The Slanted Gutter
Date: 2020-06-20 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Crime; Thriller; Horror
Description: Ricochet through the gutter in this gripping, pull-no-punches thriller from S. Craig Zahler He knows what you'll do - including what you'll sacrifice for protection. Darren Tasking is an entrepreneur whose business is people, and when it comes to people he specializes in risk, pleasure, and fear. He knows what will break you - before you even feel a second of pain. Tasking has everything and everyone in his orbit under control. If there's something he wants he will alter your life until you yield to his wishes. He knows what makes the Machos tick - and how to keep them in the dark. The police
Publisher: ChiDunnit
Rights: 2021

The

SLANTED

GUTTER

S. Craig Zahler

The Slanted Gutter © 2021
by S. Craig Zahler

Published by Den of Iniquity Books

Baltimore, MD

First Edition

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

An Evening With XX X

The Entrepreneur

Swinging Hammers

The Appetites of Men

Nowski Gets Punched

Dawn Roundup in Reverse

Fingernails and Fragrances

Six Black Guys

Delivery Options

Monday Morning Erin

Previewing the Parlor
on Preston

Members

Pinching Dorsal Fins

A Friendly Conversation
with Chester

Stemware and Shellfish

The Lowriders

Auntie’s Dumplings

The Bachelor Party

Taking a Piss in the
Airless Room

Andrea’s Statement

The Gray Cycle

A White Crucible with
Tinted Windows

They Stood in the Sun

Riding Low and High

Conscious of Erin Green

Under the Overhang

A Neuron Fires

The Marble Island

Invisible Wires

Two Gangs of Five

Reheated Jazz

The Hounds at Twilight

Shod Yourself

Injuries

The Gutter

Darren Tasking Awakens

Sucked Back into the Gutter

The Decision

A Short Flight to Alaska

A Very Big Pay-Per-View Event

Final Associations

About the Author

Other Works by S. Craig Zahler

A Congregation of Jackals

Wraiths of the Broken Land

Corpus Chrome, Inc.

Mean Business on North Ganson Street

Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child

Forbidden Surgeries of the Hideous Dr. Divinus

I

An Evening With XX X

A quiet ding issued from the cellphone, heralding the arrival of an email entitled, “let’s fuck.” The name of the sender was XX X.

Doubts flickered in the mind of the message’s recipient, Summer Lidin, a blonde twenty-four-year-old who was known to most of her clients as Sasha. This fake name had been pilfered from her older sister, who currently lived up in New York with a Jew that looked like a Puerto Rican and smelled like coleslaw.

Summer sent a portion of a joint into her lungs and extinguished the hirsute remainder inside of a ceramic thing that had been made by a child.

Leaning back in her bed, she opened the email.

“go to langston hotel on 580 lauren street at 11 tonite. meet me in the lobby. i want 3 hours.” No information regarding XX X’s identity accompanied these instructions.

Many clients used fake names (and auxiliary email accounts), but most of them proffered a pseudonym that belonged to a musician or movie star or comic book character whom they admired.

Perhaps this john lacked both imagination and idols.

Dexterous thumbs typed: “Sounds like fun XX X! I’d like a bouquet with 600 roses. Must use prtectin. Sasha.” Summer added two vowels, launched her reply into the ether, and exhaled the trapped cloud of pot. Although she found the tone of XX X’s email to be off-putting, a job where she serviced one man for the duration of an evening in the safety of an upscale hotel was ideal. Even if this fellow swallowed a handful of performance-enhancing pills, it was unlikely that his sexual requirements would compare to those of three separate one-hour clients.

A ding emerged from the cellphone, and the blonde opened the email.

Upon her touchscreen was the reply, “450.”

“If you can afford four hundred and fifty bucks, you can afford six,” muttered Summer, who then typed “I’ll take 550 roses” on her phone and thumbed the send button.

A ding sounded as the response landed, which read, “500.”

“Fucking shylock.”

The blonde typed, “525. This is a great deal,” and tossed her words into the ether.

“512.50,” was the john’s reply.

Years ago, Summer had been a topless dancer who had adamantly refused to have sex (or even perform fellatio) for money, and her pride would have gotten in the way of her accepting any fee from a man that involved quarters…but now, things were different. The sound of the television in the next room called to mind the little human being who had altered her perspective and made her a far more practical person.

“Okay,” Summer typed on her cellphone, “See you at 11. Looking forward to it!”

The phone dinged, and she opened the email.

“you better look like your pictures.”

Frowning, the blonde typed, “I do,” and pressed the send icon.

“we’ll see,” replied the skeptical john.

Summer did not bother to type any more digital defenses of her flesh.

Yawning, she stood from her bed and arched her back. The inhaled herb circulated throughout her system, softening her peripheral vision and putting a little bit of fuzz in her brain. Her right thumb scrolled down a luminous contact list, highlighted the name Mrs. Karr, and pressed the dial icon.

The third ring was followed by a click and an indrawn breath. “Yes…?”

“Hey, Mrs. Karr, it’s Summer.”

“Good evening young lady.”

“Can I bring Butch down in a few minutes?”

“You’ve got a client?”

“I do. He’s in a lot of pain and needs me for the rest of the night.”

Mrs. Karr believed (or pretended to believe) that Summer was a self-employed massage therapist.

“All right. Bring Butch down whenever you want. Has he eaten yet?”

“I made beef lasagna. And some spinach.”

(Summer wanted the older woman to know that the boy ate well-balanced meals.)

“Okay. I have some egg salad left over if he gets hungry later.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Summer showered, brushed the filmy residue of marijuana from her mouth, and pulled on black lace undergarments, which she then covered with a loose-fitting blue sweatsuit. The john would not see the physique that her genes and workout regimen had sculpted until they were in the privacy of his suite.

Palming the bedroom light switch, Summer entered the den. Butch was there watching television from a couch that his mother had found outside of a building where one of her regulars lived.

“Butch?”

“What?”

“Mommy’s got to go to work. I need to take you down to Mrs. Karr.”

“Her TV’s crappy.”

“Don’t be rude.”

(Over the years, Mrs. Karr’s television had received numerous insults from the six-year-old.)

“You wanna bring down new pajamas or use the ones we keep there?”

“I’m sleeping over?”

“You’re sleeping over.”

“I’m not eating egg salad.”

Through the windows of the taxicab, Summer saw Langston Hotel. Floodlights hidden in the corners of rectilinear topiary lashed the hotel’s beige façade with white fire. Two young men, who wore tan- and rust-colored uniforms were standing in front of the entrance. One of the attendants hid a cigarette upon noticing the approaching automobile, and the other stepped to the curb, leaned forward, and extended his hand.

“Good evening,” the fellow said while opening the rear door of the taxicab. “Welcome to the Langston.”

“Hi.”

Summer gave the cabbie a bill, and he returned five smaller ones, which were then divided between the driver, the valet, and herself. The erstwhile smoker held his breath and nodded amicably as he pulled open the glass door for the approaching blonde. Air conditioning, the smells of potpourri, and the sounds of gentle conversation drifted outside.

Leaving the hot June night behind, Summer entered the lobby.

Six chandeliers shone overhead, tossing amber light on plants, rust-colored walls, marble floors, rugs, paintings, and discrete enclaves of stylistically related furniture. Nearly two score people inhabited the vastness, but still, the room seemed empty.

The blonde looked for her john.

Sprawled upon the nearby couches was a plump and exhausted Hispanic family staring at the ceiling, and beyond them in groups of two or three sat flabby men who had loosened ties, rolled-up shirtsleeves, and thick glass tumblers.

Summer focused her attention farther into the lobby.

Near the elevator bank and sitting at a small table that lacked a drink was a lone white man. His hands were on his knees, and his attention was on her.

Walking across rugs and marble, Summer approached the watcher whom she knew to be her john.

XX X was thin and quite tall, and despite the season, he wore dark wool pants and a thick peacoat. Yellow sunglasses sat upon his aquiline nose, and bright smears of reflected light shone upon his scalp, where clung errant wisps of straw-colored hair. It was unclear if he was fifty years old or just an unhealthy man of thirty.

“Hi,” Summer said through a practiced smile as she neared XX X. “I’m Sasha.”

Eyes that lenses turned yellow flickered up and down. “You’re shorter than I thought.”

Most johns appreciated the sexual opportunities begat by capitalism, but some guys were of a different mindset. An individual like this would nitpick his paid companion because he enjoyed making pretty women feel bad or hoped to renegotiate the price or needed something to blame (such as the girl’s height or the smell of her deodorant) for his imminent sexual dysfunction.

“If you had specific height requirements,” Summer said, “you should’ve asked for that information.”

“You should’ve told me,” stated XX X, whose breath smelled like nachos.

“I’m five foot five. If I was short or tall, I’d’ve pointed that out—since it’d be different than what’s expected. But I’m average height—actually, one inch above average height for a woman—and don’t get complaints.”

Leaning back in his chair, the john made an appraisal of the blonde’s physique. His long fingers massaged his weak chin as he deliberated.

Eventually, XX X nodded. “Okay.”

“Shall we go to your room? Or do you want to get a drink at the bar first?”

“The room.”

Summer expertly concealed her disappointment.

XX X scratched the tip of his nose and unfolded himself from his seat. Decompressed, he stood halfway between six and seven feet tall.

A lump of concern materialized in the blonde, whose experiences had taught her that penis size usually corresponded to a guy’s height. Suddenly, she doubted the wisdom of agreeing to sell three hours of her company to this john (who was unpleasant and had nacho breath, (which did not betoken cleanliness anywhere else) for five hundred and twelve dollars and fifty cents.

A cold hand encircled her right wrist.

“It’s this one,” XX X said while pulling Summer toward the nearest elevator.

“Do you like the Langston?”

The john did not respond to the inquiry, but instead thumbed the call button and stared at the closed door. His face was inscrutable.

The blonde felt her pulse quicken inside of her clasped wrist. “Can you let go of—”

A bell dinged, and the door opened, revealing an interior of mirrors and burnished wood.

XX X pulled Summer into the elevator and withdrew a plastic card, which he then slotted into the button panel. A circle with the number “15” illuminated, accompanied by a quiet chime.

Silently, the door slid across the floor.

“It’s automatic,” said the john. “It knows exactly where I’m staying from this—” He waggled the key card. “Can’t go anywhere in this building without one.”

“Pretty high-tech,” remarked Summer, who was trying to cover up her growing unease.

Whirring, the elevator shifted and climbed.

The blonde breathed through her mouth in order to avoid the smell of nachos. “Want to tell me a little about yourself?”

“No.”

“What do you want me to call you?”

“Don’t care.”

“I should call you something, right?”

XX X did not respond to this inquiry.

“How about Billy?”

“Sounds like a kid’s name.”

Shrugging, the elevator slowed its ascent.

“Then Bill,” suggested Summer. “Or William. Whatever you prefer.”

No response came from the man.

The door slid aside, revealing a long hallway. Nobody was there.

XX X stepped from the elevator, pulling Summer by the wrist.

“Can you let go of—”

“Mine’s at the end,” the john said as he pulled the blonde forward. His unhurried strides were long, and his yellow eyes were focused upon his destination.

Quiet television noises and the smells of room service haunted the hallway, and Summer was comforted by the fact that she was not alone on the fifteenth floor. Twice before, she had landed in ugly situations (ones that she had ended herself with pepper spray and yelling), and she hoped that tonight would not prove to be her third rough encounter.

Every two steps that the john took required three from the blonde. His grip on her right wrist did not loosen.

Summer unzipped her purse with her free hand so that she could more quickly retrieve her pepper spray and noted to herself that she would have to remove XX X’s yellow sunglasses (or squirt at an angle).

The john pulled Summer to the final door, where he stopped and slotted his card.

A green light flashed above the knob, and a mechanical bolt clicked within the panel. XX X replaced the key in his coat, twisted the knob, and pushed.

Beyond the door lay an enclosure of absolute darkness.

Summer’s heart skipped uptempo, and her scalp tingled. “Let go of my arm right now.”

The john released the captured limb.

Wary, Summer massaged her wrist and motioned to the opaque interior. “Turn on a light.”

“Okay.”

An open hand slammed into Summer’s back and shoved her into the darkness. Something crinkled under her sneakers as she stumbled. Catching her balance, she spun around.

X XX’s lanky silhouette entered the room and closed the door. Darkness swallowed everything.

“No fucking games,” Summer barked. “Turn on the light right now or I’m leaving!”

A lock clicked.

“You’re not.” The john’s voice was assured.

Summer thrust her right hand into her purse, but the bag was jerked from her shoulder before she could grab the pepper spray. Filling her lungs with air, she turned her head toward the door and screamed.

Peanut butter filled her mouth. A hand shut her jaw and another slapped duct tape over her lips, silencing her cry one second after it had begun.

Cold fingers gripped the blonde’s arms, and steel encircled her wrists. Metal rattled as the john tightened two handcuffs. Everything smelled like plastic and nachos.

An image of Butch watching television overlaid the darkness in the terrified young mother’s mind.

A switch snapped like a gunshot, and a standing lamp illuminated. Squinting, gagged, and tasting peanut butter, Summer saw the suite.

Thick black fabric curtained all of the windows, and blue plastic tarps covered the floor and the king-sized bed. Upon the nightstand lay metal pipes of various sizes.

Summer felt a warm, tingling sensation between her legs as she wet herself.

XX X claimed an iron pipe the size of a crowbar. “Behave or I’ll break your skull.”

Tears filled Summer’s eyes. Running through her mind were the many bad choices that comprised her life, and the lone positive exception, which was her decision to see her accidental pregnancy through to term and give birth to Butch.

“Sit on the bed,” ordered the john.

The tarp crackled as the blonde walked toward the covered mattress. Some girls survived encounters like the one in which she now found herself, and if she remained level-headed, she would improve her odds.

Breathing deeply through her nose, Summer suppressed panic and reached the bed.

Police sirens sounded, igniting a small hope in Summer.

The noise grew louder, accompanied by the chattering of machine guns and some symphonic music.

Somebody on the fifteenth floor was watching an action movie.

The small hope died.

“Sit down,” ordered XX X.

Summer sat. Her wet sweatpants felt cold, and the plastic tarp crinkled. Upon the mini wet-bar, she noticed a handcuff key.

The john caressed his thick iron pipe and walked toward the blonde. “Do I still look like a Billy?”

Summer shook her head, turned her gaze to the floor, and swallowed. A lump of peanut butter went down her throat.

“You ever been fucked by a pipe?”

Peppy ragtime jazz intruded upon the scene.

The blonde raised her head and looked for the source of this incongruous music.

XX X rooted his free hand in his peacoat pocket and withdrew his cellphone. The jubilant brass, snappy drums, and bouncing bass line stopped when he fingered the device, which he then slapped to his fuzzy right ear.

“What?”

A voice that sounded like a trapped mosquito buzzed within the cellphone receiver.

The john’s eyes widened. “How the fuck did they find me?”

Again, the insect buzzed.

“I’ll come down.”

Hope flickered again within Summer’s chest.

XX X replaced the phone in his peacoat pocket and threw the iron bar at Summer’s face. She lurched to the right. Metal whipped through her hair, smacked against a bureau, and thudded on the floor.

“Stay here.”

The john grabbed a duffel bag, switched off the lamp, and exited.

A latch clicked as the door shut.

Alone in the darkness, Summer listened to the sound of XX X’s departure.

The elevator bell dinged, and Summer lunged for the opposite wall, where she blindly felt for the light switch with her bound hands. Her right pinky landed upon a plastic rectangle, and she pushed upward, eliciting a click.

The standing lamp illuminated, glaring upon the shiny piece of steel that lay atop the wet-bar. Quickly, she snatched the key and unlocked the handcuffs.

Footfalls sounded in the hallway.

Summer careened to the pile of metal that lay upon the nightstand. Her right hand closed upon a stainless steel pipe about as long as a cheerleader’s baton (and far thicker), and an instant later, she was beside the door.

Pressing her shoulder to the jamb, Summer secured the safety bolt and peered through the peephole.

A shadow slid along the hallway carpet, and as the footfalls grew louder, the blonde tightened her grip upon the cold steel.

An Asian couple strode into view and entered a nearby room, holding a conversation in a language that Summer thought sounded like it had been invented by irritated geese.

The blonde ripped the duct tape off of her face, extricated a peanut butter-covered handkerchief from her mouth, spat, reclaimed her purse from the floor, and fished out her pepper spray, which she then uncapped and pocketed. The tarp crinkled as she returned to the exit. Holding the steel bar at her side, she took a deep breath, undid the bolt, turned the knob, flung the door, and walked outside.

The hallway was empty.

Summer hastened to the elevator and fingered the call button. Gripping the metal bar so tightly that her hand ached, she waited.

Slow seconds passed.

A light shone on the wall, accompanied by a quiet ding.

The door slid open, revealing a terrified blonde who had tangled hair, red eyes, peanut butter stains on her lips, wet pants, and bruised wrists. Other than this apparition within the mirror, the space was unoccupied.

Heart racing, Summer walked inside and fingered the button marked, ‘L.’

The door shut, and the luminous circle went dark. For some reason, the elevator did not move.

Summer jammed her thumb into the lobby button.

Again, the circle shone and darkened without result.

Summer then remembered that the elevators in this building could not be activated without a room key.

“Goddamn prison hotel.”

The blonde ruminated. She could either locate the emergency stairwell on this floor or wait for the elevator to be called down to the lobby. The latter option contained the possibility of her getting trapped by the john in another confined space and was soon dismissed.

Summer thrust an index finger toward the door-open button, but just before flesh touched plastic, the elevator shuddered and began its descent.

No lights shone upon the panel.

Its destination was unknown.

“Go to the goddamn lobby you st—”

The elevator shrugged, coming to a stop.

A glance at the panel told Summer that she was on the twelfth floor. Pressing herself into a mirrored corner, she hid the steel bar behind her back and clasped the pepper spray that lay within her wet pocket.

The door opened, revealing a tall man.

Summer’s heart stuttered as the fellow walked forward. Her right hand withdrew the pepper spray.

The elevator lights illuminated a black fifty-year-old who had graying hair and a friendly smile. “Good evening.”

“Hi,” replied Summer, who then pocketed her atomizer.

Politely declining to comment upon the smells of urine and peanut butter that filled the space, the tall guest slotted his card and thumbed the lobby button. The elevator closed, descended the remainder of the shaft, and landed at ground level. There, the door slid into the wall.

“Goodnight,” the tall guest said while disembarking.

“You, too.”

Summer entered the lobby and surveyed the inhabitants of the potpourri vastness.

It did not seem as if XX X were in attendance.

Relieved, Summer hastened to the front desk, where a narrow receptionist wearing a permanent smile turned to face her.

“How may I—”

“A man is abusing women upstairs. In room fifteen thirty-nine.”

Critical eyes flickered to the metal bar in Summer’s right hand, her soiled apparel, and her peanut butter lips.

“Ma’am,” said the receptionist. “Are you a guest here at the—”

“Just look into it, okay? I heard screams, and you need to do something before somebody—”

Summer lost her ability to talk, and she knew that she needed to go home before she broke down in public.

“Ma’am?”

The blonde turned away from the doubtful receptionist and strode toward the exit. Beyond the glass lay the hot June night and two slumbering taxicabs.

Summer flung the door, passed by a smoking valet, and deposited herself within the nearer vehicle. Roused from a hazy nap, the squat black man who was behind the wheel looked a question over his shoulder.

“Twelve ninety, Briggs. Off of Thirtieth.”

“Ma’am.”

The driver tossed his vehicle onto the road.

Tears rolled down Summer’s face, and she rubbed them away with her palms.

Guiding the vehicle toward the highway, the driver sniffed the air, cracked the windows, and hung an air freshener that looked like a candy cane.

Summer climbed the stairs to her apartment, brushed her teeth three times, took a shower, made an anonymous call to the police about her awful encounter, inhaled a shot of vodka, and retrieved Butch from Mrs. Karr.

That night, mother and son slept together in the same bed.

Morning succeeded a maelstrom of terrible nightmares, one of which had not been imagined.

Summer drove Butch to school and returned home, contemplating her profession and its perils.

From the bottom drawer in her nightstand, she unearthed a turquoise business card that had been given to her a couple of months earlier. The giver had responded to one of her online postings and set up a meeting with her, but he was not a john. He was a handsome and well-spoken slick who had (or at least claimed to have) some luxurious set-ups where groups of women serviced premium clients. His offer to the blonde had been generous, but she had declined, unwilling to let a pimp run her life.

This morning, Summer felt differently about the idea of having a boss. The terrible experience with XX X had proven to her the dangers of working alone in the city of Great Crown, and she could not risk turning her son into an orphan.

Decided, Summer retrieved her cellphone, typed the pass code, and looked at the turquoise business card that she had just retrieved.

Calligraphic letters at the top of the thick, glossy rectangle stated, ‘Darren Tasking, Entrepreneur.’

II

The Entrepreneur

The den smelled like cologne, tobacco smoke, and scotch. Heavy rain crackled upon a window hidden behind a floral curtain, and an air conditioner hummed in a dark corner. Seated in this room upon folding chairs around a circular table covered with red felt were five men. Neat stacks of chips sat beside each of their right elbows, and cards sprouted from their cupped hands like paper bouquets. In the exact middle of this group lay the ante, which was comprised of ten green disks.

Light glimmered on the manicured fingernails of the handsome dealer, a tan and clean-cut thirty-seven-year-old slick named Darren Tasking who was called ‘Task’ and wore pomaded blond hair, a black shirt, and the bottom half of a mocha suit.

Outside, a car horn beeped.

The gamblers tried to ignore this sound, but it persevered, cutting through the rain, windows, and skulls.

“Anybody who blows his horn like that should be castrated,” declared ‘Dublin’ Frank Flanagan, a plump forty-four-year-old son of Ireland (two generations removed) in a loose blue suit and white shirt who loaded his curly red hair with gel so that he would not look like a circus performer.

