew what it was all about. Power. A display of dominance. The alpha chimp. I stepped forward and lit Tommy’s cigarette.

  Tommy blew smoke right into The Leopard’s face. The tall man coughed.

  “So where’s my fucking money?”

  “Tommy, you know me. You know I’m good for it. I’ve had a real bad run recently. Sometimes you just don’t get the cards, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know, because I’m not a degenerate fuckin’ gambler like you, you prick.” Tommy leaned closer. For one crazy minute I thought he was going to bite off The Leopard’s nose and spit it out onto the carpet. “I gave you one last chance to get my money. What did you do? You fucking blew it.”

  Tommy slammed his fist right into The Leopard’s stomach. The tall man doubled over, his arms caught by the two goons in the charcoal suits.

  Tommy jerked his head toward the exit door on the far side of his office. “Let’s take a walk. You, too, Jack. Let’s all go get some fresh fucking air.”

  Janet stayed weeping in the corner. I left the door open and gestured with my head. Go, I thought. Go far, far away and never come back.

  Deep down I knew she would stay in that room, waiting for Tommy.

  Outside the club a cool breeze was blowing off the lake, ruffling The Leopard’s hair. We marched into an alley and the whole scene was strangely familiar: garbage, rats, graffiti. Back-alley business.

  The Leopard was whimpering now. I stepped forward. “Tommy, I got to get going.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. I want you to see this. Understand? You fucking stand there with your eyes wide open.”

  One of the bouncers wrapped his giant hands around The Leopard’s arms and held him tight. The other bouncer stepped forward and slammed his fist into The Leopard’s sternum. The Leopard let out a sound that was half a whimper, half a groan. Silently, almost bored, the bouncer started to really work the guy over. Just another day at the office.

  I wanted to look away but I didn’t. I wanted to step between the bouncer and The Leopard and say, “That’s enough,” but I didn’t. I just stood there next to Tommy, listening to him breathe, smelling the Scotch fumes rolling off him in waves.

  The bouncers stepped back and The Leopard crumpled to the ground, startling the rats pawing through the trash. I breathed a sigh of relief as the bouncers turned to leave. At last, it was over.

  Then Tommy started to kick the guy, really stomping him with this savage look in his face. And he wouldn’t stop.

  CHAPTER 9

  The plant needed water. I needed something stronger.

  I shuffled slowly across my office, the yellow light so dim it was almost brown, and poured myself and the plant some drinks. “What do you think, plant? Do I need this shit? I don’t need this shit. I could be sitting on the beach in sunny Acapulco drinking a margarita. I could be touring the grand canals of Venice.”

  “You could be dead.”

  I dodged and whirled, stiletto leaping into my palm.

  The Chief held up his hands. “Relax, relax.”

  “Jesus. I almost slit your throat.”

  The Chief grinned. I didn’t ask how he got in. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t tell me.

  “Grover said you wanted to see me.”

  “Yeah. Drink?”

  “No thanks. I gave it up.”

  “Oh yeah?” Back in the day The Chief could booze with the best of them.

  “That’s right.”

  “You go to AA?”

  “Yeah, right. And put my life in the hands of a Higher Power?” Lightning-quick, The Chief unholstered his Glock 9mm. The gun gleamed evilly in the feeble yellow light. “Here’s my Higher Power.”

  I set my vodka down on the desk. “It’s good to see you, Chief.”

  It had been about seven years, but the man looked exactly the same. Squat, compact frame wrapped up in jeans and a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket. Short black hair starting to turn silver at the temples. Maybe a new scar twisting across his face, leathery as a catcher’s mitt.

  The Chief shuffled over to the window and peered down onto the neon streets below. “So what’s the hustle?”

  “Collections.”

  The Chief turned and grinned. “Since when are you an errand boy?”

  “I met this guy in prison. I owe him a favour.”

  “And I owe you a favour.”

  “Run these routes with me and we’re square. But I’ve got to warn you, this guy I’m working for, he’s a
real vicious prick.”

  The Chief shrugged. “They all are.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Mostly it was smooth like butter. Walk in, get the envelope, walk out. There were a few holdouts but they didn’t hold out for long. The Chief could be very persuasive.

  We hit bars, restaurants, night clubs. We went out to Chinatown B on the East Side and stopped off at the off-track betting parlour. The air was dense with cigarette smoke. Outside on the sidewalk faded old men were smoking and coughing and spitting on the sidewalk. Tuberculosis City.