The car horn continued to blare.

“Maybe the guy died and fell on the wheel,” suggested Christopher Bronowski, a bodybuilder who had light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a square face. Unlike most guys who spent twenty-plus hours in the gym every week, ‘Nowski’ had decent clothing and a mild disposition.

The horn continued to intrude upon the game.

Dublin glared at the window. “If a dead guy’s face is on the horn, somebody needs to shove it off.”

“Should we send Irving?” suggested Nowski. “He knows what to do with a corpse.”

“I’m not going out in this rain,” replied Irving Sweets, an oldster who was invited to card games because people enjoyed listening to his World War II stories. “Walking around in a storm’s how you get pleurisy,” clarified the octogenarian while picking an ear that looked like a seashell.

The car horn stopped.

Relieved, the men refocused on the game.

Task stared at his worthless quintet and pretended to think.

Rain hissed and crackled.

“Sorta miss the horn now,” remarked Nowski.

Dublin tossed two black chips into the center of the table, where they clicked and settled, garnering gazes from everyone. A bet of two hundred dollars before any cards had been exchanged was a strong declaration in this poker den.

“What kind of cards did you deal him?” Nowski asked Task.

“The wrong ones.”

“You in or out?” pressed Dublin.

The bodybuilder flung two black chips into the pile and eyed the plump redhead. “There’s an answer.”

Seated beside Nowski was Javier Martinez, a short and pockmarked Hispanic of fifty who wore a brown crew neck shirt and held an unlighted cigar in the right corner of his mouth. This man was the superintendent of a one-hundred-unit building on Preston Avenue, and the only person at the table who was north. His hand flashed as he tossed two black chips into the center of the table.

Irving catapulted his cards. “Bah!”

Pleased to see that Javier was feeling confident, Task matched the bet. “Cards?”

“Three,” said Dublin.

Disbelief flashed in Nowski’s huge hazel eyes. “You pushed to two hundred on the first round when you needed three cards?”

“I did.”

Task fired three cards across the red felt at Dublin. Nowski flashed two fingers and received his replacements. Javier turned his cigar with his prehensile lips and replaced one laminated rectangle. The slick discarded a ten and a four, and gave himself two slices of nothing.

Subtly, Task tapped the top of his hand. Dublin and Nowski caught the signal, and the latter switched his front card to the rear, which was also a covert communication.

“Bets?” inquired the slick.

Dublin tossed three black chips into the hub, bringing his bet up to five hundred (plus the ante). Nowski tossed his cards, and Javier flung three chips into the pot.

Pretending to deliberate, Task counted to five in his head and yielded. “I’m dead.”

Again, Dublin flung three chips.

Eight hundred dollars (plus the ante) was a pretty big wager for this poker den. It was clear that Javier possessed a good hand, but doubt shone upon his pockmarked face as to whether or not it was good enough to win the pot. Rain crackled as he ruminated.

Decided, the superintendent matched the bet. The spinning chips settled, and he said, “I’m calling it.”

Dublin showed three sevens.

“That looks portentous,” remarked Nowski.

Irving nodded. “God’s number.”

Smiling, Javier laid a two, a three, a four, a five, and a six upon the red felt.

“God loses,” remarked Task.

Dublin grimaced. “Fuck.”

“Scotches?” inquired the slick, who then rose from the table.

The attendees mumbled “Yeah” or nodded their heads.

Dublin gathered the cards so that he could deal the next hand. “Task?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop inviting this Mexican.”

Grinning, Javier leaned back in his seat. “I’m Puerto Rican.”

“Is that supposed to be better?”

“Puerto Rico is part of this country.”

“And I’ve heard that ‘y’ can be a vowel.”

“Be polite,” chastened Task.

Cards chattered like a machine gun as Dublin shuffled the deck. “Maybe when I’m winning.”

The slick claimed a bottle of scotch from a table that had cold cuts, cubes of cheese, and some vegetables that nobody wanted. Returning to the group, he eyed the sofa that hid the safe in which all of the gamblers had earlier deposited their cash.

“This’s the eighteen or the twenty-five year old?” inquired Dublin.

“Twenty-five,” Task replied while holding up the old bottle (even though the fluid within was a cheap toddler from another barrel).

Javier seemed to be impressed.

Circling the table, the slick resurrected the amber remains in each tumbler. He then closed the bottle, landed in his seat, and scratched the back of his neck.

Nowski and Dublin caught the signal.

“Ante.”

Ten green chips crashed, and the new dealer began shooting cards across the red felt. Thick globs of rain smacked the window as the storm worsened.

“I wish they’d move Great Crown outta Florida,” grumbled the plump redhead.

Task looked at his cards.

Three tens were perched just where he had hoped to find them.

“Bets?” inquired Dublin.

Nowski passed, shaking his head, and Javier tossed three black chips onto the pile. The slick knew that the superintendent also possessed a promising three of a kind.

“Bah!” Irving threw his cards onto the table. “Bah!”

Task reluctantly tossed two chips into the pile, as did Nowski.

“I’m dead.” Dublin dropped his hand. “Cards?”

Nowski held up three fingers and received his trinity. Javier and Task tossed in pairs and were resupplied.

The slick was now looking at a full house.

“Bets?”

Nowski threw three black chips at the pile.

“You think you’ve got something there,” remarked Task.

The bodybuilder shrugged.

Javier tossed three pieces at the stack. “And I’ll raise.” Four more chips crashed, turning the bet into a thousand dollars (plus the ante).

“The table’s starting to sag,” remarked Dublin.

Task met the bet and tossed in five more, bringing his wager to three reams (plus fifty).

Grimacing, Nowski dropped his cards. His skills as an actor had changed over the years from high school player to dinner theater understudy.

With prehensile lips, Javier turned his cigar one hundred and eighty degrees. This gesture looked like a signal, even though he was north and had no allies at the table.

Eventually, the superintendent tossed five more chips on the pile. “I’m calling it.”

Task erected a full house.

Stunned, Javier revealed his hand, which contained three queens and two worthless rectangles. His cigar was drooping.

Nowski gathered the cards. Ante chips crashed on the red felt as he shuffled.

Preoccupied, the superintendent drank a hunk of scotch.

Rain rattled against the air conditioner.

“Sounds like tap dancing,” remarked Irving. “The rain.”

“Didn’t you once drink rainwater from an enemy’s boot?” inquired Task, who often remembered other people’s lives better than they did themselves.

“My canteen got shot during the landing, and I was cut off from the division.” The oldster grimaced as he recalled the event. “But the boot was pretty clean, considering.”

Dublin swallowed scotch. “Was it a Jap boot?”

“Yeah.”

“How much water’s that hold? Couldn’t’ve been much.”

“A quart.”

Nowski dealt. Dublin won, and Javier folded before he was too heavily invested. Irving distributed the next round, and since he was not a part of the plot, the hand was square and a small amount of money went to the superintendent, who was a capable player and would do well in any game that was north.

Dealing, Task fired silver at Javier, gold at Nowski, and bronze everywhere else. Dublin folded and went to the buffet table, where he contemplated a vegetable.

The bodybuilder tossed three chips on the pile.

“Bah!” exclaimed the oldster, flinging his cards into the air even though his turn had not yet come.

Javier matched the wager and added three more. Task folded. Nowski met the bet, and tossed in an additional six.

Concerned, the superintendent regarded his hand and the diminishing pile of chips that sat beside his right elbow.

“What’s this stuff that looks like French fries?” Dublin inquired from the buffet table.

“Jicama,” replied Task.

“Does it taste like French fries?”

“Not especially.”

“Is there ketchup?”

“Try it with that dip I put out.”

The plump redhead frowned.

“You should say freedom fries,” declared Irving.

“I don’t think people are still saying that,” Nowski remarked, “if ever.”

“Well ‘French fries’ was wrong to begin with—they were invented in Belgium!”

“It’s jicama,” reiterated Task.

Javier matched the bet, bringing his wagered sum to twelve fifty. Only two chips remained beside his right elbow. “I’m calling it.”

Nowski revealed four things that matched.

Javier paled.

Rain crackled like popcorn against the air conditioner.

“Disgusting,” said Dublin, who was chewing some jicama. “It’s like the part of a watermelon you aren’t allowed to eat.”

The superintendent wiped his damp forehead. “Can you guys turn up the air?”

The plump redhead walked to the air conditioner and twisted the dial. A moment later, the whir that came from the device changed octaves.

Cool air flowed as Task pushed eight hundred dollars in black chips across the red felt to Javier. “Let me stake you.”

“Maybe I should go. My wife will be…”

The remainder of the superintendent’s prophecy was not verbally articulated. His face was red, and the armpits of his brown crew shirt were dark with sweat.

“Use it—” The slick gestured at the proffered chips. “I know you’re good for it.”

“Well…okay. Thanks.”

Task, Nowski, and Dublin allowed Javier two small victories before they pulverized him.

The cigar was on the floor, and the crew shirt was saturated when the superintendent finally withdrew from the red felt table, owing the slick who had invited him to the game twelve thousand dollars.

Thunder rumbled, and hard Italian shoes cracked upon the floorboards as Task escorted Javier to the front door. “You gonna catch a cab?”

The superintendent looked like he had just been poisoned. “I’ll walk.”

“Then take this—” The slick extended a big pink umbrella. “Keep dry.”

“It’s…it’s gonna take a little while for me to get you the money. I’m not sure—”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Javier departed. From the hallway came the sounds of the superintendent descending stairs.

Task shut the apartment door, snapped a bolt, and returned to the red felt table. “Thank God for stupidity.”

Nowski swept all of the chips from the red felt.

III

Swinging Hammers

The head of a sledgehammer pounded a living room wall. Plaster burst, and white hunks fell to the floorboards. Powder lingered in the air like the smoke from a cannon.

Dressed in a black shirt, navy slacks, and polished Italians, Task leaned against the sunlit windowsill of the wholly unfurnished apartment. The coffee he had purchased on Preston Avenue earlier that morning sat in his right hand.

“Looks like it’s pretty thick.”

“Pre-war,” remarked Sergei, a dusty fifty-year-old Russian immigrant in overalls who had the face of an unskilled boxer, but was a nice guy and a hard worker. “Keep going?”

“Keep going.”

Sergei lowered his orange goggles, repositioned his grip on the haft, and swung the sledgehammer. Metal pounded the open wound, booming upon impact, and a welter of debris clouded the area. With two fists, the Russian withdrew the eight-and-a-half-pound cast iron head.

The doorbell rang.

Ignoring the sound, Task sipped some of his pep, which was good enough to drink black.

Sergei glanced at the door. “Somebody’s here.”

“It’s nobody.”

“Okay.”

The Russian tightened his grip, set his feet, and swung. Plaster shattered, and the iron head sank deep into the north wall.

Sergei jerked the hammer loose, revealing a dark hole.

“Reminds me of a girl I once knew,” said Rufus, a lean black twenty-year-old who was emerging from the bathroom. This fellow was the Russian’s helper on most jobs and much stronger than he looked.

Again, the doorbell rang.

Rufus eyed the entrance. “Somebody’s here.”

“It’s nobody,” stated Task.

Sergei wiped dust from his orange goggles. “Get the other hammer.”

“I hear you.”

The Russian swung eight-and-a-half pounds of iron at the edge of the hole. Plaster shattered, and a ray of morning sunlight illuminated a cobweb that lay deep within the opening.

Two yards away from Sergei, Rufus lowered his goggles, set his feet, and swung his sledgehammer. The cast iron head pounded the north wall, booming, and the entire apartment shook. Three large chunks of plaster fell to the floor as he withdrew his tool.

A soggy wooden beam lay inside of the opening.

The helper threw a look at the Russian and then one at the slick. “You guys sure this ain’t load-bearing?”

“This apartment and the one next door used to be one unit,” said Task. “Back when people had it better than gerbils.”

The doorbell rang, and the visitor knocked upon the door. “It’s the super—Javier. I need to see what’s going on in there.”

Task sipped his coffee.

Sergei swung. The cast iron head boomed against the wall.

Keys jingled in the hallway, and brass scraped against steel for a few seconds. “My keys aren’t working,” declared Javier. “Open up!”

Task rose from the windowsill, arched his back, and eyed Sergei. “Keep swinging.”

“Okay.”

“I feel you,” added Rufus, who was sharp and instantly understood the situation.

The slick strode toward the front door, which the superintendent was currently beating with fists and shoes. Knees might have been employed.

“Open up in there or—”

Task snapped the top bolt.

Javier silently waited on the far side of the door.

The slick stretched his limbs and sipped some more pep.

A sledgehammer boomed, turning plaster into shards and dust.

Task undid the second lock and opened the door.

Dressed in Bermuda shorts and an orange crew shirt, Javier stood in the white second floor hallway. His eyes were narrow and his pockmarked skin was flush with anger.

“What is—”

“Good morning,” said the slick.

“You can’t do c—”

A sledgehammer thundered against the north wall of the living room.

Javier stepped forward.

Task threw an arm against the jamb, barring the doorway, and raised his cup of coffee. “Don’t make me spill this.”

The superintendent looked past the slick and into the apartment. His pockmarks paled. “This is a rental…you—you can’t do constr—”

A sledgehammer pounded the wall.

“Stop them!” urged Javier.

Task sipped some pep.

Sergei and Rufus swung at the same time. Plaster exploded, and chips skipped across the floorboards like shrapnel.

“Stop that!” the superintendent shouted at the demolition team. “You’re not allowed to—”

Hammers boomed.

Javier returned his attention to Task. “You’re not allowed to do this. You can’t—”

“Did you come here to discuss the money that you owe me?”

Two hammers fell like thunderous exclamation points.

Fury shone in the superintendent’s dark eyes, but was soon replaced by something far less masculine.

The slick sipped and swallowed. “We still need to figure out how you’re gonna repay that twelve thousand.”

Ashamed, Javier averted his gaze and looked at his sneakers. “Right.”

“How does one hundred a month sound?”

The superintendent cleared his throat. “What kind of interest?

“I don’t charge my friends interest.”

Javier raised his gaze. “One hundred a month, no interest?”

A hammer boomed against the wall, and Task took some pep. “If we’re friends.”

“We’re friends.”

“Good.”

Javier looked down at his hands, which held an abundant key ring that must have weighed five pounds. “You changed the locks.”

“Of course I did.”

“It’s okay. I just need to have a copy of the new key.”

“You don’t.”

A hammer pounded punctuation into the wall.

“What if there’s an emergency?”

“I’ll live with the consequences.”

The superintendent nodded. “What do I tell the owner…if he hears about this? About what’s going on here?”

“Say I had leaky pipes that needed to be replaced.”

Hammers thundered.

“Okay.” Javier’s voice was spectral.

“Payment is due on the first of each month. Do I need to describe what will happen if you fail to remit?”

“You don’t.”

Task shut the door, snapped both bolts, and returned his attention to the demolition job.

One tenth of the north wall had been turned into shards, and several deep holes showed glimpses of the neighboring apartment, which was also empty.

The slick walked to the middle of the forty-by-forty enclosure and drew a line across the floor with the sharp toe of his left Italian. “The new wall goes right here.”

Sergei nodded, hefted his sledgehammer, and swung.

IV

The Appetites of Men

It was night in Great Crown, Florida. The hot day had not cooled off, but only changed color.

Task landed at a familiar booth in the back of Ed’s, a white, gray, and turquoise diner that had air conditioning, some customers, fifty booths, a long counter, and a pinball machine that was located near the restrooms for the convenience of waiting urinators. More than once, the slick had wondered at the cleanliness of the machine’s flipper buttons.

Nowski arrived, walked across the establishment, and slid across the bench directly opposite Task. Both men were wearing black silk shirts.

“Put on a jacket,” said the slick.

“I didn’t bring one—it’s in the eighties.”

“We can’t go around like this.”

“No?”

“We look like guys who play the kind of jazz dentists listen to.”

“You’ve got a jacket in your car? I’ll get it.”

Keys slid past a napkin dispenser into the right hand of the bodybuilder, who went outside and returned two minutes later, holding a tan blazer.

“Here you go.”

Task donned the garment. “Thanks.”

Nowski replaced himself in the booth, and a shadow flowed across the table.

“Hey guys,” said Charlie, a black waitress of forty who had a cute face, different hair every week, and a substantial posterior. “Menus?”

“I’d like one,” said the bodybuilder.

The slick wrinkled his mouth. “He’s gonna have two chicken salad sandwiches on rye with tomato and bacon, like always.”

“I might not.” Nowski opened a laminated menu that was the size of a backyard. “Man…there’s really a lotta stuff on here…”

“I’d like an egg white omelette with Swiss and ham,” Task said, “some hash browns and whole wheat toast. Coffee.”

The waitress eyed the bodybuilder.

“Two chicken salad sandwiches on rye with tomato and bacon.” Nowski collapsed the menu. “And a lemonade.”

Charlie took the menu, swung the automobile that was her rump one hundred and eighty degrees, and walked toward the kitchen.

“She looked a lot better in the nineties,” lamented the bodybuilder. “Remember?”

“Waitressing isn’t cosmetic.”

Nowski slouched in his seat. “How’s the new setup on Preston?”

“We got half of the dividing wall down today.”

“How’d the super take it?”

“He took it.” Task did not anticipate any problems from Javier.

“Does he have any idea what we’re putting in there?”

“He’s not imaginative.”’

The slick noticed something lanky and quick moving through the parking lot toward the diner entrance.

“What?” asked the bodybuilder.

“The creep’s here.”

The front door swung wide, admitting a casually dressed and balding individual who was halfway between six and seven feet tall. Fluorescent lights flashed upon his yellow sunglasses as he strode toward the rear booth.

“Mr. Tasking,” said the creep, who sometimes identified himself as XX X.

“Metal pipes?” inquired Task.

Yellow eyes gleamed above a contented grin.

“You went a little too far with this girl,” said the slick. “Glad she didn’t have a heart attack—or quit the business altogether.”

Pleased, the creep bowed.

Task recalled something else that Summer had said about the encounter. “Did you eat nachos before you met her?”

“I did. And I soaked my hands in cold water for that special icy touch.”

“You’re sick.”

“You’re the one who came up with this plot.”

Task shrugged. “My imagination is less ethical than I am.”

Nowski wrinkled his face. “I can’t tell if that’s stupid or profound.”

“Don’t use peanut butter again,” the slick told the creep. “Some people are allergic, and it could lead to a situation.”

“Okay. Is she working at one of your parlors? Sasha?”

“That’s her fuck name—her real one’s Summer—and yes, she’s one of my butterflies.”

“Nice and safe from guys like you,” added the bodybuilder.

Again, the creep bowed.

Task motioned to the rear of the diner. “Your money’s in the bathroom. Same place as last time.”

“You couldn’t just hand it to me here?”

“I’m oblique.”

“See ya.”

The creep walked to the bathroom, and Charlie materialized, carrying a service platter and the notable relish tray that kept the gray-haired crowd coming back to Ed’s. Porcelain clanked upon the tabletop, and the associates relocated their napkins to their laps.

“Holler if you need anything—I’m doing sides at the counter.”

“We will. Thanks.”

The waitress departed, and toast crunched.

“You think the creep would ever really hurt one of them?” Nowski inquired through a lot of chicken and mayonnaise. “Or kill one?”

“No.”

“But he likes it. Terrorizing women.”

“Sure. Probably gets a thrill from it like the kind you get from pinching Andrea’s nipple too hard or taking her to see a horror movie.”

The bodybuilder swallowed. “It’s different.”

“Same impulse, different volume.”

Across the diner, the bathroom door opened, and the creep emerged, eyeing the pinball machine, which was adorned with an air-brush illustration of spiky monster trucks.

“I wouldn’t use him if he was a sociopath,” Task said while cutting into his omelette. “He used to be an actor. Theater, I think, so nobody ever saw him.”

At the pinball machine, the tall fellow cracked his knuckles, slotted a quarter, and leaned forward. Colored lights flashed across the top of the backbox.

Task felt a vibration on his right thigh and withdrew his cellphone, which he then set upon the table. The touchscreen showed that the caller was ‘K. Smith.’ Buzzing a second time, the device approached the omelette.

“Who’s that?” asked chicken, mayonnaise, and Nowski.

“Lilly.”

“She’s a lot of work.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You think it’s a situation?”

Half of the time Lilly called, there was a situation.

“I’ll know after I eat.”

A final buzz sounded, and the call was transferred to the voicemail account.

“She doesn’t text?”

“I asked her not to. Her spelling’s depressing.”

Task and Nowski ate for a few minutes, eyeing the creep, who jerked spasmodically as he played the monster truck pinball machine.

“He’s really into it,” the slick remarked while raising some hash browns to his mouth.

“Looks like he’s being electrocuted.”

Task finished his eggs and the last clump of hash browns. Reluctantly, he unlocked his cellphone, connected to his voicemail account, and placed the receiver to his ear.

“One Message,” said an artificial female. “Saturday, seven forty-six p.m.”

“Hey, Task, it’s Lilly. The babysitter just canceled on me, and I can’t leave Royal by himself. Call me back.”

Irked, the slick killed the connection and looked across the table. “You know a babysitter we can call right now?”

“Eight o’clock on a Saturday? Nobody’s home, and the ones that are you don’t wanna put near a kid.”

“What about Andrea’s little sister?”

“She got herself a boyfriend. Probably slapping his hands away from her bumps right now.”

“You can’t think of anybody?”

“We could go online. I’m sure—”

“We don’t have time to hold auditions,” said Task. “Something happens to Lilly’s kid—we leave that boy with a molester or someone who robs the place—and this situation becomes an event. It’d be better to let Lilly skip work than facilitate something like that.”

Nowski put the last corner of his second sandwich into his mouth. “You’re gonna let her skip?”

“No. We’re going over.”

The bodybuilder stared. “To babysit?”