  I frowned. “Tommy’s dad doesn’t have any pull in Chinatown. The Chinese run their own show.”

  The Chief grinned. “I know. I just had to put some money down. Got a real hot tip.”

  Back in the car The Chief stretched and yawned. “What’s next?”

  I brought up my mental list. “Joey Economy. Numbers runner. He’s got a place out in the Beaches.”

  “Beaches, huh? I should’ve brought my swimsuit.”

  You know you’re getting close to the Beaches when the stores get cutesy. Rustic furniture, scented candles, and spas for dogs. Yuppie shit. The Chief cocked his head. “You want an ice cream? Let’s get an ice cream.”

  The Chief licked his ice cream as we strolled along the boardwalk. Dogs barked. Joggers pushed two-thousand-dollar baby buggies. Girls in sunglasses and bikinis played volleyball on the beach. We stopped to watch, blue skies above, white sailboats cutting across the lake.

  The Chief wiped his mouth and dropped his crumpled-up napkins into the trash. “All right, let’s go get that money.”

  A receptionist with wild red curls piled atop her head looked up as we came piling into the front room.

  “You’re here to see Mr. Mezell?”

  For the millionth time I was glad The Chief was standing next to me instead of one of Tommy’s goons. One of the weightlifters would’ve blurted out something stupid like, “Nah, bitch, we’re here to see Joey Economy.” Steroid-laden brain too dense to separate the street name from Joey’s civilian life. Which was … what? Some kind of dentist?

  The receptionist muttered into her phone. Then she looked up. “Go on in.”

  Joey Economy was old, older than I expected. He must have been at least in his midseventies. He was skeleton-thin but still dapper, wrapped up tight in a light linen suit.

  “Gentlemen, come in, come in. Sylvia said you wanted to see me?”

  The Chief’s eyes were fixed on Joey, so I took a few seconds to scan the office. Something didn’t feel right.

  “Tommy sent us.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Economy turned to his desk and picked up a big black ledger. His skeletal fingers expertly flipped the pages. “Tommy, Tommy …” Joey gave his skull a shake. “Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know any Tommy. Perhaps you have the wrong address?”

  “You’re Joey Economy?”

  The skeleton smiled. “Now I know you have the wrong place. My name is Mezell. And now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have another appointment.”

  Outside in the sunshine, The Chief scratched his head. “What the hell just happened?”

  I blinked as a babe on Rollerblades went gliding by. “The old man’s some kind of hypnotist. Must’ve been a stage magician in a previous lifetime.”

  “Yeah, right.” The Chief darted his hand beneath his coat and settled on his Glock. “Let’s go back in there and get that fucking money.”

  I shook my head. “Something’s wrong. I don’t like it.”

  “We going back in?”

  “No, not yet.” Over the years I’ve learned to listen to my gut. Right then my gut was standing up and rattling my ribcage trying to get my attention. “We’re done for the day. We need more information. Let’s see what Eddie can put together.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I did a favour for Eddie once. Some guys had caught on to Eddie’s extracurricular activities and they wanted in. Eddie figured his casino was running just fine without them, so he turned them down. These guys weren’t too happy with that. Turns out these guys were members of a Jamaican crew run by a killer named King Diamond. King Diamond mostly ran drugs, but he was trying to branch out. He had big plans, this King Diamond. He was going to take over everything: all the drug-running, all the gambling, all the girls … everything. Sure, he was crazy. No one man can control all the rackets. It’s an ebb and flow, a give and take. Plenty of vice for everyone. That’s not how The King saw it, though. King Diamond wanted to be on top, sitting on his throne in his penthouse overlooking the city, cackling as his subjects bowed and scraped their way forward, arms laden with bags of tribute. The King let his nickname go to his head. He was capable of anything, and that’s what made him dangerous.

  When King Diamond’s crew told him that Eddie turned him down, he was none too happy. If Eddie wasn’t going to let him have a piece, then he was going to take the whole pie. He was going to put the squeeze on Eddie, force him out of business, drive him from the city. To make it happen, The King kidnapped Eddie’s daughter.

  Big mistake.

  Eddie frowned. “You were right, Jack. Something’s screwy. Joey Economy isn’t a numbers runner. He’s a hit man.”

  The Chief and I went silent. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. An old hit man equalled a dangerous hit man. Sure, he was a bag of bones now, but he was in a dangerous game and he had stayed alive a long, long time. That meant he knew his shit.

  “And Joe Mezell is Joey Economy?”

  “That’s right. Mezell is one of his aliases. Joseph McIntire, Joey Machine —”

  The Chief: “Wait a sec. Joey Machine?”

  “Yep.”

  The Chief’s chair scraped back. “I’m out.”

  That’s not good. “Wait a second, Chief —”

  “Nope. Sorry, Jack. I signed on to help you with collections. I didn’t sign on to go against Joey Machine. This guy … he’s a legend, Jack. The baddest of the bad. Shit, I didn’t even think he was real.”

  “But —”

  “I ran the routes with you. But now I’m out. If you’re smart, you’ll get out, too.”

  Across the table Eddie nodded. “Chief’s right, Jack. Joey Machine is bad news. My guys were asking around and they didn’t like the looks they were getting. You know Tony Talks-A-Lot? Soon as he heard ‘Joey Machine,’ he clammed right up.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t get out. I owe Tommy.”

  The Chief stuffed himself into his leather jacket. Had to be 32 degrees Celsius outside, but The Chief never sweats. I’d never seen him back down from a fight yet, but there he was, leaving.

  “You’re an honourable guy, Jack. I respect that. We all do. But sometimes you got to do what’s right for you. You got to look out for yourself, or you’ll end up dead.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The Chief, The Chief. I remember walking through the snow toward his trailer lit against the darkness, a string of red Christmas lights pinned to the roof. I had been coming out here for almost three months. There was an old abandoned barn nearby that still smelled like horses and hay. That’s where The Chief brought me the first day, pushing open the barn doors to reveal his own private gym. Boxing ring, heavy bag, blue gym mats — standard stuff. Then there were the human-shaped targets pinned to the walls. Not so standard.

  “Come on, kid,” The Chief had said, grinning. “Show me what you got.”

  I got in the ring. “No gloves?”

  “Very few people wear boxing gloves in the street, kid.”

  That first fight lasted all of two seconds. I thought I was fast but The Chief was faster. I swung with my right. The Chief sidestepped easily and then slammed his foot into my groin.

  “No rules in the street, either,” The Chief said as he picked me up and dusted me off. “You’ll learn.”

  The Chief was as good as his word. We were still working legit jobs back then — security for nightclubs, a bit of bodyguarding. After work and on my days off we’d go out to the barn. I only had to g
o to the hospital twice. I was getting better.

  That Christmas, though …

  The Chief and I had just finished babysitting a bagful of diamonds with a man attached. After we got the diamonds and the man safely from one side of the city to the other, we dropped into a dive bar to have a few pints. There were half-assed decorations pinned to the wall above the bottles: limp tinsel, a faded Santa, a sad-looking snowman.

  “You got plans for Christmas, kid?”

  I didn’t say anything. I kept on drinking.

  “Going back home? Gonna see the folks?”

  “Nope.”

  The Chief slapped my shoulder. “Come by the homestead. We’ll do it up right. Turkey, eggnog … the whole nine yards.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What are you gonna do? Go back to your rooming house and sit alone in the dark? Fuck that. Come on over and have some cranberries.”

  “I’m not too big on holidays.”

  The Chief leaned closer. I could smell the beer on his breath. “You’re not going to be alone for Christmas, Jack. You got that?”

  So there I was, trudging through the snow toward The Chief’s trailer, the Christmas lights kicking up an eerie red glow. I had a gift-wrapped box of chocolates under my arm. I felt fucking ridiculous. “Thanks for teaching me how to kill a man with a playing card, Chief. Here, have a nut cluster.” In retrospect I should’ve brought a bottle of whisky, but what the hell did I know?

  The Chief was already blitzed when he threw open the door. Puffs of steam and smoke and ragtime music poured out into the night. “Jack! Get your ass on in here.”

  Inside, the trailer was bright and warm and homey. Half-empty whisky bottles covered the table. The Chief’s gun was on top of the television. A frozen TV dinner (turkey and gravy) was abandoned on the counter. The air was blue with cigarette smoke.

  This was a mistake.

  “Chief … I’ve got to go.”

  I stood outside the trailer blinking, trying to catch my breath. In the distance a lonely truck rumbled down the highway, its headlights lost in a mist of snow.