“You and I can go over business while making sure that Lilly’s kid doesn’t fall out of a window or hang himself or whatever. One Eighty-Nine is at capacity, and she needs to be there.”

“We’re babysitting?” inquired Nowksi, whose gaping mouth contained a fully intact sandwich corner.

“We are.”

“We need more butterflies.” The bodybuilder resumed chewing. “It’s been tight since we lost Allison and the twins.”

“That’s on the itinerary.”

Task highlighted the number of the most recent caller and put the receiver to his ear. The line went live before the first ring had even finished.

“You got my message?” asked Lilly. “About the babysitter?”

“I’m coming over to watch the kid.”

Silence sat on the line for three seconds.

“You’re gonna do it?” The butterfly sounded incredulous. “Babysit?”

“And Bronowski.”

“Okay…” said Lilly, who was obviously uncomfortable with the idea. “Th-thank you. I really—”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Get ready for work.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

The bodybuilder stood up and stretched as the slick killed the connection, tossed a fifty on the table, and rose from the booth. Walking toward the exit, the associates waved at the waitress, who was slapping the bottom of an upended ketchup bottle in order to extract its stubborn insides.

Nowski flung the door.

The pair entered the hot and humid summer night.

“This weather is offensive,” remarked the bodybuilder.

The hard soles of four Italians cracked against the sidewalk.

“I think Lilly was lying,” Task said while peeling off his blazer. “Came up with a last-minute excuse to get out of a long Saturday night at the parlor. She’s got five.”

Footfalls echoed as the associates continued across the parking lot.

“Why wouldn’t she just say she had a cold or something?”

“She tried that once, and I sent over Dr. Felderman.” The slick folded his jacket over his arm. “He gave her a decongestant and a box of condoms.”

“The members really like her.”

“She’s a catalog.”

Directly ahead of the pair sat a black sedan.

“I’m driving?” inquired the bodybuilder.

“No need to put both of our vehicles in that neighborhood.”

“That’s thoughtful.”

Headlights raked across the parking lot and shone upon the two associates. Nowski interposed himself between Task and an oncoming red sports car. A lean kid who had long hair, pale skin, and a matching girlfriend sat behind the wheel.

“Look like vegetarians,” remarked the slick.

“Look like.”

The associates installed themselves inside the black sedan and shut the doors.

“If the world runs out of food,” the bodybuilder said, “vegetarians will be the first to get eaten.” He slotted a key and ignited the engine.

A thought occurred to Task. “Isn’t Andrea a vegetarian?”

“She is,” Nowski said while checking his rearview mirror. “And it’s comforting to know that in such a situation, my first meal would be the woman I love.”

V

Nowski Gets Punched

Fifteen minutes later, the black sedan landed in the market district, which was one of the three worst areas in the entire city. Task was unable to recall a time when this neighborhood of old buildings and grim parks was safe, and he was a Great Crown native.

The associates shut their doors, skipped the high curb, and climbed the steps to the entrance, where the slick fingered the button for a third-floor apartment and withdrew his digit two seconds later.

Static erupted from the speaker. “Task? Is that you?”

“I recommend asking who it is rather than just giving any person who buzzes my name.”

“Okay. Come in.”

Three quiet seconds passed.

“Did you buzz us?”

“Oops.”

An automatic latch snapped.

Task flung the door and gestured to Nowski. In tandem, they entered an untenanted lobby, which had taupe tiles and smelled like Chinese food.

“Why does she live in such a shithole?” asked the bodybuilder. “She makes a lot.”

“She sends most of her money to Lithuania. Family.”

“Keeps her working, I suppose.”

The associates climbed a flight of concrete stairs and strode into a yellow hallway that had three bicycles and a confused cat. At the far end of the passage stood an open door.

“This one,” Lilly shouted from within.

The pair closed the distance, and Nowski gestured at the apartment. Task entered the main room, which had white walls and a painting of Jesus Christ that looked like the cover of a romance novel. The smell of Chinese food overpowered all other odors.

“I’ll be right there,” Lilly called out from another room. “General Tso’s in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

A chubby seven-year-old boy appeared at the edge of a dark hallway. His eyes were big.

“You must be Royal,” said Task.

The boy stared.

A collection of curves gathered in tan skin, loose jeans, and a black brassiere swept out of a bedroom and placed a kiss upon the scalp of the stunned youth. “Be good while Mommy’s gone,” Lilly said, “and listen to Mr. Tasking and Mr. Bronowski.”

Tears filled Royal’s eyes.

Task knew that he had to distract the kid before there was a situation. “Wanna punch Mr. Bronowski in the stomach?”

The boy was surprised by the inquiry (as was the bodybuilder) and did not know how to respond. Scampering across the living room, the butterfly snatched a gray blouse from the back of a chair.

“Slug him,” Task encouraged Royal.

The boy wiped his eyes, sniffled once, and took a tentative step toward the bodybuilder.

“Make it hurt,” advised the slick.

Royal made a little fist and punched Nowski in the belly. If a mosquito had stood at the point of impact, it would have survived.

“Don’t kill me,” said the bodybuilder.

The boy’s face became a smile.

A miniaturized rap song emerged from a cellphone.

“That’s the cab,” said Lilly. “Spare keys’re on top of the fridge. Make sure Royal gets to bed by midnight.” The frantic woman put the receiver to her ear, barked, “I’m coming down,” and tumbled from the apartment.

Nowski closed the door and snapped a bolt.

“Can I do it again?” asked Royal, who then made a little fist.

“Sure,” replied Task. “Hard as you can.”

Again, the bodybuilder presented his stomach. The boy punched abdominal muscles that were harder than the bones in his fist.

“Ouch,” said Nowski.

“Royal?”

The boy looked at the slick. “Yes?”

“Are there any weapons in this place? Things you might hurt yourself with?”

The boy looked confused. “Whaddya mean?”

“Slingshot. Pocketknife. Pepper spray. Bow and arrow. Pellet gun. Grownup gun. Electroshock weapon. Are there things like that in the house?”

“No.”

“Do you swear to the Lord Jesus Christ who died for your sins?” Task pointed at the beefcake Christ.

“Yeah. I swear.”

“So it’s time for bed.”

Alarmed, the boy shook his head back and forth. “It’s too early. I wanna watch Lieutenant Turkey and the Space Potato.”

“That’s one thing or two?”

“It’s one.”

“You’ve got a TV in your room?”

“Only in here.”

“This is a movie? Lieutenant Turkey and the Space Potato?”

“I’ll show you.”

Royal bounded to a lopsided ziggurat of DVD cases and withdrew one, which he then presented to Task. A gigantic potato that had fins, satellite dishes, and antennas was speeding through outer space toward a martial turkey who held a rifle in his wings.

“Based on a true story,” suggested the bodybuilder.

Looking at the back of the box, the slick located the running time of the anthropomorphic adventure, which was eighty-two minutes. “You watch this and then it’s bedtime.”

The boy nodded his head. “Okay.”

“Somebody buzzes the door or the phone rings, you ignore it. Right?”

“Okay.”

“And you’re not allowed to leave this room—except to go to the bathroom or come get us. We’ll be in your mommy’s room. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Nowski presented his abdomen, and Royal threw his final and least devastating punch.

Two minutes later, the boy was sitting on the couch, enthralled by the movie.

The associates sequestered themselves in Lilly’s messy bedroom, which had coral walls and furniture of the same color. Task scooped a boulder of clothing off of a chair and seated himself while Nowski took a corner of the uncovered mattress.

“I want the numbers of some babysitters,” announced the slick. “Three of the butterflies have kids, and us doing this again isn’t gonna happen.”

The bodybuilder massaged his abdomen. “My stomach couldn’t handle it.”

“He was weak, right? Even for a kid?”

“Even for a girl kid. I’ve got a niece his age who can already break walnuts.”

“You’ll handle the babysitter thing?”

Nowski nodded his head. “I’ll set up some interviews.”

“Just women babysitters. Any guy who wants to be around little kids he’s not related to is somebody I don’t wanna know.”

“Got it.”

“That’ll take care of the childcare excuse,” Task said, “but we still need more butterflies for Preston Avenue.”

“Gonna use the creep to scare another freelancer?”

“We can’t do that one too much—especially with girls who might work together. And I haven’t seen any great material online since Summer.”

The bodybuilder thumbed his dimpled chin. “You’ve got another plot?”

The slick was incredulous. “You need to ask that question?”

“What’s the plot?”

“How many black guys do you know? Not including Watkins.”

“Ones that are south?”

“North would work for some of the roles, though south would be better. Should be—or seem—educated. These guys need to be credible—well dressed, articulate. Can’t pronounce the word ‘ask’ like ‘axe’ or shit like that.”

Nowski employed his thick fingers and did some thinking. “I know five guys like that—mostly from the gym, so they’re big dudes. Two of them are south, three are north, though one of those is pretty near the equator—used to peddle a little candy to his friends.”

Task moved some things around inside of his brainpan. “So we’ll go with the two who’re south, and the one who’s borderline. And I know three who’ll do it.”

“Six black guys can drive this plot?”

“Six can. Tomorrow night, we’re going to Cherry Red.”

Grinning, Nowski lay back upon the bare mattress. “Strip club sounds a lot better than babysitting. Do we need any of these blacks by then?”

“No. Not until we find our protagonist.”

VI

Dawn Roundup in Reverse

Brass scratched steel, and a tumbler snapped. Awakened by these sounds, Task opened his eyes and found himself lying upon a couch in the living room of Lilly’s apartment. The front door opened, and the returning butterfly strode inside. Her careful gait evinced aches.

“Everything’s okay?” Lilly asked Task. “Did anything happen?”

“Everything’s linear.”

The slick walked to the bathroom, urinated, washed his hands, yawned, and unwrapped one of the toothbrushes he had purchased from the all-night market down the street. Bristles scoured teeth, and foam shot down the drain.

Task proceeded to the open doorway of the messy bedroom. “It’s time for the roundup.”

Lying atop the bare mattress and wearing only boxer shorts, Nowski grunted, opened his eyes, and grabbed his clothing from the nightstand. His feet hit the floor, and he shambled to the bathroom. The guy was a zombie every morning, probably because his bones were so sick of carrying around all of those muscles.

The slick waited while the bodybuilder pissed, flushed the toilet, and brushed his teeth.

Yawning, Nowski entered the hallway.

“Wash your hands.”

The bodybuilder returned to the bathroom, and the faucet hissed. Ninety seconds later, he returned with wet hands and a collapsed face.

“Let’s go.”

The associates walked toward the exit.

Nowski waved at Lilly, who was on the living room couch, digging into a pint of ice cream with a gigantic soupspoon. For a moment, Task ruminated on the biological process that converted junk food into a beautiful woman.

“Bye,” said the butterfly, whose glassy eyes were fixed on a talk show in which an audience booed and hooted at two morbidly obese rednecks.

The pair descended the stairs, entered the muggy blue dawn, and proceeded to the black sedan, where they took their seats.

Task managed the air conditioner while Nowski drove toward the nearest parlor, which was the place on One Hundred and Eighty-Ninth Avenue. This location was often the third (and final) stop, but since the associates were already in the southwest part of the city, it would come first.

A silent twelve-minute drive changed the low-income neighborhood into a middle-class one that was a mix of apartment buildings and strip malls.

The bodybuilder checked his mirrors, sidled to the curb, threw the gear stick into park, and checked the handgun in his ankle holster. All of the parlors were in safe areas, but there was no gate that could keep out undesirables.

The associates surveyed the area for threats.

Nobody occupied the concrete plain.

Nowski hurled himself from the car, shut the door, and proceeded toward the front door of the twenty-story high rise that hosted one of the three parlors. Soon, he was safely inside.

Task relaxed in the passenger seat, unlocked his cellphone, and eyed the list of missed calls. There were two messages from Eight Dragons Chinese, which was the legitimate business he owned and used as a front for tax purposes. The manager who had come with the place was Dingbang Yu, and the main reason that the slick had not fired this Cantonese headache was because the fellow was very competent: The restaurant was amongst the most profitable in Great Crown’s Chinatown.

Task shut off and pocketed his cellphone. It was too early in the morning to listen to Dingbang.

Monitoring the street, the slick waited. If he saw any suspicious people approach the building (or in the vicinity), he would ring his associate. Currently, the avenue and the lot in front of the building were empty.

A yawn pulled the slick’s face in opposite directions, and five uneventful minutes later the bodybuilder emerged from the lobby. His gait was quick and no longer resembled that of an animated corpse.

Nowski heaved himself into the driver’s seat, shifted gears, and disembarked. Holding the wheel with one hand, he reached the other under his shirt and pulled off a money belt, which he then set upon the armrest.

“Two eight.”

This was an above average (but not exceptional) Saturday night net for One Eighty-Nine.

Task opened the glove compartment, pulled the false bottom forward, and inserted the money belt inside of the hidden cache. He shut the hatch, and a tumbler clicked.

Nowski cornered at the next avenue and took Middle Street east through the dormant shopping district until he hit Twelfth, which he followed north all the way to the Pastels. On either side of the street appeared desaturated pink, blue, red, green, and yellow apartment buildings that had been built in the mid-eighties. A few joggers were on the sidewalks, and in a park, a skinny dog owner congratulated his defecating poodle.

“Yuppie,” muttered the bodybuilder, who then turned north on Lewis and filled a curbside opening with his car.

The associates surveyed the block. Peopling the area were a handful of joggers and a couple of bicyclists.

Nowski climbed outside, elbowed his door, and departed.

Yuppies got sweaty while Task considered how to best employ the six black guys in his upcoming plot. For a few minutes, he composed the itinerary.

The bodybuilder emerged from the ten-story baby blue edifice, entered the car, and flung the gear stick. On the next block, he pulled the money belt from his waist and set it on the armrest. “Two four.”

Task put the cash underneath the glove compartment’s false bottom, where it joined the earlier net. He shut the hatch, and a tumbler clicked.

The car rolled out of the Pastels. An eighteen-minute drive that was both westward and northward carried the associates to the parlor on Commerce Street, which sat directly above the oaken façade of Michael’s Steak House.

Spinning the wheel, Nowski parked the vehicle.

Task looked around.

Delivery guys and a Mexican with a broom were the only people in the area. The rising sun was turning the muggy blue dawn into a hot white day.

“Back soon.”

The bodybuilder stretched sunglasses across his face and departed. His shadow painted garbage bins, the oaken façade of the restaurant, and the stairwell that led up to the residential part of the building.

The slick ratcheted the air conditioner from low to medium and set some black lenses in front of his eyes. His darkened gaze vacillated between the sweeping Mexican and a short Hispanic dude who was carrying a milk crate.

Four minutes later, Nowski got behind the wheel and set the money belt upon the armrest.

“Two six.”

“Seven thousand, eight hundred,” said Task, announcing the sum of the Saturday night net.

The bodybuilder pulled away from the curb, passed the milk delivery truck, and cornered. “Pretty good.”

“Yeah…but I won’t hit my deadline at this rate. And I’m handing over some reams to the agent this afternoon.”

“Dues?”

Snorting, the slick shut the glove compartment. “If that’s what you wanna call them.”

Sunlight ambushed the black sedan as it rolled through an intersection.

“When do you think Preston Avenue will be ready?”

“Sergei said by mid-July.”

Nowski was surprised by this answer. “Just him and that skinny black kid can do it all in three weeks?”

“He’s got some sons he’s gonna bring in for the big days.”

The bodybuilder nodded his head and checked the rearview mirror. “You want me to drop you off at home or you wanna pick up your car now?”

“Car.”

Task leaned his skull against the headrest and fell asleep.

Tires thudded against a curb, and the slick opened his eyes. The car was rolling across Ed’s parking lot toward his silver luxury sedan.

“Send half to box twelve and half to Mexico City,” said Task.

“Got it.”

“And pick me up at my place at twelve thirty.”

Nowski stopped the car. “What color shirt’re you gonna wear?”

“Burgundy.”

“I don’t even own one of those.”

The slick flung the door and climbed outside. “Get some rest.”

The bodybuilder nodded his head and yawned. Upon his black sunglasses, the rising sun was cut into two pieces.

Twelve minutes later, Task deposited the silver sedan in the subterranean level of a parking garage that serviced the tan-colored condominium complex in which he lived. He killed the engine, locked the doors, and ascended the inner stairwell.

His apartment was located on the second floor, as were both of his previous homes. A dwelling thus situated was less likely to be robbed or have plumbing problems than was a place at street level, and a unit only one flight up would be easier to vacate than were any of the upper level homes, since he could simply drop to the pavement from his windows.

Multiple points of egress were important for a guy who was south.

Standing in the brown and gold second-floor hallway, Task undid the bolts of apartment 208 and opened the door.

The wooden match that he had earlier wedged into the jamb fell and clicked against a tile.

Several people (two of whom were now serving time in the broiler) had called him paranoid, but the police were real, and the safety precautions that he took might someday prove essential. More than four years had passed since his last impolite conversation with a macho, but that was no reason for him to become lax.

The slick entered his tan and white apartment, which had a living room and a den, a study, a dining room, two bedrooms, and two bathrooms. At present, the place was warm and smelled like lemon-scented cleaning spray.

Task shut the door, snapped bolts, activated two of his five air conditioners, took off his clothes, tossed them into the hamper, and showered. It was seven forty-six a.m. by the time he had finished drying himself.

Wearing only boxer briefs, the slick entered his dark bedroom, set his alarm clock for noon, and fired a shot of whiskey into his stomach. His weary body flopped on the mattress, and he tumbled to sleep.

In his dreams, he plotted.

VII

Fingernails and Fragrances

Electronic beeping roused Task ninety minutes before his meeting with the agent. Unthinkingly, he urinated, washed his hands, flossed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and pomaded his blond hair.

The slick walked up the hall into the guest bedroom, which two of his ex-girlfriends used if they were too tired (or drunk) to drive home after taking care of their physical urges with the homeowner. Next to the three pristine, vintage guitars that hung upon the wall was a closed closet.

Task opened this door, revealing a pile of boxes and a tube television. With his right hand, he reached behind the old set and turned a dial. A click sounded, and a hatch swung open on the back of the hollow appliance. From the cache within, he claimed two thick envelopes.

Ten minutes later, Task pulled his beige jacket over his burgundy shirt. His cellphone buzzed, and he brought the receiver to his ear.

“Be right down.”

The slick closed his front door on a wooden match, turned the lock, and opted for the stairs rather than the fancy elevator. In the lobby, the senior doorman Pedro hastened from his stool.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tasking.”

“How’s it going?”

“Bueno.”

The amiable, silver-haired Hispanic had been in a gang in the eighties (and had gone to the broiler), and there was a knowing grin on his face whenever he saw the slick. This look said, ‘I’m south,’ even though the guy had been a doorman for two decades and was north.

“Watch out for the sun,” Pedro said while pulling the handle. “She bites.”

Task stretched his extra dark sunglasses across his face and strode into the brilliant heat. His pores tingled, and perspiration formed upon his forehead and back. This instantaneous sebaceous reaction only occurred when the temperature was ninety degrees or higher.

Squinting behind his dark lenses, Task waited.

The sun glared wrathfully as the black luxury car appeared on Barrel Avenue and sidled to the curb.

Nowski leaned sideways and pushed the door.

Task seated himself. “I think Hell’s got a leak.”

“Deep fried Jesus.”

The slick shut the door, and the bodybuilder launched the vehicle from the curb.

“It’s—”

“Don’t tell me how hot it is,” Task said while flashing the palm of his right hand. “A number isn’t helpful.”

The slick extracted the thick envelopes from his inner jacket pocket and slid them into the newspaper lying upon the dashboard. Applying a handkerchief to his brow, he looked at the air conditioner.

“It’s already full blast,” stated Nowski.

“Feels like it’s just blowing warm air around.”

The bodybuilder dialed the steering wheel clockwise. “Wait till you go outside again.”

“That’s something to look forward to.”

The black sedan sped underneath a yellow light that was on the verge.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” cautioned the slick. “Catching reds won’t make us late, though getting a ticket will.”

“Wanna stop for iced coffee?”

“I don’t want caffeine before seeing the agent—he nettles me enough as it is.”

“You could get decaf.”

“Cold coffee without caffeine seems to have lost too many core properties to rightfully be called ‘coffee.’”

Nowski avoided a pothole. “Interested in anything?”

“After.”

“How’s Andrea?”

“Good. Real good…”

“You ever go to bed and just sleep?” inquired Task.

“If she’s in the bed, something’s gonna happen.”

“What if you’re too tired?”

“Some of me wakes up.” Nowski cornered onto Long Avenue. “I’ve been told I’m gentler when unconscious.”

Three miles later, the slick eyed the left side of the street and pointed. “That’s it.”

“I see it.”

The bodybuilder parked in front of a beige and orange restaurant named Valentyna’s House.

Task grabbed the folded newspaper, departed, and circumvented the black sedan. His pores tingled, and his Italians smacked the sidewalk as he approached the entrance.

Flinging the door, the slick walked into the Ukrainian restaurant, which smelled like fried potatoes, kasha, and boiled cabbages. Foods like these rarely appealed to him, and on an infernal day like today, their odors were repellent. Perhaps the air conditioning was what drew the diners.

Task took off his sunglasses and surveyed the place.

Seated at a table in the far corner and getting a manicure from a blonde was the agent, a fat man of sixty in a white linen outfit who was Ukrainian or Russian or Polish or Jewish or some combination of these things. His thinning silver hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and beneath his pitted nose sat a reptilian grin.

Grimacing, the slick walked across the orange carpet.

The distance was closed all too soon.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tasking,” said the agent, whose Eastern European accent mildly reshaped his words. “Please join me—” He motioned to the opposite chair.

“I don’t have time to sit.” The slick dropped the folded newspaper upon the table, broke eye contact, and turned away.

“Mr. Tasking.”

Task paused.

Behind his back, metal scraped a coarse fingernail.

“My employer has a proposition for you,” stated the agent. “Please be polite enough to sit down and listen.”

Sitting in the chair farthest away from the fat fellow, the slick eyed the manicurist. “Go away.”

Ignoring (or perhaps not understanding) the remark, the blonde whittled one of the agent’s thick, yellow fingernails. Its four neighbors needed a lot of work, unlike the neatly polished quintet on the man’s right hand.

“She is trustworthy,” defended the agent. “She is engaged to—”

“I don’t trust her. If you want to make some propositions to me, she needs to do cartwheels.”

Task drew three loops in the air and then pointed to the door.

The fat fellow tilted his pitted nose to the manicurist. “Bud’ laska…”

The file stopped, and the girl rose from her orange vinyl seat. “Do pobachennya.”

“Do pobachennya,” replied the agent.

Without once looking at the slick, the manicurist departed.

“What’s this proposition?”

“Business is good?”

“That sounds like a question.” Every word that Task threw at the agent had corners.

“You do not like me.” Incandescent light caught upon the polished nails of the fat fellow’s right hand and the rough talons of his left as he gestured at himself. “But at least you respect the man whom I represent.”

“I’d use the word ‘accept’ rather than ‘respect.’”

Task noticed the manicurist’s towel that lay at the far edge of the table. Upon the cloth was the yellow dust of fingernail debris.

The agent slid a bowl of soup across the table and offered a spoon, which he held by the end that was supposed to go into a person’s mouth. “Try the kapusniak.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Such a succinct operator. Ja rozumiju.” The fat fellow wrinkled his mouth. “Very well. My employer would like to hire some of your girls. Four of them. This would be for a special event next month.”

“No.”

“Take a moment to think about it.”

“That moment already occurred.”

“He would pay a very fair price.”

The intensity of the bad smells increased, and Task was not sure whether it was the agent’s breath or the result of an open bathroom door. “My butterflies don’t work anywhere but in my parlors.”

“The attendees of this event are men of prestige. It—”

“I don’t care if they’re reincarnations of Buddha,” stated the slick. “No.”

“You are not being very considerate of your guarantor’s offer.”

“I heard it.”

“But y—”

“I pay my cut on time, and I get some consortium services in return. That’s the extent of our relationship.”

The guarantor was Strembicky, a Russian-born American citizen whose construction company was a front for his organization’s many illicit ventures, which included drug trafficking, stolen cars, and knockoff designer handbags. Task yielded ten percent to this vast consortium and received some helpful services in return, but the main reason that he gave them money was because every independent entrepreneur who worked in Great Crown needed to have a big-league affiliate. If the slick did not choose a guarantor, a guarantor would eventually choose him…and the rate was not always ten percent.

“My employer has noted your ingenuity and precision,” the agent said, “and has suggested that your relationship with him could be more than it is.”

“It won’t be.”

“You are certain?”

“I’m not interested in having a boss. Ever.”

A smile of pure irritation appeared on the agent’s face. He was stuck, and he knew it. Task delivered a sizable chunk of money to the consortium every quarter, and if he was ever pushed too hard, he could find another big-league affiliate.

“If you want to send these prestigious individuals to any of my parlors,” the slick added, “I will treat them as if they were longstanding members.”

“That is very kind of you.”

The eyes of the agent also replied to this proposal, and their response did not at all match the polite one that had come out of his mouth.

Task glanced at his watch and rose from the table. “I’m going.”

“I’ll convey your response to my employer,” replied the fat fellow.

The slick walked through a fog of cabbage and kasha, attracting the attention of a hunched eater who was almost as big as Nowski and had a crew cut. His gaze and size were that of a consortium cog.

Task stretched sunglasses across his face and exited the restaurant. White daylight glared on his lenses, and sweat dripped down his lower back as he circumvented the black sedan.

The slick climbed into the waiting cube of air conditioning and shut the door.

Checking mirrors, the bodybuilder launched the car into traffic. “Anything I should know about?”

“No. But I’m gonna contact Renaldo.”

Nowski elevated an eyebrow. “You’re thinking about a new guarantor?”

“I’m thinking about acquiring some leverage.”

“Levers are good.” The bodybuilder spun the steering wheel clockwise. “Andrea wants to know if she can come.”

“Where?”

“Cherry Red.”

“I didn’t think she was into that.”

“She’s looking for new clients. And I thought she could be an asset—give us some perspective.”

Task considered this idea. “She could be an asset.”

“I’ll pick you up in her truck. Want some chow?”

“No. That guy’s fingernails ruined my appetite.”

The sun left the sky but did not drag the heat beyond the horizon.

Task emerged from the back of a red truck and was surrounded by the ninety-degree night while Nowski helped Andrea out of the front seat. The black-haired, Greek American wore high-heeled sandals, tight jeans, and a scarlet sequin tube top that kissed her navel. Her tan body was a fatless sculpture that inspired those who employed her as their personal trainer (two of whom were now butterflies at the Commerce Street parlor) and also served as an advertisement for prospective clients.

Doors shut, and the trio proceeded across the parking lot toward a massive concrete box, which had a cursive neon sign that said, ‘Cherry Red.’ Music thudded like an industrial press behind the tall concrete walls, and in the foliage, cicadas rattled, looking for action.

“Coupla girls I went to high school with used to work here,” remarked Andrea. “Not sure if they still do.”

Task glanced at Nowski. “The teachers at that school must’ve had a hard time concentrating.”

“Very hard.”

“No lap dances for you,” the trainer warned her bodybuilding fiancé.

A suited doorman whose face looked like it belonged on a totem pole observed the approaching trio. “Welcome to Cherry Red,” said the wooden fellow. “I need to see everyone’s ID.”

Two dark eyes fixed on the female member of the group, who was twenty-six years old, but looked much younger.

Task and Nowski presented their Florida driver’s licenses while Andrea fished her identification out of her crimson clutch. The trainer’s document was the only one the doorman even bothered to read.

“Happy birthday last week.”

“Thanks.”

The wooden fellow opened the door, which was padded on the inside with cherry red felt. A wave of music flooded the new arrivals and silenced cicadas.

“Have fun…”

Nowski slung a paw over Andrea and walked through the doorway, followed by Task. Air conditioning chilled the slick’s damp back as he and the couple proceeded up a red hallway that smelled like cupcakes.

“That’s a nice fragrance,” remarked the bodybuilder.

The trainer sniffed the air with her aquiline nose. “It’s cheap shit. If you want me to smell like a stripper, I can buy a gallon for twenty bucks.”

Nowski produced a twenty-dollar bill and received a punch in the arm.

The volume of the booming music increased as the trio continued up the hallway.

Andrea faced Task. “How’re you gonna find out which ones turn tricks?”

“I’ll observe them.”

“You can just tell?”

“Ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“And you can get them to work for you?”

“Obliquely.”

“How?”

“Six black guys.”

Andrea flinched and stopped walking. “I thought you didn’t hit girls.”

“I don’t.” Task condensed his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

“What’d you just say? Before.”

“Six black guys.”

Relieved, the trainer grinned. “I thought you said ‘six black eyes,’ which seemed excessive—even for a pimp.”

“Entrepreneur.”

“You don’t think you’re a pimp?”

“Do you describe yourself as a sit-up coach?”

“I do a lot more than that.”

“Exactly,” said Task.

The trio resumed walking.

Andrea turned to Nowski. “Do I even wanna know what that means? Six black guys?”

“Nope.”

VIII

Six Black Guys

The thudding industrial music quietened.

“This next dancer has been getting a lot of attention since she first came to Cherry Red last month,” a baritone disc jockey said, “and all of you are about to see why…”

In the dressing room behind the stage, a twenty-five-year-old chestnut brunette named Erin pulled gauze that matched her creamy skin over her left ankle. A screaming skull tattoo vanished from her epidermis.

“Her name is Kristie Lynn,” purred the disc jockey.

Programmed percussion was replaced by the sound of guy smashing a real drum kit as the industrial music cross-faded into a slow, grinding rock song.

“Kristie Lynn…come out to the stage so that Great Crown can see you. Can…see…all…of…you…”

Erin shouldered past two half-nude women, glanced at herself in a bulb-circumscribed mirror, and reorganized the C-cup breasts that filled her purple bikini top. Stiletto heels of the same color tattooed the floor as she proceeded through a curtain of sparkling beads.

The dancer strode into the club, which was chilled to an almost uncomfortable temperature by the powerful air conditioning system. Fifty-plus seated men and a couple of women watched her climb the steps to the stage. Cold air blew upon her buttocks, which were divided by the wedgie that the manager Joey called a thong and required all of his dancers to wear, even though there were more flattering—and more comfortable— bottoms available.

“Kristie Lynn, ladies and gentlemen, Kristie Lynn,” purred the baritone.

Erin ascended the steps.

A dozen watchers shifted in their seats, either dealing with budding erections or anticipating the arrival of such growths in the near future.

Clapping her right hand to the sparkling red pole in the center of the stage, the dancer tilted forward and spun herself three hundred and sixty degrees. The eyes of businessmen, blue-collar guys, and unshaven rockers all made exactly the same circuit.

Erin faced the crowd and bent forward. Placing her palms upon the stage floor, she set the red pole between the cheeks of her upraised buttocks. Her chestnut hair fell like a curtain around her downturned head, and at that moment, she was alone, oblivious of the spectators.

The song finished its first bridge. A chorus arrived when the singer yelled, “Kill me until I start to live!” and the performer known as Kristie Lynn slid her buttocks along the pole, matching the song’s deliberate tempo. Harmony voices joined the main vocal line, and as this group of men screamed, the dancer rode higher and sank lower, keeping her downturned face hidden within her hair. Arching her back, she rubbed the front of her thong against the shaft.

Erin had lost her virginity while listening to “Kill Me Until I Start to Live” when she was fourteen. That brief event had lacked an orgasm (for her), but was less painful than she had expected it to be. The other participant was Barry, a gentle dork who was a far better human being than were all of his successors, especially Diego, the selfish and moronic deadbeat who had ruined her life.

The screams ended, and Erin flipped her head back, dramatically clearing the chestnut hair from her face. Several men adjusted themselves, and she gave each one of these burgeoning fellows a smile. Farther away from the stage and lounging comfortably in his chair and beige suit was an uncommonly handsome blond fellow whose eyes were looking right into those of the dancer. Sitting near this slick was a dark-haired hardbody who wore the huge right arm of her companion, a bodybuilder.

Erin blew a kiss to her admirer, and he responded by patting the empty chair to his left. This fellow looked like money and would be her first stop once her stage routine was over.

Spinning herself around the pole, the exotic dancer sank into the pocket of the song, and tugged at the string that held her purple bikini in place. Fifty-plus customers turned into stone statues that had living eyeballs.

“I’m Kristie Lynn,” Erin said while leaning her bikini-covered breasts toward the slick and caressing his arm. “What’s your name?”

“Darren. Your performance was lovely.”

“Thank you.” The dancer placed a palm upon the fellow’s manicured right hand and ran her soft fingertips between the grooves. “Would you like to go to a VIP room?”

“Do I look like a VIP?” asked Darren, who had full lips, a square jaw, a straight Greek nose, thick blond hair, and bright blue eyes. His perfect handsomeness almost made him look anonymous.

“You look like a VIP to me.”

The slick set down a tumbler that contained scotch. “Then let’s go to my room.”

An easy grin sat in Darren’s eyes, and Erin wondered if it was always there.

Rising to a height of one inch over six feet, the slick looked at his friend the bodybuilder. “I’m going to spend some time with this talented and beautiful woman.”

The dancer received a lot of compliments in Cherry Red, but this was the first time that the flatterer had actually reddened her cheeks.

“You picked a jewel,” replied the bodybuilder.

Erin smiled appreciatively. “Thank you.”

Darren gestured. “After you.”

The dancer took the slick’s extended hand and led him across the club to a deluxe private suite, which had dim track lighting, plush scarlet benches, black cocktail tables, carpet of the same color, and mirrored walls. Everything smelled like champagne and cupcakes.

Closing the door, Erin faced Darren. “We can do whatever we want in here.”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“Sure. We can do that if you want.”

“I want you to know that I’m serious.” The slick withdrew an inch of money and peeled off six one-hundred-dollar bills. “What’s your name?”

Confused by what was happening, the dancer found it hard to maintain her dreamy and sensuous character. “Kristie Lynn.”

The slick peeled off six more bills and put the twelve slices upon a black cocktail table. “What’s your name?”

“Erin.”

A smile appeared as Darren gestured toward the scarlet bench. “Please sit.”

Erin did not know what was happening, but she knew that she was no longer in control of the situation. “Okay.”

Stiletto heels poked the black carpet as the dancer walked to the bench and sat. Three feet away from her, the slick landed and crossed his legs.

“Mind if I sit closer…?” Erin asked with the dreamy voice of Kristie Lynn.

“I’d just like to talk right now.”

A fear burgeoned inside of the dancer that the slick might know her father, but the twelve large bills lying upon the cocktail table said otherwise.

“That’s yours—” Darren motioned to the money. “You can take it now if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

“Good.” The slick folded his hands upon his knee. “How long have you been dancing here?”

“Six weeks.”

“And before that?”

“Another club.”

“And before that?”

Erin had neither the desire to discuss her failed career as a drug dealer nor her few experiences as a prostitute. For a ponderous moment, she tried to think of something to say.

“Waitress?” suggested Darren, helpfully.

“Yeah. Waitress.”

“I’d like you to work for me. I have clubs all over the city and could use somebody like you.”

Suspicions blossomed inside of the dancer. “What kind of clubs?”

“Gambling parlors.”

“You have dancers there?”

“I offer the members female companionship.”

“Sounds like a brothel.”

“It’s more than that. Sometimes a companion spends the major part of the evening fully dressed, sharing drinks in the gambling area, or having light conversation in the lounge. And no matter what happens, the pay is twelve hundred dollars a night. Cash. Guaranteed.”

“I’ve made that amount here. More, sometimes.”

“But what do you average when you include the dead nights? Three hundred? Four, maybe?”

Erin neither wanted to confirm these estimates (which were accurate) nor continue this conversation. “I’m not a whore.”

“I’m offering you a way to make a lot more money than you do here. The johns are screened members of an elite club, and the security is comprehensive.”

“I’m not interested.”

This reply had a couple of sharp corners, but the dancer was trying to withhold her anger. That was a lot of money lying there on the table.

The slick flashed his palms, placatingly, and withdrew a turquoise business card, which he then placed on top of the bills. “This money is yours. All I ask in return is that you hold on to my card and think about my offer.”

Stifling the urge to say, “Fuck off,” Erin presented a fake smile and slid the business card into her purple bikini top. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you.” Darren rose from the bench and straightened his beige jacket. “If you’d like to talk to a couple of the women who work in the parlors, I can send them down here.”

Disbelief flashed upon the dancer’s face. “Like…for references?”

“Yes.”

The idea of whore referrals struck Erin as somewhat comical, but she did not laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

“Good night.”

The slick nodded his head and departed, leaving the dancer with twelve hundred dollars, a proposition, and a business card, which was currently poking her right nipple. Soon, she gathered the cash in her hands.

It was real.

Unsettled by the encounter, Erin tucked the bills into the front of her thong, rose from the bench, and left the VIP room.

Air conditioning and thudding industrial music took the dancer out of her brainpan and returned her to the neon red reality that was her workplace. Warily, she eyed the area of the club in which the slick and his associates had been sitting.

Nobody was there.

“Good,” Erin said to herself.

A compulsion turned into an action, and soon, the dancer found herself striding across Cherry Red on her high heels. At the bar, she reached into her bikini top and withdrew a business card that had the name ‘Darren Tasking’ above the word ‘Entrepreneur.’

“Dirtbag.”

Erin opened her fingers and the turquoise rectangle fell into the garbage. Relieved by this tiny purgation, she motioned to the bartender and received a vodka lemonade.

An unshaven rocker who had watched her throughout her stage routine stabbed a twenty-dollar bill into the air.

The dancer took a gulp and returned to work.

A thunderstorm landed on Great Crown the very next day and lingered well into Erin’s shift. Like all of the newer dancers at Cherry Red, she was required to work all of the slow nights if she wanted to earn a Friday or a Saturday, and as she spun around the sparkling pole that rainy Tuesday, she saw nothing that could be called a crowd.

Eight isolated guys peopled the club.

Some of these winners were drinking water.

Erin moved her equipment around the stage for three songs and received five dollars for her efforts. One of these bills arrived in the form of a sharp paper airplane.

“That was Kristie Lynn, everybody, Kristie Lynn,” said the baritone disc jockey. “If you’d like to get to know her better, she’s now available for lap dances. And any big spenders out there might want to consider taking her to a VIP suite…”

The dancer walked off of the stage, scanning the scattered customers as she covered her breasts with the cups of her lime green bikini.

A black man who had a gold button-up shirt, loose brown slacks, and three-sixty waves made a gesture.

Erin nodded an acknowledgment. Fixing a smile on her face and employing her hips more than was needed, she walked over to the customer.

“I can tell that you like to work out,” the dancer said while playing a hand across the black fellow’s broad shoulders. “What’s your name?”

“Greg.” The fellow patted his lap. “Have a seat.”

Erin placed one hundred and twelve pounds upon the indicated surface and felt a long warm bar press into her flesh. “Seems like you enjoyed my dance.”

“I sure did.”

The music boomed, changing abruptly, and the disc jockey said, “Everybody please welcome Vivian to the stage. She’s got something profound to show you.”

Two guys clapped like exhausted homosexuals as the tall blonde from Poland climbed the steps.

“Would you like a lap dance?” Erin asked Greg, while shifting her weight upon his erection. “Or would you like to go to the VIP room?”

“I’d like to carve up your face with a knife.”

The dancer froze.

Calmly, the black fellow awaited a response. His dark eyes were inscrutable.

Erin cleared her throat. “I don’t like that kind of joke.”

“I’m not joking,” replied Greg, whose voice was deep and serene. “I want to stick a knife deep into your face and cut you open.”

The dancer spun out of the black fellow’s lap and stumbled onto her lime green high heels. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

Greg rose from his seat, straightened his tie, and walked away.

“Asshole!” shouted Erin, whose nerves were electric wires.

The creep continued through the club and angled toward the exit.

“Get out of here.” The dancer was shaking from the interaction and the blow that she had earlier snorted. “What a fucking psycho.”

Across the club, Greg turned away from the front hall, hung a sharp left, and walked over to Joey, the club manager, who was a living confirmation of many Italian-American stereotypes. The black fellow said something to the boss.

Concerned, Erin walked toward the two guys.

Joey mouthed a reply to Greg and put a hand upon his shoulder, which the latter fellow shrugged off.

Confused, the dancer continued forward.

The black fellow said something else, shook his head, and left the club.

Erin returned her attention to Joey, who was now staring directly at her. The suntanned fellow did not look happy.

Walking quickly, the dancer closed the distance between herself and the manager.

“If somebody wants to go to the VIP room, you go there,” stated Joey. “There’s no discrimination at Cherry Red. And now that guy’s never coming back.”

“What the fuck did he say?” asked Erin.

“Said he asked to go to the VIP room, and you told him you didn’t go there with black guys.”

Shocked, the dancer shook her head. “He’s fucking lying. I went to his table after my routine, and he said that he wanted to cut me with a knife.”

Joey wrinkled his Roman nose and turned his gold pinky ring one full circuit. “Didn’t seem like that kinda guy at all. He was an educated one—spoke good English and everything.”

“That’s what he said to me—I swear. I don’t have anything against African Americans.”

A techno song thudded like a robot heartbeat as the manager deliberated, unsure what he should believe. “There’s no discrimination at Cherry Red.”

“He threatened me. I swear to God.”

Unable to arrive at a conclusion, Joey motioned to the sitting area. “Do some laps.”

After two more dead nights and one wasted day off, Erin finally arrived at a Saturday.

Cherry Red was busy. The dancer was at the end of her routine, during which she had given more than twenty businessmen who looked like they had plump billfolds solicitous winks and imaginary kisses. Her daily earnings this week were well below the surmise of that pedantic slick Darren Tasking, but tonight should even things out, if not put her way ahead.

Frigid air conditioning roused nipples (and made goosebumps) as Erin curled her right hand around the sparkling red pole and swept her topless body in slow circuits, following the deep, plunging groove of a nineties alternative rock song entitled, ‘If You Shatter Me, Don’t Pick Up the Pieces.’

The living eyes that sat within the stone statues followed her revolutions.

Wind resistance turned chestnut hair into streamers as the tune entered its final chorus.

A strange honking noise occurred. Bluish-white lights started flashing all over the club.

The music vanished, and Erin stopped spinning.

Customers were looking in all directions.

It was then that the dancer smelled smoke.

“Everybody remain calm,” cautioned the baritone disc jockey. “There’s a fire in the building, and we need to evacuate. You are not in any immediate danger, so please do not panic.”

The house lights illuminated, and suddenly, Erin was a pale and mostly naked twenty-five-year-old girl standing on a plastic stage, wearing ridiculous shoes, too much makeup, and a band of gauze over her tattoo.

“Please exit the club quickly and calmly,” advised the disc jockey.

Customers launched the remainders of their drinks into their mouths, and Vivian gave Erin a scarlet robe.

“Thanks.”

People started to cough as smoke condensed in the back of the club.

“We need to go,” said the Polish blonde.

Erin nodded her head and walked toward the main exit. Ahead of her stood a long line of customers, which included all of the businessmen who had been eyeing her. It seemed unlikely that any of these guys would hang around outside and wait for the fire to be put out.

“Fuck,” muttered the dancer.

Dying erections and unspent money drained out of the front door.

Because of the fire (which had been only burning paper towels in a bathroom garbage can), Erin asked if she could come in on Sunday. Joey was strict about keeping to the schedule, but in this instance, he made an allowance.

Covering her breasts with a lavender bikini top, the brunette dancer departed from the stage, reached the floor, and appraised the gathering, which was decent for a Sunday.

Two black men in nice dark suits who had been giving her looks garnered her attention with upraised bills. Each fellow was handsome and tinkered with a pricey scotch.

Pushing aside the memory of the African-American weirdo who had harassed her on Tuesday, Erin approached the seated gentlemen. One of them had a thin goatee, and the other wore short, tight dreadlocks and expensive glasses.

The dancer slid between the occupied chairs, tossing her smell (which came from three different body sprays) like a net. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Hello, Kristie Lynn,” said the goateed man.

The guy with the glasses nodded his head, but his eyes remained fixed at an altitude that happened to contain her breasts.

Erin leaned forward so that the pair could more fully observe her top shelf. “You guys like what you see?”

“You’re a sexy dancer,” replied the goateed man. “Very sensuous.”

Red lights flashed across the glasses of the other fellow, who was nodding his head in agreement.

“Thank you.” Erin offered each fellow a gentle caress. “Would either of you like a lap dance? Or a visit to the VIP room?”

“I’ll give you ten dollars for a lap dance,” said the goateed man.

“A lap dance is twenty dollars per song.”

“Really?”

“Seems expensive,” added the other fellow.

“It’s a fixed rate—set by the management. But I promise that you’ll have a good—”

“Forget it.” The goateed man shook his head. “It’s too much.”

The baritone disc jockey said, “Please show some appreciation for Karen,” as a skinny Asian blonde who was fourteen percent silicon climbed the steps to the stage.

A big group of Jewish guys clapped.

Uninterested in wasting more time with the frugal black customers, Erin smiled and withdrew from between the two chairs. “Would you like to tip me for my stage dance before I go?”

“We wouldn’t,” said the goateed man.

The other one flung a thumb. “Scram.”

The black duo picked up their drinks and looked toward the stage.

Irked, Erin departed the area.

A fat white guy who had long red hair and a death metal t-shirt waved his hand.

The dancer found a smile and swung her hips as she proceeded toward her solicitor.

A grating, high-pitched pop song that Karen had selected for her stage routine filled the club. Although Erin did not like to stereotype people, she believed that all Asian girls had terrible taste in music (except for the ones who became classical musicians).

The dancer drew a hand across the metalhead’s left arm, which was a little bit damp. “What’s your name?”

“Sam.” The nervous fellow tried to avoid staring at the bikini-covered breasts that loomed only ten inches from the tip of his nose.

“Would you like a lap dance?”

“I have enough for four songs—eighty dollars.” It looked like the metalhead had been rehearsing this conversation in his mind for at least an hour.

“Great. Then we can really get to know each other…”

Erin straddled Sam, who leaned back in his red vinyl chair.

“You’re very handsome,” said the dancer. “I really like your long hair.”

“My girlfriend broke up with me yesterday.” The metalhead averted his eyes, embarrassed by his admission, which had seemed unplanned.

“I will make you forget all about her.”

Erin caressed Sam’s blue jeans until she found an erection.

A smile brightened the metalhead’s face.

For the remainder of the terrible pop song, Erin played her fingertips across Sam’s doughy chest while slowly moving her hips forward and backward. An awful country-rock tune followed, booming from the speakers, and during this selection, the dancer untied but did not remove her bikini top. As she slid her buttocks forward and backward upon his lap, the loose triangles of fabric alternately revealed and covered her nipples.

Sam fastened his hands to Erin’s hips, reclined in his chair, and made a noise that reminded her of a Springer Spaniel.

Nearby, the two well-dressed black gentlemen got up and abandoned their table.

“Kristie Lynn…you’re so hot,” said the metalhead.

“Thank you.”

“Can I see them?”

Erin removed her bikini top, leaned her breasts toward Sam’s face, and noticed something on the far side of the club.

The two black gentlemen were having a conversation with Joey.

Nobody looked happy.

The dancer wondered if she should abandon the metalhead and go make sure that nothing bad was being said about her. Soft hands kneaded her hips and buttocks as she ruminated.

“You’re so hot,” said Sam. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

The well-dressed black gentlemen walked toward the exit, and Joey eyed Erin. Even across a distance of over two hundred feet, his unhappiness was very visible.

The dancer silently mouthed the word, ‘Fuck,’ while gyrating clockwise upon the metalhead’s erection.

“You’re so hot…oh my god…you’re so hot…”

Erin slowed her movements so that Sam would not pop before his fourth song.

Joey walked to an empty corner and waited.

The final tune began, and the dancer rocked her fragrant anatomy until she felt the telltale damp spot on her customer’s pants. This minor event begat eighty dollars and a gratuity of two crumpled fives.

“Thank you,” said Sam, who was stunned and a little bit embarrassed.

Erin tossed a kiss, spun away, and walked toward Joey, who was waiting with his arms folded. Her long bare legs soon closed the distance.

“How much is a lap dance at Cherry Red?” asked the manager, whose voice and face were equally hard.

“What did those—”

“How much is a lap dance at Cherry Red? How much per song?”

“Twenty dollars.”

Joey elevated an eyebrow. “For everyone?”

“Of course.”

“So why did you tell those two black businessmen it was fifty dollars a dance?”

Erin’s stomach dropped. “I didn’t. Did they say I said that?”

“You told them fifty dollars a dance. I saw them invite you over and send you away right after—”

“But I didn’t—”

“Don’t interrupt me.” One of the manager’s suntanned hands came up and turned into a something that could slap somebody.

“Sorry. But I didn’t say it was fifty. They asked if I’d do a lap dance for ten, and I told them the rate was twenty.”

Joey did not believe her. “You’ve got something against black guys?”

“No. But those two were lying.”

“Like the one on Tuesday?”

“Joey. Please listen to me. They asked me to do a dance for ten, and since I wouldn’t, they tried to get me in trouble. They’re cheapskates.”

“Cheapskates? Really? Let me show you something…”

Joey returned one errant strand of hair to his slick array and led Erin to the table that had previously been occupied by the two black gentlemen.

Lying beside the empty scotch tumblers was a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill.

“That’s the tip those ‘cheapskates’ left after they paid for their drinks.”

Erin was exasperated. “Then they just like fucking around with women—lots of guys do.”

“But why would they single you out? And that other black dude you pissed off on Tuesday?”

“I don’t know. But I said twenty dollars and—”

“Enough.” The manager raised a hard palm. “There’s no discrimination in Cherry Red. Do something like this again, and you’re out. Understand?”

Frustrated, the dancer nodded her head.

“And now you’ve got some homework.”

“Homework?”

“Write a five-hundred-word essay on why Martin Luther King, Jr. was so important to the Civil Rights movement and the history of this country.”

Erin was incredulous. “Are you serious?”

“It’s gotta be handwritten. If you don’t do it, you’re out. And if you plagiarize it from somewhere, you’re out—Rita will do some searches online and check. Turn it in before your next shift or there isn’t a next shift.”

The dancer nodded her head.

“It’s the twenty-first century. Everybody has the right to get a lap dance.”

“I don’t fucking know what’s going on,” said Erin, who was pulling on a green nightie while standing in the living room of the messy apartment she shared with Diego (yet paid for by herself).

“Do some blow. You’ll feel better.”

Ignoring the suggestion, the dancer started to pace. “Maybe somebody posted something online—‘Go to Cherry Red and fuck with Kristie Lynn’ on some board or something.”

“Who’d do that to you?”

“An ex-boyfriend. Could be Trent or Rodrigo fucking with me. Or maybe one of the other dancers, since I’m taking away their business. That bitch Karen has been giving me looks.”

An idea occurred to the skinny, bearded deadbeat who lay upside down on a recliner chair he had found inside of an empty swimming pool. “Maybe you should go back to hooking till we’re clear. This stripper shit isn’t really working out for us.”

Erin shot icicles at Diego.

“What?”

“I only did that those times ’cause I was afraid of Chester, and I totally hated it.” The dancer picked up a stoppered vial. “And you could do something.”

“I have.” The deadbeat inverted himself and put his head in the groove that had recently been occupied by his feet. “I’ve been looking at stuff online—getting ideas. Perusing.”

“Something better than ‘perusing.’”

Diego ruminated for a moment. “I’ll clean up the apartment so you can bring guys over and—”

“You’re gonna write that essay for me.” Erin poured an eighth of a gram of cocaine onto a plastic cutting board that had never been used for culinary purposes.

“I can’t write an essay. I didn’t even get my G.D.E.”

“G.E.D., and you’re gonna do it. Five hundred words on Martin Luther King, Jr.”

“He had a son?”

“He was the son.” The dancer picked up a playing card and divided the white slug into two worms. “Go read some stuff about him online and write about it in your own words.”

“I’m not the one who parked the car in the handicapped.”

“Fuck you!” shouted Erin, who was suddenly furious. “Do you have to bring that fucking shit up every time I ask you to do anything? Fucking asshole!”

Cringing, Diego raised his palms. “I’m just saying…”

“Well, stop! I know what happened, okay?”

Three and a half years ago, an acquaintance had offered eight pounds of pure cocaine to Erin and Diego at a price of thirty thousand dollars. Having only six grand in the bank, the couple borrowed five from their friends and then gotten the remainder—nineteen large—from three loan sharks. (The young entrepreneurs had intended to cut the package, sell half at a big markup, and snort the remainder.)

Shortly after the big purchase had been made, Diego asked Erin to drive the package back home by herself so that he could discuss some other business with the acquaintance. The brunette had agreed, but when she hit the freeway, she suddenly had to urinate (which was often the case after she snorted), and hurriedly, she launched her rattling brown car into a supermarket lot, ran to the restroom, peed twice, cleaned, and returned outside. In the empty space where she had parked the vehicle, she saw the faded illustration of a blue wheelchair that she had previously overlooked.

Hysterical, Erin had called Diego, who then raced to the supermarket in his brother’s cargo van. The couple went to the lot where the towing company kept impounded vehicles and recovered the brown car, but the drugs were missing from the hiding place, which had been a slit in the backseat cushion. Furious, the deadbeat dropped off his girlfriend and went to the home of the driver who had picked up the automobile and (ostensibly) the package.

Erin later received an almost indecipherable text message from Diego, who was abed in a hospital with a concussion, a broken nose, a shattered jaw, six cracked ribs, and a broken arm. It turned out that the tow truck driver had won one hundred and twenty-four bouts as a heavyweight in an amateur boxing circuit during the early nineties.

At that point, things had looked very grim. The couple owed their friends five grand; the loan sharks needed nineteen large (plus compound interest); and the hospital was asking for twenty-two big ones, since the brutalized deadbeat did not have any health insurance.

Over the years, the financial hole into which Erin and Diego had fallen had only gotten deeper…

“Go write that fucking essay,” barked the dancer, who did not like how much she sounded like her powerful father whenever she got angry.

Fear and remorse shone upon the deadbeat’s droopy face. “I love you.”

“Then do the essay and let me enjoy myself—” Erin motioned to the lines on the cutting board. “All right?”

“Okay.”

“And try to write neat—like a girl does.”

“I’ll write it neat,” Diego said while sitting forward in the recliner.

“Five hundred words.”

The dancer rolled up a five-dollar bill, put one end into her left nostril, and sealed the right side of her nose with her thumb. Leaning over, she inhaled some happiness.

Joey accepted the essay, commenting that Erin had manly handwriting and spelling skills that compared to those of his eight-year-old nephew, who was autistic.

That night dragged, as did the next one. These two shifts brought the hardworking dancer a total of three hundred and forty-two dollars. Most of these bills were small, wrinkled, and warm.

Early Wednesday morning, something pounded the front door, awakening Erin, who then opened her eyes and looked across the bed. Diego lay at the far edge, snoring while en route from drunk to hungover.

The doorbell rang, and a heavy fist pounded wood.

“Go get it,” the dancer said while shoving the deadbeat with her left foot.

A toddler noise emerged from the sleeper.

“Open up in there, mis amigos,” said a man who had a thick southern accent.

Frightened, Erin leaned over and shook Diego. “Wake up! It’s Chester.”

Iron clanked against brass. “That was a hammer,” explained the redneck. “You got ten seconds before you lose this doorknob.

“Now, nine seconds.”

“I’m coming.”

“Eight…”

Erin pulled on a robe, grabbed money from the box that lay under the bed, and hastened to the living room.

“Seven…”

The dancer whipped away the safety chain, twisted the bolt, and opened the door.

In the hallway outside loomed Chester, a six-foot-eight-inch redneck who wore a black sweatsuit over the three hundred-plus pounds of muscle and blubber that sat below his small, sour head. Held in his right hand was a claw hammer. “There wasn’t anything from you in my box.”

Erin extended a crinkling bush of bills. “It’s everything we’ve got.”

Chester stepped into the apartment, shut the door, and slid his hammer into the baby blue gym bag that was slung over his left shoulder. The man was approximately the size of two Diegos.

“Here. Take it—”

With a fist, the redneck snatched the proffered money. “You’re never gonna get outta the hole at this rate.”

“It’s all we’ve got right now.”

Chester pocketed the cash and eyed Erin’s bare feet. “Those’re real pretty.”

A cold dread filled the dancer, who felt far more exposed at that moment than she did when she wore only a thong and high heels in front of two hundred inebriated Republicans.

“Wish my Dora had feet like those…” Chester reached into his gym bag and reclaimed the hammer. “So delicate…”

Erin’s mouth went dry.

“What color toenail polish you got on there?”

“Periwinkle.”

“Well, it’s real nice. A whole helluva lot prettier than red.”

The dancer started to shake.

“Do better next time.” The redneck raised his gaze. “You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Chester tossed one more glance at the periwinkle toenails and departed.

Rattled, the dancer locked the door and drank a tall glass of vodka.

Erin had that night off, and while Diego alternately slept and did nothing, she made some ramen noodles, ate, and searched online for Darren Tasking. The internet gave her a recent photograph of the slick wherein he stood alongside two ugly Asians outside of a restaurant named Eight Dragons Chinese. Below this image was an article that said that the occidental fellow was the owner of the establishment.

Disgusted by the thought of again resorting to prostitution, the dancer flung the device onto the couch and inhaled lines of coke until her face went numb.

Fifty-plus businessmen, some hunched creeps, and a dozen rockers peopled Cherry Red on Thursday night. Up on the lighted stage, Erin went from sensuous to salacious, tossing kisses and mouthing solicitations while receiving singles and a few five-dollar bills.

“That was Kristie Lynn, everybody, Kristie Lynn,” announced the baritone disc jockey. “Show her some appreciation.”

A dozen people clapped, and a potbellied black fellow in tight jeans waved at Erin, who was currently descending the platform steps. Several other guys vied for her attention, but since the manager was watching, she proceeded directly toward her darkest solicitor.

The black guy put down his beer and extended a ten-dollar bill. “You’re a very good dancer.”

“Thank you,” said Erin, who then accepted the tip and added it to the right side of her thong. “What’s your name?”

“Al.”

“Would you like a lap dance?”

“My wife says I’m not allowed. Only can look.”

“Well, thanks for your tip.”

“My pleasure.”

The dancer threw her hips sideways, blew a kiss, and departed.

During the next hour and a half, Erin twisted in the laps of three businessmen and visited the VIP room with a longhaired rocker. She monitored Al between these commissioned intimacies, anticipating that he might make trouble, but the upbeat fellow seemed content to drink beer, smile, and give strippers money for their stage routines.

In the dressing room, Erin shut away five hundred and eighty-one dollars, sprayed vanilla onto her throat, and changed into a lime green bikini.

“Please welcome Kristie Lynn back to the stage.”

The crowd responded enthusiastically to the dancer’s ascension. During the second chorus of “Kill Me Until I Start to Live,” two light-skinned black men in silk shirts sat at the edge of the stage. One of them had a shaved head, and the other sported an elaborate tribal tattoo on his neck. Both of them were built like athletes.

Erin danced. Throughout her routine, the black pair downed liquored sodas and tossed bills onto the stage.

“That was Kristie Lynn, everybody, Kristie Lynn,” said the baritone disc jockey. “Get a lap dance from her if you really want your pants to sing.”

A score of people applauded as Erin descended the steps, replacing her bikini top.

“Kristie,” said the black athlete who had the tribal tattoo. “Over here.” A fifty-dollar bill was in his upraised hand.

The dancer walked directly past the watchful manager and reached her solicitor.

“Fucking nigger!” shouted a woman.

Shocked, the two black athletes stood up and glared at Erin.

“What the fuck did you say?” asked the bald one.

Confused, Erin looked around. There were no other women within fifty feet of where she was standing. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Goddamn nigger!” yelled the unseen woman.

“You racist!” shouted the tattooed black athlete. “Goddamn racist!”

“I didn’t—”

Joey interposed himself, looked at Erin, and pointed to the exit. “Get your shit and get out.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re fired. And I’ll make sure no club in Great Crown—or Florida—hires you after this.” The manager turned to the two black athletes and shook his head. “I’d like to apologize for—”

“Wait! I didn’t say—”

Thick paws that belonged to bouncers seized the arms of the incredulous brunette.

“C’mon,” said a curly-haired guido. “Let’s not make a circus.”

Suddenly, Erin noticed the cellphone that sat in the shirt pocket of the bald black athlete. “His phone! The voice saying nig—” She censored herself. “The voice saying—that word—is on his cellphone! It’s a ringtone or a recording or something. I swear I didn’t s—”

The bouncers pulled the exasperated brunette from the scene.

A knowing smirk appeared on the face of the tattooed black athlete.

“Fucking nigger!” Erin shouted before she could stop herself. This was the first time that she had ever slung this invective at anyone.

The manager tossed an urgent look at the guidos, who then picked up the brunette and carried her into the dressing room.

“You got thirty seconds to get your shit,” said the bouncer who stood in the doorway.

Shaking with rage, Erin tossed her lime green heels into a big sloppy purse and pulled on jeans, a t-shirt, and flip-flops.

“C’mon,” urged the bouncer who had curly hair.

The guidos escorted the furious ex-dancer through the club, where the two black liars were now enjoying complimentary lap dances and champagne.

Jaw clenched, Erin stormed past Joey and continued toward the main exit.

“I’ll mail you your stubs,” the manager said over his shoulder. “Don’t come back.”

The brunette flung the door, walked outside, and headed toward the corner space where she had earlier parked her brown car. Flip-flops scuffed the pavement and slapped her heels as she proceeded.

The smug faces of the five black guys who had gotten her fired from Cherry Red flashed through her mind one after another.

“Fuckers.”

Erin neared the side of the lot, slowed her strides, and looked at the corner space.

It was empty.

Her stomach sank.

“No…”

Tires screeched on the nearby street, and the stunned brunette saw the departure of the rattling brown car that she had owned for most of her adult life.

A black guy was behind the wheel.

He was the sixth.

IX

Delivery Options

“You don’t look so great,” Task said to Erin, who had been waiting for him at a window table in Eight Dragons Chinese for more than an hour. The red-nosed brunette was wearing shorts and a gray, long-sleeve sweatshirt, apparently unable to decide if she were hot or cold. A couple of stains discolored her apparel.

“I’ve had a rough time.”

The slick unbuttoned his tan jacket and sat upon the cushion of a chair that had lacquered limbs. “What happened?”

On Erin’s face was a look that Task could read very easily. She was wondering if he had been involved with the strange events that had occurred at Cherry Red. This suspicion could not be too strong, however, since she had competitors at the club who would benefit from her dismissal, and in all likelihood, some crappy people in her past who might want to cause her grief.

“There was some stupid bullshit at the club, and I left,” replied Erin, who was smart enough to keep her status as a blackballed stripper to herself.

“So you’re here.”

“Yeah.” The brunette nodded and turned her attention to her tea, which no longer yielded the smells of flowers and hay. “I’m here.”

“Why?”

Erin wrinkled her face and raised her gaze. “To see you. To talk about…what we talked about at the club.”

“But why didn’t you call?” Task successfully suppressed a smile. “I gave you my card.”

“I lost it.”

“So then you’re twelve hundred in the hole with me.”

The brunette stared. “What’re you talking about?”

“I paid you twelve hundred dollars to hold on to that card while you considered my offer. You didn’t.”

“I lost it.”

“Even if I believed that—and I don’t—you still didn’t honor your end of the deal.” Task poured himself a cup of tea. “And in my estimation, you were highly overpaid for this act—it weighs one gram.”

Erin was exasperated. “You’re fucking kidding, right? I mean…you’re not serious, are you?”

“I’m serious.” The slick blew steam off of his cup. “But before your face collapses, remember—you’ll earn that amount every single night when you’re working for me. Guaranteed. Cash. All you have to do is work one gratis shift to clean the slate, and then you’re eating green fruit.”

“I can’t believe you’re being so literal about the thing with the card.”

“Let’s move on from this.” Task sipped his tea, which tasted like flowers and hay. “If you clean yourself up, you can start next Thursday.”

“Don’t you have anything sooner? I can start right away. Tomorrow. Tonight even.”

“You’re in the hole?” inquired the slick, intuitively guessing at the source of her unease.

The brunette nodded and returned her gaze to her cup of cold tea.

“A loan shark?”

“Three of them. And I owe the hospital and some friends.”

“The hospital and friends can wait,” stated Task. “How much do the sharks want?”

“Total?”

“Yeah.”

“Seventy-eight thousand.”

“What was the original sum? The amount you borrowed?”

“Nineteen.” Erin looked up. “Can you do something about them?”

“Depends on who they are. I might know them or some associates of mine might.”

The consortium to which Task paid ten percent had several loan sharks and would be aware of other local moneylenders.

“That would be amazing if you could,” said the brunette.

“Have they gotten violent yet?”

“One guy has—a gigantic redneck fuck named Chester. He’s beat me and my boyfriend up a few times.”

“Your boyfriend’s okay with you servicing other men to make money?”

“Diego’s okay with me doing anything that allows him to continue doing nothing.”

“Why don’t you put him in a little toilet?”

“We’re in debt, and he got hurt—badly—because of my fuck-up.” Erin stirred the twigs that lay at the bottom of her tea with a chopstick. “There aren’t a lot of things as debilitating as love, but guilt’s way the fuck up there.”

The slick was beginning to suspect that the brunette had some protein inside of her brainpan. “Text me their info—the sharks. First thing I’ll do is make sure they don’t hurt you. Then, depending on who they are, I might be able to reduce the vig. Get that thing down from the troposphere.”

Brightening, the brunette leaned forward in her seat. “Really?”

“Yes—once you’re working for me. And to do that, you need to get healthy.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve got some food at home?”

“Ramen noodles and cereal.”

Task leaned back in his seat and turned his head. “Dingbang.”

A small and unhappy Cantonese fellow looked up from the Chinese newspaper he was reading.

“Bring over a takeout menu,” said the slick. “Please.”

The manager italicized his frown and snapped his periodical.

Task returned his attention to Erin. “Order food from this place.”

“I live, like, twenty-five minutes away. Had to take a bus here since my car got stolen and Diego’s is broken.”

“I’ll tell them to deliver to your place. Get some roast chicken. Steamed vegetables. Fish. Egg drop soup. The dumplings are works of art. Stay away from deep fried stuff.”

Dingbang swept past the table, leaving a takeout menu in his wake.

“Thanks.” The slick returned his attention to the brunette. “Eat well, lay off the blow, and get plenty of sleep. Call me on Monday, and I’ll see what kind of shape you’re in. If you look healthy, I’ll take you to a doctor.”

“Okay.”

Task eyed Erin’s arms, which were covered by her stained sweatshirt. “You do anything with needles?”

“I hate needles.”

“If the doctor finds any marks like that, you’re walking home. The end. And he’ll check everywhere.”

“I don’t do that kinda stuff. I like blow and smoke pot. Did some mushrooms a few times, but always threw up.”

“Avoid all that shit for right now.”

“Okay.”

“If things look good, I’ll put you in a parlor next Thursday night. If the members like you—and they should—you can have more days. As many as you can handle without getting rundown.”

“I’ll clean myself up,” Erin replied with conviction.

“What’s your last name?”

“Green.”

“With an ‘e’?”

“No ‘e’.”

“Kids?”

“No.”

“You’re from here?”

“No. I moved from California three years ago.”

“From awful to terrible.” Task set his turquoise business card atop the menu. “Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t.”

X

Monday Morning Erin

Dawn sunlight shot through torn clouds onto the windshield of the black sedan rolling north on One Hundred and Eighty-Ninth Avenue. Inside, Task put the third money belt into the glove compartment and closed the hatch, while behind the steering wheel Nowski squinted and lowered the visor.

“Five thousand two hundred,” said the slick, summing the collections aloud.

“Good take for a Sunday.”

“It is.”

“Wanna grab some breakfast?”

Task glanced at the dashboard clock, which showed that the time was eighteen minutes after six. “Sure. And we need to discuss a few things about your bachelor party.”

“I’m looking f—”

A cellphone buzzed.

The slick withdrew the device from the slacks of his olive-green suit and looked at the screen. “It’s Erin.”

“She’s awake?” inquired Nowski.

“Evidently.” Task stuck the phone to the side of his head. “Good morning.”

“Oh,” said Erin, who sounded surprised. “I was just gonna leave a message for you—I’m heading out to the gym right now. Hope I didn’t wake you or anything.”

“Sleep’s a luxury item.”

“I’ll be ready by nine.”

“Splendid. You sound good.”

“I’ve been doing what you said and working out too. And you’re right—the dumplings at Eight Dragons are amazing. I’m eating, like, twenty a day. I’m totally addicted to the Auntie’s Special.”

“I heard.”

Erin laughed. The cachinnation was light and musical.

“I’ll make an appointment with the doctor and get back to you,” said Task. “What’s your address?”

“Would it be okay if you picked me up someplace else? I’ve got some nosy neighbors and would rather not have to explain anything to anyone.”

“That’s fine. Figure out a location for us to pick you up.”

“I will,” said the brunette.

“Bring your boyfriend if you want him to get run over.”

Again, the brunette laughed. “No, thanks.”

“I’ll call you back when I’ve got an appointment.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Task killed the connection and located the doctor with his thumb.

At twelve minutes after ten, the black sedan rolled through a part of southeast Great Crown that had subsidized buildings, cracked roads, and residents who were wary of eye contact.

Task gestured at a warped, orange-and-blue sign that read, Buy ’n’ Eat Foods. “That’s the place.”

Nowski dialed the steering wheel counterclockwise. “Hold your coffee.”

The slick closed the top of his thermos.

Wheels thudded as the sedan bounced into the dirty parking lot and circumvented two capsized shopping carts.

“This place looks like a hangover,” said the bodybuilder. “I bet there’s an entire aisle of just boiled peanuts.”

“You’re making it worse.” The slick recalled the sad supermarket that he had visited as a kid.

“Microwave Ovens: Coming soon.”

“Enough.”

The luxury car rolled past unloved automobiles and toward the front of the grocery store. Task raised his sunglasses.

Under the overhang and seated on a concrete bench was Erin, wearing a purple t-shirt, torn jeans, and green flip-flops.

“They sell used clothes here?” inquired Nowski.

“Be nice.”

Recognizing the slick, the brunette smiled, waved her right hand, and approached the car. Her strides, top shelf, and hips had vigor.

“She looks healthy,” remarked Nowski.

“That’s an understatement.” Task watched Erin draw near the black sedan. “And that smile’s as nice as the stuff people pay to see.”

The brunette reached the car, tossed her buttocks on the leather bench, and shut the door. “Hey.”

“Good morning,” said the slick, who then gestured to his left. “This is Chris.”

“You were at the club that night with Darren, right?”

“I was.”

The brunette opened her water bottle. “You’re not the doctor, are you? I was expecting a more Jewishy kinda guy.”

“That’s what you’re getting,” Task replied, “though the kind of Jew that people mistake for Italian.”

“A good-looking one,” clarified Nowski, who then adjusted the steering wheel and lowered the visor against the sun.

Purring, the car rolled toward the street.

Erin drank water and put the cap on the bottle.

“The air’s comfortable?” inquired Task. “Or too cold?”

“Feels good.”

“That’s the place where you shop for food?” asked the bodybuilder, who was trying not to smile or sound patronizing.

The brunette shrugged. “It’s convenient.”

“Anything on special right now?”

“There’s a two for one on baby corn.”

Nowski grimaced. “I remember those.”

Jazz that sounded like it had been composed and performed by white, New Age vegetarians wafted into the taupe waiting room. Sitting opposite a pierced guy who Task thought looked queer and north, the two associates checked voicemails and text messages on their cellphones.

The door that led to the examination rooms swung open, and Erin emerged, flanked by Dr. Felderman, a dark-haired fellow of forty-nine who had perfect teeth, manicured nails, and pristine medical whites that offset his bronze skin.

“Sit with Chris,” said Task.

The brunette nodded and joined the bodybuilder as the slick walked over to the physician, who was also a gynecologist, an abortionist, and south.

After a cordial nod, Task and Dr. Felderman left the waiting area, trod a floral carpet, and landed in a white examination room.

The door shut.

“She’s in good shape,” said the physician, whose deep voice was almost a purr. “Some of the tests won’t be back for a bit, but she’s negative for HIV and HCV and can work. Protected, of course.”

“Of course.” A thought occurred to the slick. “I’m starting her at my new parlor on Thursday—a place on Preston Avenue. Want to visit her?”

“She’s not really my type…” said Dr. Felderman, a high-rolling member of the parlor club who favored Asian butterflies. “But she is exceptional. Even under medical lights.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Eying the empty gynecological chair, the physician rubbed his chin. “I’ll let you know.”

“No rush.”

“Tell May I said hello.”

“I will. See you soon.”

“Certainly.”

The associates shook hands.

Task opened the door, and Dr. Felderman returned his thoughtful gaze to the empty stirrups.

XI

Previewing the Parlor
on Preston

The noon sun glared on roofs, hoods, and scalps as the black sedan carried the two associates and the brunette east on Middle Street.

Screwing the cap onto the water bottle, Erin cleared her throat. “Darren?”

“Yes?”

“Did you talk to any of the loan sharks yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re waiting to see how I do?”

“Correct.”

“But you can do something? If you hire me full time?”

“I know TB Todd and can call him directly—maybe even reduce the vig. Two associates of mine know Karlsson and can set up a meeting. Chester Fredericks is an unknown entity, and I’ll need to speak with him directly to see what can be done. But there’s no reason for me to get involved—call in favors and expose myself to an unknown—if you flop.”

“I’ll deliver,” said Erin, confidently.

Now that the brunette was well-rested, off drugs, and in better health, she seemed like a normal (albeit extraordinarily pretty) middle-class college graduate who had made an above average amount of terrible decisions.

Task looked back at Erin. “Is there a chance that Chester Fredericks will visit you again before you’ve had a chance to earn?”

“He won’t be back for two weeks.”

“So there’s time.”

Nowski dialed the steering wheel clockwise, turning onto Preston Avenue.

“So it’s in an apartment building? The brothel?”

“Yes. And it’s more than a brothel.”

Braking, the bodybuilder spun the wheel. Shadows fell as the black sedan entered a dark parking garage in which white lights and red reflectors delineated concrete horizons. Tires grabbed an incline, and the passengers tilted back in their seats. Unlike the pathetic automobiles outside of Buy ’n’ Eat Foods, all of the cars in this place were worth owning.

Nowski drove into a space near an elevator bank, flung the gear stick, and pulled his keys.

Doors opened and closed as the associates and the brunette changed environments.

Erin gestured to the elevator bank. “The johns get in the building this way?”

“Members. And yes, if they have this—” Task displayed a brass elevator key.

“I bet you have a bunch of those.”

“Perhaps.” This reply came through a grin.

The associates and the brunette proceeded to the elevator, which the slick then summoned with his key.

“Does anybody in the building know about the setup?” asked Erin. “The super?”

“Javier owes me a lot of reams.”

“You’re a loan shark too?”

Task frowned. “No.”

The metal door slid aside, and the trio entered the white elevator. At the panel, the slick slotted the brass key, twisted his hand, and thumbed the button for the second floor.

“You don’t like loan sharks?” asked the brunette.

“There are a thousand better—and smarter—ways to earn a living than by trying to get money out of people who don’t have money.”

“Like what you do?”

“Certainly. I run places of leisure for a wealthy clientele.”

“You like euphemisms.”

Nowski tittered. “I like this chick.”

The elevator opened, and the trio entered a hallway that had white walls, vanilla doors, and a pastel blue carpet. It was clear to Task that the person who had chosen the color scheme for this building was an individual of great mediocrity.

“This place’s quiet,” remarked Erin.

“The walls are very thick.” Task gestured. “One of the reasons I chose it.”

“You’re not worried about cops in a building like this? Residential?”

“There’re safeguards in place for the machos.”

Knowingly, Nowski grinned.

“It’s this one…”

The slick walked to the door for apartment 243, slotted a key, and twisted his hand until a deadbolt popped. “That’s stainless steel.”

He undid the top lock, which snapped. “So’s that.”

Task pressed his right shoulder to the door and leaned forward, but the panel didn’t yield at all to his weight. “Solid metal.”

“They can get through that if they have to,” said Erin.

The slick surveyed the second-floor hallway, which was empty, and eyed the brunette. “Go inside.”

Erin twisted the knob and pushed.

Beyond the doorway stood a small black enclosure that had a steel door on its right side. A single light bulb in the ceiling illuminated the space, which was about the size of two phone booths.

Confused, the brunette stared ahead. “Why’s there another hallway inside?”

“Exactly,” said Task, who then gestured. “Enter.”

The brunette was followed by the associates into the small enclosure. Turning, the slick shut and locked the outer door.

“This is the airlock,” announced Task.

This piece of information left Erin nonplussed.

“Have you ever been caught in a raid?” asked the slick.

Grimacing, the brunette nodded her head. “Twice.”

“The door gets kicked open, and it’s a big scramble. Chaotic. No time to do anything. Everybody’s trying to escape, but the machos are already there—swarming, getting tough, showing badges, slapping handcuffs, pushing faces into walls. That’s how it went?”

“Pretty much.”

Task slapped the outer door through which all three of them had just passed. “But if the machos bust this thing down—which will be a loud and slow endeavor—they’re not swarming anybody. They’re looking at the last thing in the world that they ever expected to find inside of an apartment:

“Another outer hallway.

“And then there’s the inner door, which is seven inches of steel.” The slick palmed the panel that stood on the right side of the airlock. “It’s perpendicular to the outer entrance and would be hard to get at with something like a battering ram.”

Task pounded a fist against the airlock wall, but the impact did not resonate. “And if the machos want to put a hole through this, they’d better contact a union.”

Brow wrinkled, Erin processed the setup. “This works? The airlock?”

“It’ll delay the machos fifteen minutes. Maybe more. Plenty of time for the parlor workers and club members to get dressed, flush illicits—which members are allowed to bring in small quantities for themselves—and make things look north.”

Task unhappily recalled the police raid that had occurred ten years earlier in the building at One Eighteen Pine Street. Five extra minutes on that day would have kept him out of prison and changed the trajectory of his entire life.

Discarding this useless recollection, the slick raised his fist and knocked on the inner door. “Sergei. It’s Tasking.”

“Coming,” said the fifty-year-old Russian immigrant.

Footfalls sounded, and metal scraped. Two bolts snapped, and the thick inner door swung open, revealing Sergei, who wore overalls, flecks of paint, and some plaster.

“You need to oil those hinges,” remarked Task.

“I will.”

The slick escorted the brunette and the bodybuilder into the transformed living room, which now had burgundy rugs, wallpaper of a similar color, royal blue sofas, matching chairs, a tall refrigerator, and an enormous 4K television set.

Bolts snapped as the Russian locked the inner door.

“This is the lounge area,” Task said to Erin, who seemed impressed by the setup.

“It’s plush.”

“Let me demonstrate,” said Nowski, who then piled himself upon a couch and stretched until a yawn arrived.

In the kitchenette, Sergei joined his two sons, Rufus, and a lot of submarine sandwiches that smelled like beef and mustard.

The slick placed one hand upon the brunette’s back and gestured with the other. “Let me show you a playroom.”

“Okay.”

The two walked past a rose-hued bathroom, strode up a small hallway, and entered a twenty-two-by-eighteen enclosure that had burgundy walls, chocolate carpeting, matching curtains, a ceiling fan, a table lamp, and a bare king-sized mattress.

Task pointed at the small door on the far side of the space. “Blankets and sheets are in that closet. And a mini-fridge with water, juice, energy drinks, and protein shakes.”

Flip-flops slapped heels and scuffed the carpet as Erin crossed the room and opened the closet door. A miniature white refrigerator and shelves of folded scarlet, burgundy, and chocolate bedding were inside.

“Nets are in the nightstand,” said the slick. “Plenty of options.”

The brunette went to the nightstand and opened the top drawer, revealing an array of condoms: latex, lubricated, polyurethane, ribbed, reservoir tip, extra large, desensitizing, female, and glowing.

“Only use the ones that’re in there,” said Task. “No nets that’ve been in somebody’s wallet and no lambskin ever.”

“I don’t go with sheep. Especially when they’re underage.”

“Syrup is in the bottom drawer.”

Erin surveyed the six different types of lubricant that lay within the indicated compartment.

“Three or four members a night is the average. Sometimes you’ll have one or two, and you’ll never have more than five.

“You will receive the flat, twelve-hundred-dollar fee from the manager every night that you’re in here, and you will earn more when you’re busy, since most of the members give meaningful tips.”

The brunette seemed neither pleased nor alarmed by what she had just heard.

“When you’re not in the playroom,” the slick resumed, “you’ll spend time in the casino. Encouraging bets and flirting.”

Erin made a cartoon face. “Where?”

“C’mon.”

The slick led the brunette back to the lounge and approached the refrigerator, which was flush against the (relocated) north wall. There, he thumbed a hidden button, gripped the door handle, and pulled.

At the back of the faux appliance was the entrance to an unlighted room.

The brunette wrinkled her face.

Task thrust a hand into the refrigerator’s control panels and flipped a switch. An array of warm gold lights appeared on the ceiling of the adjacent room, illuminating a roulette wheel, a blackjack setup, a craps table, plush royal blue sofas, matching velvet chairs, and a small wet bar.

“Where’d this room come from?” asked Erin. “Isn’t there a place next door?”

“The wall that divided this and that one used to be right there—” Task pointed at the middle of the casino, where Sergei and Rufus had swung their sledgehammers in July. “Half of the casino is from this apartment, half is from the other.”

“That’s part of the parlor too? Next door?”

“Right.” The slick pointed to the dark opening on the far side of the casino. “There’s a hollow refrigerator in 245, and a matching lounge and playroom.”

“So if the machos came, we could escape through here.”

“Yes. But don’t be too concerned about the machos—I’ve only had one parlor raided—ever—and that was four years ago. Everything was north by the time the machos got inside, and I closed the location the next day.”

The slick thumbed the switch, which clicked, and darkness covered the casino. “So, that’s the layout.”

“It’s involved.”

Task shut the refrigerator door, turned around, and eyed Erin. “You’re the only person who isn’t a member or associate that knows this place exists.”

Nowski yawned like a bear and cracked his knuckles. “Just you.”

“I need to earn,” defended the brunette. “And I fucking hate the police.”

The vitriol in her bright green eyes was very convincing.

XII

Members

Thursday arrived.

Nowski fetched Erin from the bench in front of Buy ’n’ Eat Foods and brought her to the parlor on Preston Avenue. Task was already there, arranging things with John Shankman, a longtime friend and associate known by the name Karate John, since he studied martial arts (primarily, Tae Kwon Do) and had once kicked out some guy’s teeth in the food terrace of a shopping mall. The manner of this gray-eyed fellow was composed, and his well-trimmed beard looked like black velvet.

It was clear that the brunette was anxious about her first night, and when the slick spoke to her, he flung some compliments and lobbed a hunk of encouragement.

“Thank you.”

“Your work name’s Daniela.”

“Okay.”

“Never use your real name with the clients. Ever.”

“Of course.”

Task gestured to the hallway. “You should start getting ready.”

Erin filled her lungs with air and strode toward the playroom.

A moment later, Task greeted the very reliable twenty-four-year-old Brazilian named Gabriella, who surveyed the setup, nodded, and went through the casino to the other half of the parlor.

It was two minutes before nine o’clock. Karate John was taking the cellophane off of a deck of playing cards when he received a text message, which he then showed to Task.

The touchscreen read, ‘#84 is here. YRyr99108.’ Next to the pound sign was the individual’s identification number, and the other bit of information was the code that had been forwarded via email to the club members who had made reservations for the Preston Avenue parlor that night.

“I’ll let him in,” the slick said to the manager. (The members only had keys for the garage elevator and the outer door.)

“Cool.”

Task exited the casino, traversed the burgundy lounge, and peered through the peephole.

Chili Lopez (#84) was standing inside of the airlock and in front of the outer door, which he had already closed and bolted. This fellow was a well-paid second baseman in professional baseball, but his high sex drive and fondness for gambling probably claimed more than half of his annual income. He favored linen pants and pastel guayaberas and had a mustache that was visible from outer space.

The slick unlocked the two deadbolts, opened the door, and extended his hand. “Good evening, Chili.”

“Hey, man. Nice to see you.”

The gentlemen shook hands, earnestly, since they both genuinely liked each other (albeit for very different reasons). Gesturing to the lounge, Task bolted the door behind Chili.

“It’s nice,” the baseball player remarked while surveying the setup. His gaze fixed upon the wall-mounted television. “Is that a 4K?”

“It is.”

“My cousin just ordered one for his bar.”

A diaphanous lavender kimono and a slip of the same color displayed the curved hips and deep cleavage of the butterfly who gracefully strode into the room on violescent high heels. Her green eyes glimmered, and her creamy skin looked like it was the smoothest substance in the entire world.

Chili’s face malfunctioned.

His physiognomy reassembled, slowly, as he cleared his throat. “My God.”

The six black guys had been expensive (three fifty for each of the five performers, and six hundred for Stevie, the one who had boosted the brown clunker), but the sight of Erin in character instantly proved to Task the value of his investments. This stunning butterfly would make bushels of green fruit.

“I’m Daniela,” said Erin, whose smile was a solar object. Each step she took toward the baseball player was perfectly placed.

Stunned, Chili swallowed spit. “Hi.”

“Would you like to—”

“Yes. I would.”

“I like your mustache,” the butterfly said while fingering the roadkill that existed directly beneath the baseball player’s nose.

“Thanks.”

Erin slid an arm around Chili and guided him toward her playroom. The door opened and shut.

Sitting on a lounge couch, Nowski adjusted his slacks. “It’s been a while since one of these girls changed my circulation.”

“Erin’s a catalog.”

“Thinking about breaking your rule?”

“No.”

“She’s pretty exceptional.”

“Exceptions are exactly why I made the rule.”

“You’re probably right,” said the bodybuilder, who seemed a little disappointed. “You think she could earn as much as Lilly?”

“Lilly’s a catalog, but she’s an imbecile, which can annoy a guy. Her little boy’s smarter than she is—probably since the sperm and egg days.”

Nowski swallowed a hunk of his liquored energy drink and replaced the glass upon a lacquered table. “But guys—”

“Coaster.”

The bodybuilder set the drink upon a blue disk. “But guys like stupid chicks.”

Task reached the corner bar and tossed some ice into a glass. “Andrea’s smarter than you are.”

“I’m Polish on both sides, so the odds were good. And my mom is smarter than my dad, which probably wired me to look for that type of dynamic. But most guys are into dummies.”

“Not exactly.” The slick gave five ice cubes some whiskey, and one of them cracked in half.

“Edgar, for instance. Only dates idiots.”

Task marinated his tongue, set the glass upon a coaster, and swallowed. “Because Edgar doesn’t want to feel like an idiot, which is exactly how he’d feel if some girl starts telling him about string theory or talking Latin. The appeal of a dumb girl is mainly if the guy is hoping to ‘trick the girl’ into having sex with him or if the guy is dumb—which is the case with Edgar.

“So stupidity has no real value in a place like this. The idea of ‘tricking a girl into having sex’ isn’t relevant, and since the members are all reasonably confident and intelligent, girls with protein in their brainpans won’t make them feel dumb.”

Nowski took a drink as he processed this information. “So then what you’re saying is it’s all about getting laid or a guy’s ego?”

“Welcome to planet Earth.”

Over the next six hours, the new butterfly brought four more guys to her playroom, including a black businessman whose skin color did not seem to trouble her at all. The comments that Task heard about Erin when the members paid their intercourse fees (six hundred dollars per hour) were all extremely positive. Gabriella slaked four men, and the casino netted three reams, but the stunning brunette was undoubtedly the most valuable commodity at the parlor that night.

At five in the morning, the clandestine establishment lacked members. The manager paid the Brazilian and himself from the earnings and put the remainder in a money belt that he then gave to his boss.

Carrying the Thursday night net, the slick awakened the bodybuilder, found the brunette, and opened the airlock.

The trio exited the parlor and entered the second-floor hallway.

Flip-flops scuffed the pastel blue carpet as Erin shuffled forward, wincing.

“Your body will adjust,” said Task.

The butterfly nodded.

“You made good tips?”

“Five eighty.”

The trio entered the white elevator, which then flinched, shrugged, and reopened, revealing the dark parking garage.

“Do you want to work again tonight?” inquired the slick.

“We’re even for the business card thing, right?”

“Correct.”

“I get twelve in cash on top of the tips?”

“Correct. And I’ll reach out to the loan sharks on your behalf.”

Shuffling flip-flops and cracking Italians resounded throughout the enclosure. At the perimeters, the black night changed into a violescent dawn.

Erin rubbed a cramp out of her right hip. “I’ll work.”

XIII

Pinching Dorsal Fins

The sun roared from a position in the cloudless sky that was three hours past the center. Task stretched sunglasses across his face and crossed the sidewalk as Nowski parked the black luxury sedan alongside the curb. Looks of commiseration regarding the weather were exchanged through multiple layers of tinted glass.

The slick dropped into the passenger seat and shut the door. “The air’s working better today.”

“Parked in the shade last night.”

Task removed his cellphone, scrolled down the menu, and highlighted the number that he had put into the contact list earlier that afternoon.

“TB Todd?” asked Nowski.

“TB Todd.”

A white dot that was a reflection of the sun crept across the black hood as the car turned. The bodybuilder gulped iced tea that smelled like lemonade while the slick thumbed the connect icon, wiped sweat from his right ear, and applied the receiver.

The line rang until it started coughing.

“Who’s this?” rasped TB Todd, who did not have tuberculosis, but some other weird thing that had many of the same symptoms.

“Darren Tasking.”

“What phone are—”

A coughing fit started and continued until it was arrested by a gruesome redistribution of phlegm.

“What phone are you calling me on?” rasped the loan shark.

“My August phone.”

“You get them monthly?”

“I didn’t mean it was noble.”

“Huh?”

“Forget it. How’re you doing? Still married?”

“I am, so that should answer the first question.”

“Your wife seemed nice when I met her.”

“Jen’s real good at ‘seeming.’ What’s up?”

“There’s a girl named Erin Green.”

A chasm followed this proclamation.

For thirty seconds, the only things that Task could hear were the air conditioner and TB Todd’s wet respirations.

The loan shark cleared his throat. “I believe that there is such a person.”

“She’s working for me.”

A second chasm opened up.

Nowski toggled a turn signal and cornered onto Long Avenue.

“Since when?” asked TB Todd, who sounded wary.

“Recently. And I’m concerned about her situation.”

“I’m not dropping any weight.”

“I’m not asking you to—that vig’s a great motivator for her.”

The loan shark redistributed some phlegm. “So then…what’re you asking me to do?”

“I’m asking you to avoid any collection methods that might adversely affect her presentability.”

For the length of time that it took Nowski to drive past a strip mall, Task listened to some very ugly breathing.

“I won’t get tactile,” stated TB Todd. “I usually don’t, except for breaking appliances and tearing up clothing and such.”

“Thanks. Say hi to Jennifer.”

“She’s on the toilet.”

“After she comes out.”

“But since she leaves the door open,” the loan shark said in a very loud voice, “I can tell her right now!”

A strident woman replied, “Stop giving me that look!”

“If you shut the door, I wouldn’t be able to!”

Thumbing the disconnect icon, Task removed himself from the domestic situation. The images that appeared in his brainpan were grim.

“TB’s gonna keep his hands behind his back?” asked Nowski.

“He is.”

“Thought he would.”

“Andrea keeps the bathroom door shut, right? When she goes?”

“Flushes, too.” The bodybuilder took a yellow light. “Must be a Greek thing.”

Ten minutes later, the black luxury sedan passed by a bar named Lenny’s, which had once been called Allie’s. This change had occurred shortly after the earlier individual had been divorced by the latter.

A thought occurred to Task. “We still need to go over some stuff for your bachelor party.”

“Yeah—though we’re here now—” Nowski sidled the black sedan to the curb in front of the Ukrainian restaurant, Valentyna’s House. “Try not to smell or look at anything.”

The slick stepped out into the sun. Sweat coalesced on his forehead and spine as he walked to the shaded overhang, flung the door, and entered the restaurant. Cabbage and onion smells violated his sinuses.

Task proceeded through a series of cold air funnels until he stood in front of the seated agent, who currently wore a silk shirt, a gold chain, and a pair of navy shorts. His lunch companion had a shaved head and biceps that looked like softballs.

“We don’t need a cog,” said the slick.

An unfriendly grin flashed underneath the fat fellow’s pitted nose. “Mudak.”

The bald cog replied, “Pobachennya,” straightened his limbs, and departed.

Task slid a chair from the table and sat down.

The agent drank some diet soda and adjusted his gray ponytail. “You wanted to see me?”

“Let me show you something.” The slick reached into his beige jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, which he then tossed near a bowl of smelly soup. “Open it.”

The fat fellow’s little fingers pulled the corners of an off-white square until it became a large, segmented rectangle. Written in the middle of this sheet was the figure, “7%.”

“Look at the top,” suggested Task.

The agent raised his gaze. His breath caught when he saw the bold, embossed letterhead of Renaldo Enterprises.

The slick aimed an index finger at the figure. “That’s how much foam I’d need to yield to Renaldo to get all of the same services that I get from Strembicky. Renny wrote that number himself, using a platinum pen that weighed about three pounds.”

The fat fellow set the sheet of paper beside a bucket of coleslaw. “You are switching guarantors?”

“I’ll give your boss a chance to impress me.”

The agent wiped his hands on a napkin and cleared his throat. “How can he do that?”

“Two things.

“First, I want to interact with somebody other than you. It should be Strembicky. I don’t send a middleman and neither should he. But regardless, this place and you are disgusting and not in my future.”

“I shall inform my boss of your preferences.”

“Second.” Task tapped the sheet of paper. “Renaldo offered me seven percent.”

“I will relate this figure to my boss.”

The slick got up and left the restaurant. Cabbage and fried onion smells were replaced by that of roasting concrete as he approached the passenger side of the black sedan.

Task pulled the handle, tossed himself onto the soft upholstery, and shut the door. “Envision chicken salad on rye bread with tomato and bacon.”

“Already was.”

Turning the wheel, Nowski drove away from the curb.

The slick scrolled down the contact list in his cellphone until he reached the second number he had entered earlier that day.

“Karlsson?” inquired the bodybuilder.

“Karlsson’s not a concern. His associates told me that he just hounds his debtors with phone calls and takes collateral if he has to—appliances, vehicles, pets—but doesn’t get violent.”

“So then the mean one?”

“Yeah. Chester Fredericks.”

“Did you ever find any higher affiliations for this guy?”

“No.” Task exhaled through his nose. “Appears to be a big-ass orphan.”

“Good luck.”

The slick wiped the sweat from his ear, thumbed the connect icon, and placed the receiver to the salty skin.

A trio of shrill notes sounded. “This number does not accept blocked calls,” said an artificial female. “If you would like—”

Task killed the connection, unblocked the cellphone (which was registered under the name ‘Pete Johnson’), and redialed.

The line rang twice and clicked.

“You’ve got the wrong number,” said a guy who had a thick southern accent.

“Am I speaking with Chester Fredericks?” inquired Task, although he already knew that the answer to this question was yes.

A void sat on the line for two seconds.

“Who’re you?” asked the redneck.

“You have a relationship with an associate of mine, and I’d like t—”

“Fuck you.”

The line went dead.

Snorting, the slick thumbed the disconnect icon.

“Succinct,” Nowski remarked while braking for a red light.

For a few seconds, Task considered the situation. “He gets one more chance to have a friendly conversation before he’s a protagonist.”

“Want my forecast?”

The slick unblocked his fake identification, highlighted the loan shark’s number, and thumbed the connect icon. His hopes were not high.

The line rang once, and the recipient picked up.

“Stop callin—”

“You don’t want to hang up on me again,” warned Task. “I’m calling to—”

“Are you black?” inquired Chester.

“Excuse me?”

“The caller ID says your name’s ‘Pete Johnson’—which sounds sorta black—and I wanna know if I should say, ‘Fuck you, nigger’ or just a good old, ‘Fuck you.’”

The line went dead.

Irked, the slick killed his cellphone.

“Are we meeting him for brunch?” inquired Nowski.

“We aren’t.” Task ruminated for a moment. “Redneck.”

“How’re we gonna go at him?”

“Obliquely.”

The bodybuilder drank more of the iced tea that smelled like lemonade. “How elaborate’s this gonna get?”

“That depends on how long it takes Chester to become a human being.”

Nowski cornered off of Long Avenue. “You think he’s a fast evolver?”

“I’m doubtful.”

XIV

A Friendly Conversation
with Chester

A six-foot-eight-inch forty-two-year-old corporation of blubber and muscle that weighed three hundred and twenty-four pounds shoved a small silver-haired Mexican-American woman away from the front door. Uncaring, the bulldozing mass that was Chester Fredericks entered the foyer of the shoddy apartment building.

“You can’t just come in here,” complained the tenant. “I’ll call—”

Chester snatched the small woman’s purse and jerked her sideways until the strap came loose.

“Hey!” shouted the tenant. “Give me—”

“Fetch.” The redneck tossed the bag outside, where it flopped on the street and spewed its insides. “Be a good Chihuahua before you get kicked.”

Frightened, the small woman departed.

Chester walked to the stairwell and began his arduous climb. The wooden steps upon which he set portions of his bulk complained often and loudly. He accepted (though did not like) the fact that most of the people who needed to borrow money in Great Crown lived in places that lacked elevators.

Half a minute later, the redneck arrived at the second-floor landing, shifted his mass, and endeavored the next long flight of stairs. According to his first ex-wife, exertions such as this climb gave him heart attacks all of the time—small infarctions that he never even noticed—but if that were true (which he doubted), his tolerance for such traumas must now be so great that he was functionally immune.

Chester arrived at the third-floor landing. Proceeding along the concrete hallway, he wiped the sweat from his small face, hiked up his black sweatpants, and removed his favorite tool from the baby blue gym bag that depended from his left shoulder.

The redneck hammered a door.

Somebody yelped and whispered, “Shit.”

“Open up, amigo.”

A thump and some rapid footfalls sounded within the apartment. “Coming, man—I’m coming.”

“Now.”

A bolt snapped.

Chester bulldozed the door.

Retreating into the small apartment was Miguel, a wiry young Cuban in running shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt whose drug and gambling problems had put him underneath a pyramid that had ten thousand stones.

“You got your tennis shoes on,” the redneck remarked while locking the door. “You’re goin’ out?”

“Yeah. I— I wasn’t expecting you.”

“There wasn’t an envelope from you in my post office box, so you should’ve been.”

Miguel did not say anything.

Chester surveyed the living room.

The place was bare, excepting a shredded old sofa, a tube television, and three tall stacks of cardboard boxes.

Something occurred to the redneck, and suddenly, he was frowning. Pointing the hammer at the far side of the room, he asked, “What’s that?”

“Boxes.”

“Now what kind of answer’s that? ‘Boxes.’ You think I’m too stupid to recognize boxes?”

Miguel did not know whether a “yes“ or a “no” was the desired answer to this question.

“Well?” prompted Chester, who then walked toward the cardboard enigmas.

“It’s my collection. My records.”

The redneck swung his hammer. Iron slammed into a box and sank deep.

“Be careful with that—”

“Shut up.”

Chester jerked the tool loose, and white packing peanuts drained from the hole. Using the claw of the hammer, the redneck punctured a different side and tore out a large hunk of cardboard.

Records spilled from the opening and onto the floor. All of them appeared to be pop albums from the eighties.

“See man,” Miguel said, “I told you—”

Chester hammered and rended a box at the bottom of a different stack. The peanuts flowed, and inside the cardboard lay more records of a similar type.

Snorting, the redneck turned around. “When you get high, you must really like to dance.”

“I told you it was records.”

“Let’s sidestep the matter of the gay music you collect—’cause that conversation would end in your death—so you can tell me why you’re packing up all your shit.”

Miguel paled.

“Are you moving?” inquired Chester, whose eyes and tone were cold.

“No, man, no. I swear I’m not.”

A big hand gestured at the record collection as the redneck advanced toward the debtor. “So then explain these boxes.”

“My cousin’s gonna DJ a wedding, and he needs my records.”

“This is a thousand-hour wedding?”

“I wanted to give him a lotta options.”

Frowning, Chester shoved Miguel backward.

Fear shone brightly in the debtor’s big, dark eyes.

“I didn’t see addresses on any of those boxes,” remarked the redneck. “Mailmen tend to find those helpful. Much more efficient than you just dropping shit off, saying, ‘Give these to my cousin. These one thousand gay records that he needs.’”

“They’ve got the form you fill out at the shipping place. I swear to God, man, I—”

“Show me the address.”

“What?”

“You’ve got it written down somewhere, right? Your cousin’s address? The destination for the barge of records?”

“Yeah.”

“Show it to me or I’ll hurt you.”

Miguel scrambled into his bedroom.

Chester walked to the doorway and filled it with his magnitude. From there, he surveyed the messy area in which the debtor slept.

No suitcases or suspicious boxes or road maps or bus schedules were visible in the bedroom, which was strewn with clothing and empty wine coolers (as was usually the case). It did not look as if the young Cuban were planning to skip town.

Miguel opened one drawer and then another and then a third. In this last one he found a scrap of paper, which he held aloft as if it were a winning lottery ticket. “Here! Here’s his address.”

The debtor gave the piece of paper to the redneck, who then backed under a living room light that contained a few dead bugs.

Written on the crinkled scrap was a Connecticut address for a guy named Marco Perez.

“Connecticut?” asked Chester.

“Yeah, man. That’s where he lives.”

“You don’t look like the type who’d know people in Connecticut.”

“That’s where he went—works for the city up there. Sanitation.”

“When he’s not too busy playing a thousand gay records.”

“Doing that’s just a hobby for him.”

Chester returned the address to Miguel. “If you ever try to skip town on me, I will find you.”

“I won’t, I swear.”

“If you ever want to take a vacation—go out of town for a few days or even one day—you need to ask me if it’s okay before you go.”

“I don’t go anywhere, man. Ever.”

“Good. So let’s get back to the reason I’m here.”

“The money.”

“You’re a mind reader.”

A pathetic look came to the debtor’s face. “I don’t have much.”

This response did not surprise the redneck. “Get everything you have.”

“It isn’t much, but I—”

“Get it now, amigo.”

Miguel returned to the bedroom and went into his nightstand while Chester withdrew a two-liter bottle of orange soda from his gym bag and drank a swig

“You want the change?” the debtor inquired while gathering bills.

“Nope.”

Clasping two paper bushes, Miguel elbowed the drawer and returned to the living room. “Here.”

Chester screwed the cap onto the soda, wedged the bottle under his armpit, and took the cash, which he then counted in five seconds.

The sum of the proffered ones, fives, and crinkled tens was ninety-eight dollars.

Frowning, the redneck pocketed the two-figure payment.

Miguel was anxious. “It’s all I got.”

Chester drank the remaining liter of orange soda and discarded the empty plastic bottle. “Looks like you’ve been partying with money that ain’t yours.”

“No, man. It’s—”

A fist pounded Miguel. His nose snapped, and his head flew back. Blindly, he stumbled and fell onto his bed.

Wine coolers clanked.

“Owww, man.” The debtor sat upright and cupped his bloody face. “That shit hurts.”

Chester turned around and strode toward the record collection. “Hope they like orange soda in Connecticut.”

“No, man! Let me take another punch.”

“Too late.”

Urine hissed upon the two-dimensional face of a smiling teenage girl who had been famous for exactly one month during the year nineteen eighty-two. Chester then distributed crackling piss to the upbeat visages of some very color-coordinated black fellows and a plump shrimpy dude in a turquoise suit who had tried to hide the fact that he was going bald by giving himself a perm. Emptied out, the redneck shook some lingering drops onto the full lips of a black lady who wore a lot of blue make-up.

“I’ll be back in two weeks,” Chester announced while tucking his phallus into his sweatpants. “And if you don’t have at least five hundred, you’ll get the hammer.”

“I’ll get the money.”

The redneck left the apartment, walked down the stairwell (which taxed his legs but did not at all strain his infarction-proof heart), and went outside. This Tuesday morning was unpleasantly hot, even for Great Crown in August.

Chester drank soda and burped as he approached his four-door, baby blue, off-road truck.

A small and reddish-orange rectangle sat on the windshield of the distant vehicle.

“Better not be a goddamn ticket.”

The redneck quickened his strides and soon recognized the anomaly.

Lying upon the tinted windshield was a clay brick.

Chester reached his sixty-eight-thousand-dollar automobile and looked around.

The nearby streets and sidewalks were empty, and nobody suspicious stood in any of the visible doorways or windows.

“Fucking joker.”

The redneck held his breath, steadying himself, and gently lifted the brick from his windshield. A few pieces of reddish-orange grit lay upon the tinted glass, but there were no cracks or scuffs.

A cellphone buzzed in his pocket.

Ignoring the call, Chester hurled the brick across the street. The projectile clanked into a garbage can, which fell over, spilling bottles and wrappers onto the sidewalk. This act was not exactly retribution, but it was something.

The redneck heaped himself into the driver’s seat and shut the door. Starting the engine, he eyed his cellphone, which was no longer buzzing. The name of the recent caller was Pete Johnson—the same guy who had pestered him twice on Friday. This time, the fellow had not even bothered to leave a message.

“Pussy.”

Chester visited two more debtors, collected one thin envelope from his uptown postal box, and ordered some Vietnamese food, which he told the takeout girl to wrap in three plastic bags so that his truck would not smell like the ’Nam. Afterwards, he took Long Avenue toward Cicada, the vast Great Crown suburb in which he lived. Most of the black and Hispanic people in this area were menials.

It was early evening by the time the redneck parked his truck next to his girlfriend’s ultramarine two-seater in the driveway of his white and cobalt one-story house. Carrying the takeout bags, he walked across the gravel and stepped onto his concrete porch, which had a wooden bench and an American flag.

The redneck undid the locks, entered the living room of his air-conditioned home, shut the door, reset the alarm, and turned the bolts. Inside his sunken den, he set down the food and tossed himself upon a baby blue recliner chair.

“You got some takeout?” Dora asked from the bedroom.

“I got some.”

A door creaked, and a shuffling sound echoed in the hallway.

“Pick up your feet when you walk on the wood,” said Chester.

“Sorry.”

The scuffing noises were replaced by individual footfalls as the redneck retrieved and popped a can of orange soda.

A shape appeared in the dark hallway and became Dora, a chubby twenty-two-year-old redhead who was wearing socks and Chester’s oldest concert t-shirt, which had a picture of a metallic alligator that may or may not have been a cyborg.

“You’re just getting up now?” asked the redneck.

“I did some things before—research for my paper and that workout video.” The girl yawned. “That’s Thai food?”

“Gook.” Chester withdrew warm paper bags from layers of sheer red plastic. “You’ve got some underwear on under that?”

Dora raised the hem of the shirt, revealing the smooth bump of her clean-shaven pubic mound. “Guess not.”

“You couldn’t tell without flashing me?”

The girl let the curtain fall on her anatomy. “After going with you for so long, I don’t have as much feeling down there as I used to.”

“Flatterer.”

Four years ago, a stupid fellow who went by the name Rick Haglund borrowed eleven thousand dollars from Chester Fredericks. This loser made decent wages as a cook in a fair restaurant, but he had a serious gambling problem (as did half of the redneck’s clients), and the hole that he had dug for himself was moving toward the center of the earth rather than in the other direction. Two things had kept this idiot from having his limbs broken: He had a cute (albeit chubby) eighteen-year-old daughter, and he was amoral.

For five months, Dora had performed ever-improving acts of oral sex on Chester whenever he visited the Haglund household. This arrangement kept Rick’s arms and legs working, which facilitated his career as a maker of mediocre food at a mediocre restaurant that served mediocre people. Feelings had developed between the redneck and the young fellatio adept, and when the former divorced his second wife, he had asked the latter to move in with him. The girl came over the very same day, carrying all of her stuff in trash bags.

Dora was chubby and somewhat lazy, but she was cute and had a brighter future than did the gambling cook who had raised her (or her mother, who had committed suicide on the first night of the new millennium). Recently, the girl had started attending classes at the local junior college, which demonstrated to the redneck that she had at least some level of ambition.

Chester liked Dora more than half of the time, which was not something that he could have said about either of his ex-wives. What he felt for her might not have been love…but it was powerful enough to cancel out her father’s debt.

“Give me a kiss…”

Leaning over, Dora pressed her lips to Chester’s mouth.

The redneck shot his right hand into the t-shirt and clasped a hanging breast. A squeal escaped the girl, and she twisted away, reclaiming her tongue and mammarial property.

“They’re sore from all of your groping.”

“So then I’ll leave ‘em alone tonight and visit the outhouse.”

Chester squeezed Dora’s plump buttocks.

“I’ll go put on some panties for dinner.”

“Learn that in junior college?”

The girl flashed a grin and her rump as she returned to the hallway.

Shifting on the recliner, Chester turned on his sixty-inch television and tore open a greasy bag that contained fried spring rolls. A very handsome black weatherman who looked like a politician told him that some bad weather was heading toward Great Crown.

“Goddamn nigger news.”

Thunder rumbled, awakening Chester on Wednesday morning. Heavy rainfall crackled upon the roof, snapped against the windows, and disturbed gravel.

Hearing this proof of the black weatherman’s prophecy, the redneck shook his head. “That fucking guy.”

Folding three hundred and twenty-four pounds into a perpendicular shape, Chester sat. His hardened phallus and lower back were sore from the things that had occurred inside of his girlfriend’s colon during the previous night, and the redneck swallowed two painkillers with spit to dull the aches.

Wednesday was a big day for collections, and he would not let some physical discomfort and a thunderstorm interfere with his business.

Chester showered, donned a t-shirt and jeans, stepped into his sneakers, grabbed an umbrella, reset the alarm, and walked onto his porch. Beyond the overhang, the thunderstorm roared, turning all of the neighboring houses into strips of colored tinsel.

This would not be a good day for one of his debtors to come up short.

Chester traversed the sheltered porch. Gravel crackled beneath his sneakers and rain rattled against his umbrella as he walked along the driveway. Through the hissing deluge, he saw his off-road vehicle.

His stomach sank.

“No.”

Sitting in the gravel at the end of the driveway on its fully exposed rims was the baby blue truck. All four of its tires had been removed.

“Holy shit.”

Staring, Chester continued toward the crippled automobile. Gravel crunched under his sneakers, and feelings of anger slowly replaced those of astonishment.

“Fuck.”

The redneck knew that there was a connection between this prank and the anonymous brick that he had earlier found on his windshield, even though these incidents were separated by nineteen hours and twenty-five miles.

Rain crackled upon the umbrella, clicked upon rocks, and pinged upon the hood as he walked up the long driveway toward his truck.

On the far side of the windshield sat a big dark shape.

Chester paused. Gripping the umbrella with his left hand, he withdrew a revolver from his inside his waistband holster and closed the remaining distance.

The redneck stopped and peered through the rain that danced upon the windshield.

Sitting in a neat stack behind the steering wheel were all four tires.

A cellphone buzzed in his pocket.

Rain crackled, clicked, and pinged. Chester holstered his gun and withdrew the device, which was again buzzing.

Upon the touchscreen was the name he had expected to see—‘Pete Johnson.’

The redneck accepted the call and put the receiver to his ear. “You’re the one doing all this hilarious shit?”

“Do you feel like having a friendly conversation?”

“When I find out who you are—and I will—I’m gonna rape your head with a crowbar.”

“That’s a no?”

“Fuck you.”

Chester killed the connection, opened the door, and tossed his cellphone, keys, and wallet onto the dashboard. Resigning himself to a wet future, he abandoned his umbrella and claimed one of the tires. A stainless-steel jack was then exhumed from the back.

Setting an iron sheet atop the gravel so that the lifting device would remain stable, the redneck began his four-part undertaking. His progress was as relentless as the thunderstorm.

Ninety minutes later, the sodden behemoth took a warm shower (which seemed redundant, but felt good), donned dry clothes, and left for work. His anger was a chewable substance by the time he drove into the vast urban sprawl of Great Crown.

Chester parked outside of the apartment building in which lived Eldon White, a debtor who had first taken out a loan in the late nineties. This educated and fairly reliable fellow gave the loan shark three hundred dollars, which was his usual payment, but received two cracked ribs because he had bad breath.

Jaw clenched in anticipation, the redneck returned to the storm and eyed his baby blue truck.

The vehicle had not been harmed.

His next visit was to Luisa Diaz’s apartment, which was in the garment district. Like a lot of single mothers who were under a pyramid, this twenty-one-year-old Puerto Rican trotted out her hungry children whenever the redneck came over to make his collections. This ploy never altered his itinerary.

“This is what I have,” said Luisa, who then gave Chester half of her minimum monthly payment. “I hope it’s enough.”

The redneck pulled three plastic bags that smelled like Vietnamese food over the mother’s head and suffocated her until she wet herself and passed out. At present, he uncovered her face and pitched her unconscious body onto the sofa. Her children had watched everything while hiding underneath the living room table.

Concerned about the baby blue truck, Chester hurried downstairs and walked outside.

The vehicle was intact.

Gathering money and committing acts of violence often made the redneck feel better, but today, his mood proved immutable. Rain and angry thoughts hissed as he drove to Pudgy Boys, bought two roast beef-and-bacon submarine sandwiches, and laid claim to a big table by overturning the other five chairs.

Seated, Chester took out his cellphone and called a high school friend who had some affiliations.

“Hey there,” said Smart Paul. “Enjoying the storm?”

“No. Some guy’s fucking with me. Yesterday, he threatened to break my windshield with a brick, and this morning, he took the wheels off of my truck so I’d have to put them on in the rain.”

“To what end?”

“He wants to talk to me about something.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I don’t respond to acts of terrorism.”

“These don’t sound like ‘acts of terrorism.’ More like demonstrations.”

Chester squeezed his submarine. “I don’t give a fuck what they are.”

“Whenever people say, ‘I don’t give a fuck,’ they actually mean, ‘I do give a fuck, but will do my best to pretend otherwise.’ Nobody uses the work ‘fuck’ when they’re feeling apathetic.”

“Well…he’s trying to force me to do something, and I won’t. Period.”

“But he’s not stealing or damaging anything—even though he obviously could—which tells me that he wants to keep things from getting ugly.”

“I won’t talk to him. Ever. I just want to find out who he is so I can do what I need to do.”

The redneck violently chomped his submarine sandwich. Somebody nearby yelped, startled.

“It would be safer for you to talk to him,” said Smart Paul. “He might be a consortium guy or have affiliations.”

“Two more reasons not to talk to him.” Chester swallowed a hunk of his sandwich. “But I’m calling for assistance, not advice.”

The affiliated guy sighed. “What’ve you got?”

“The caller ID says his name’s Pete Johnson, but I don’t think that’s real.”

“Sounds like a porn star. Anything else?”

“I’ve got his telephone number—the one he uses to call me on.”

“Text it to me.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks.”

The call ended.

Before the redneck finished the first half of his second submarine sandwich, he received a text message from his high school friend that read, ‘No info on this guy. Talk to him.’

Chester cursed Smart Paul, whom he had not liked all that much since graduation day.

Soon, the redneck returned to his truck and rolled through the storm. The fourth and fifth debtors whom he visited that day paid him sufficiently but he broke a television and turned over a bureau in an effort to make himself feel better.

These actions did not elevate his mood.

Thoughts of ‘Pete Johnson’ distracted Chester as he thrust his phallus into Dora, whose upraised buttocks and pendulous breasts echoed every ungentle impact.

“I think you need to lose some weight,” the three hundred-and-twenty-four-pound redneck said while withdrawing his limp member.

“You’re in a shitty mood.” The girl got out of bed, pulled on a kimono, and walked toward the doorway. “Don’t put the blame on me.”

Chester did not say anything. Abed and naked, he eyed the cellphone that lay upon his nightstand and then peered through the window at his baby blue truck, which he had parked behind the house on the grass instead of in the driveway.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

Two days passed without another incident. Chester started to wonder if he would again see the handiwork of “Pete Johnson” or if the guy had lost his motivation to be a secret asshole.

On Saturday night, the redneck ordered sausage-and-onion pizzas and ate them while watching a wrestling pay-per-view event. His girlfriend came home late from her philosophy study group (which got together twice a month), but he did not wonder at the cause of her delay.

Sunday came and went, and on Monday, Chester woke up early, donned a gray sweatsuit, and drove into the urban sprawl. His first collections were effortless endeavors (though a mouthy spouse had earned herself a slap), and after he finished his lunch, he spread his baby blue truck across two spaces in the post office parking lot. The vehicle’s rearview mirror now contained a surveillance camera, and if the secret asshole tried something, there would be some video.

A large part of the huge redneck hoped that “Pete Johnson” would expose himself by pulling another prank.

Chester slapped the post office door and walked into the dingy (but well air-conditioned) interior.

Behind the front counter, a meek Asian guy in a blue uniform avoided making eye contact with the massive southern mammal that had just entered.

The redneck passed a long line of grumpy customers and strode into the wing that contained the postal boxes. At the north wall, he slotted his key directly below the number 522, but when he tried to turn the lock, nothing happened. The mechanism was stuck. He rechecked the box number (which was the correct one), pinched the brass key firmly between his thumb and index finger, and tried once again. The lock did not yield.

Frustrated, the redneck applied more force, involving his biceps and triceps in the struggle against unwilling metal. The brass started to bend.

Something cracked within the lock, and key spun one hundred and eighty degrees.

“Finally.”

Chester opened the metal door.

Filling the postal box was a slab of hardened concrete.

“The fuck?”

The redneck put the palm of his right hand against the coarse gray surface and pushed all of his weight forward, but achieved nothing in so doing.

“Crud.”

At present, Chester noticed two tiny white triangles sticking out of the concrete. These appeared to be the corners of envelopes, each of which would contain a payment from a debtor.

“Motherfucker.”

A cellphone buzzed in his pocket.

The redneck hastened to the front window so that he could check on his truck.

On the far side of the glass sat the vehicle, hogging two spaces and unmolested.

The device buzzed a second time.

Chester accepted the call and put the receiver to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Do you feel like having a friendly conversation?” asked the secret asshole, whose voice was as calm as it had been during both of the previous conversations.

The redneck had imagined this moment many times, and thus, he already knew exactly what he was going to say. “I’m open to it. Let’s meet up somewhere and talk.”

“We’re never going to meet in person.”

“That’s the only way I do business.”

“I recommend that you make an exception in this instance.”

“I don’t talk business on the phone,” stated Chester. “Ever.”

“Too bad.”

The secret asshole hung up.

One second later, the redneck’s cellphone shattered against the post office wall, where it had been thrown in anger.

“Sir?” prompted the meek Asian, who was flanked by a womanish guy. “Is there something that we can help you with?”

Ignoring the inquiry, Chester returned to the open postal box, unzipped his gym bag, grabbed his hammer, tightened his grip, and swung. Iron clanked against concrete, and grit fell to the floor.

“Sir!”

Again, the redneck raised his arm.

“Sir!”

The hammer pounded the gray slab, chipping off a few small bits.

“You cannot—”

Iron arced through the air and clanked against concrete. A small fissure appeared, and Chester picked a piece of grit from his right eye.

The postal workers tentatively approached the big mammal.

“Sir, you can’t—”

“Do you guys have a security camera for this area?” asked the redneck. “So we can see who put all this concrete in here?”

“It broke,” said the meek Asian.

Metal clanked against concrete, and the fissure widened into a crack.

“Recently?” surmised Chester.

“Saturday.”

The redneck did not doubt that the secret asshole had disabled the camera prior to pulling this prank. “Figures.”

The hammer pounded the crack. Pieces of concrete the size of hard candy rattled upon the floor.

“You can’t do that in here!” shouted the womanish assistant. “If y—”

“This is your screw up—letting this happen on government property—so now I’m doing what I need to. Don’t get in the way.”

Iron clanked against concrete. Bits of artificial stone fell, revealing the narrow profile of the upper envelope.

“But y—”

“Shut up.” Chester glared at the meek Asian. “Get me a box cutter and some tweezers.”

“What are you going t—”

“Now!”

The postal worker fled.

Targeting the remaining white triangle, the redneck swung the hammer. Iron clanked against concrete, and grit fell. Rapidly and forcefully, he pounded the area until the linear profile of the second envelope was completely visible.

Sweat stung Chester’s eyes, and he wiped the moisture away.

“Here,” the meek (and chastened) Asian said while extending the gathered tools.

The redneck thumbed the box cutter blade from the handle and sliced open the sides of the envelopes. “Give me some privacy.”

The postal workers joined the small crowd of curious oldsters who had gathered at the wing entrance.

Chester poked tweezer tips into the side of the upper envelope, pinched his fingers together, and withdrew a thin collection of bills. Repeating this operation in the lower slit, he removed more money.

Somebody in the crowd muttered something.

“Shut your bitch flap,” the redneck said to whomever had said whatever.

At present, the big man pocketed the payments and returned to the main area, where he cut the line, threw some nasty looks, and filled out the paperwork for a new postal box. The meek Asian offered an apology.

The sun was diving at the western horizon when Chester entered his suburban home. Standing in the living room, he reset the alarm and twisted the bolts.

The house was not quiet. Whirrs and thuds came from the washing machine on the far side of house, despite the fact that Dora had just done a comprehensive laundry on Sunday.

The redneck wondered if perhaps the secret asshole had done something to the appliance, but when he considered the house alarm and the sight of his girlfriend’s car in the driveway, this suspicion seemed like the result of paranoia rather than clear thinking.

Chester hated how “Pete Johnson” was affecting his psyche.

“Dora? Is that you?”

This inquiry received no response.

The redneck withdrew his revolver from his inside waistband holster and quietly discarded his gym bag. Watchful and wary, he sneaked through the living room and den and then entered the rear hallway. His heart was starting to move uptempo.

Twenty feet ahead of him and to the right stood the closed laundry room door. A chilly feeling crept into his stomach as the unseen machine whirred and thudded.

“Dora…?”

A woman screamed.

Chester froze.

The door opened, and into the hall stumbled Dora, wearing sandals, shorts, and a frayed beige bra. “You scared the living shit out of me!” Her hazel eyes flickered down. “Why’re you holding the spixterminator?”

Holstering the firearm, Chester considered the situation, which still did not seem quite right. “Why’re you home so early today? And doing laundry? You just did it on Sunday.”

“Some guy spilled food all over me in the dining hall.”

“So you’re doing a whole new laundry? Seems like you should’ve waited till next laundry day instead of wasting so much water.”

Disbelief widened the girl’s eyes. “Since when’ve you ever cared anything about wasting water? It was new jeans and my shirt with the cockatoo that got spilled on, and I didn’t want them ruined by chimichurri sauce.”

Inside the laundry room, the washing machine went silent, clicked, and resumed whirring at a higher pitch.

Dora approached Chester and caressed his left arm. “You had a bad day?”

The redneck realized that he was hassling his girlfriend for no reason. “Yeah. That guy’s still—”

A cellphone chimed in the bedroom.

“Who’s that?” asked Chester.

Dora shrugged.

Again, the device sounded.

“Keep doing laundry,” the redneck said while turning around. “I’ll get it.”

“Okay.”

Chester entered the bedroom, walked across the carpet, and picked up Dora’s pink cellphone, which then rang for the third time.

Upon the touchscreen was the word, ‘Anonymous.’

The redneck accepted the call and put the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

Nobody responded to this salutation.

“Hello?” repeated Chester. “Somebody there?”

The line clicked and went dead.

“Faggot-ass nigger.”

The redneck killed the connection, and suddenly, some basic arithmetic happened inside of his brainpan. Holding the slim pink device in his big hands, he entered the passcode and checked the list of recent activities.

The anonymous individual had called four other times.

Chester’s mind darkened.

“Who is it?” inquired Dora.

Brooding, the redneck walked across the bedroom and into the hallway.

“Who is it?” the girl asked while adjusting her shorts.

“He hung up.”

“What’d the caller ID say?”

“How come you were home so late on Saturday?”

Confused, Dora wrinkled her face. “Why’re you asking me about that now? Who called?”

“Answer my question,” suggested Chester, who sounded atypically calm.

“I was at study group. I told you.”

The redneck closed the distance between himself and his girlfriend until only two feet remained. “But you came home later than usual. A lot later.”

“We got an exam coming up. Why’re—”

An index finger touched Dora’s lips, silencing her, while Chester’s other hand turned into a fist.

“And then today,” the redneck continued, “you came home early. To wash stains out of your clothes because—”

“I’m telling you—”

Chester grabbed Dora’s neck with his right hand. “Don’t interrupt me.”

Wheezing, the girl nodded her pale head.

“And just now,” the redneck resumed, “you got a call—which you hardly ever do, except when it’s me or if your father wants something. But this caller was anonymous, and when I answered, he hung up.”

The washing machine thudded.

“Please let—”

Chester dug his fingers into Dora’s throat, and her freckled face started to turn red.

“You came home late Saturday night for some bullshit reason, and you came home early today to wash stains out of your clothes. You’re also getting anonymous calls from some guy—I looked and saw that he’s called before.

“A buncha times.”

The girl was terrified.

“In four years, I’ve never given you more than a slap,” the redneck stated, “but if you don’t give me an authentic, nonfiction explanation for all this, we’re going into some rocky terrain.

“Real rocky.”

Chester shoved Dora’s skull against the wall and squeezed her neck. Tears ran from her eyes as she choked, struggling to free herself, and drool dripped from her gaping mouth.

The redneck tightened his grip.

A weird gurgling noise came from the girl’s throat, and her scarlet face turned purple.

Chester released Dora.

Gasping for air, the girl raised her hands and shook her head.

“Talk,” said the redneck.

“There ain’t nobody, I—” Dora coughed and then sucked some oxygen. “I fucking swear to God there ain’t.”

“I want details. Nonfiction.”

The girl stuffed air into her lungs while massaging her reddened throat. “I was late on Saturday ’cause there’s a test coming up, and I’m doing laundry today ’cause a guy spilled food on me at the dining hall. You can look at the clothes if you don’t believe me—probably still some chimichurri on them.”

“You could’ve spilled that on purpose to cover things up.”

“I didn’t.” Dora cleared her throat and wiped her eyes. “You can call Lisa and ask—she was there when it happened.”

“You could’ve coached her—told her what to say.”

“Chester…come on…I swear to God I didn’t. And the janitor saw, too—you can go ask him if you don’t believe me and Lisa.”

“And the caller? Mr. Anonymous?”

“I don’t know. I picked up once when he called a day ago, and he hung up on me.”

“You said, ‘he.’”

Dora was confused. “So?”

“How do you know the caller’s a ‘he’ if you don’t know who it is?”

“I’m saying ‘he’ because you said ‘he’! Jesus Christ! I never talked to him once—he could be a woman.”

“He isn’t.”

“I’m not cheating. I swear to God.”

The washing machine thudded a few times while the unconvinced redneck considered what to do next.

“Do you believe me?” inquired the girl. “I promise that—”

“I’m gonna need to smell you.” Chester pointed at Dora’s groin. “There.”

“Are you serious?”

“One thousand percent.”

“What’re you gonna smell for?”

“Lubricants and anonymous come.”

Astonished, the girl laughed humorlessly. “You’ve really lost it. This guy who’s fucking with you is making you crazy. These are just coincidences.”

“I’m gonna find out what they are.” The redneck pointed up the hallway. “Get in there.”

In tandem, the couple walked through the doorway and into the bedroom.

Chester elbowed the light switch, and the ceiling fixture glared.

Dora kicked off her sandals, removed her clothes, and climbed onto the mattress. “I woke up late this morning and didn’t have time to shower…”

“If it smells like dead squid, I’ll be satisfied you didn’t let anybody visit. Get on your back.”

The girl rolled over.

Chester parted Dora’s knees and lowered his nose toward her shaven pubic mound. The smell hit him on the way down, and he stopped short of his destination.

“Jesus. You weren’t exaggerating.”

“I told you.”

“It’s making my eyes dilate.”

The girl kicked the redneck in the stomach, and he started to laugh, relieved that his suspicions were unfounded.

No more pranks occurred during the following week. An anonymous person called Dora on Sunday night, but she answered her cellphone directly in front of Chester, who then witnessed the unknown individual hang up without saying a word. The redneck no longer doubted his girlfriend’s fidelity.

Early Wednesday morning, Dora gave Chester a giant bowl of peanut butter cereal and told him that she was going to go over to Lisa’s place after classes.

“Why don’t you guys study over here?” the redneck asked while digging a big soupspoon into his mountain.

“She’s not very comfortable here.”

“Why?” Chester gestured expansively. “The air conditioning’s first-rate, and so’s the furniture. Got plenty of beer and orange soda.”

Dora looked conflicted.

“What?” The redneck’s eyes hardened. “Talk.”

“You remember that argument you were having on the phone when she was over last time? Trying to find that Haitian girl who was hiding from you?”

“So?”

“Well, you were real loud. And you said some words.”

“So?”

“Bad words…including ‘nigger,’ plus the worst one you can say…”

“Which? Cunt? Who gives a fuck? I didn’t say anything bad to her.”

“No…but she heard you shouting that stuff through the walls for, like, ten minutes. And after you were done, you came out and gave a good long look at her tits.”

“They weren’t so great.”

“Well…so…Lisa’s not comfortable coming here anymore.”

“Cunt.”

“Don’t say that. Even joking.”

“I will, and I wasn’t.”

“Well, I’m going over and’ll be back by eleven.”

“Ten.”

“Fine.”

Chester and Dora ate their crunchy peanut butter cereal without saying anything else to each other. The meal sounded like two avalanches.

Afterwards, the redneck showered, drove into the urban sprawl, and flipped his itinerary so he could menace his clients in a novel way.

Ivan worked in an uptown store that sold fine suits, and Chester visited him at this establishment at nine a.m. sharp. Inside a private fitting room, the debtor came up short and received an elbow in the stomach that catapulted a partially digested spinach, Fontina, and mushroom omelette upon the mirror, where it sat for three seconds like a piece of modern art.

The remainder of the collections went smoothly, and as the sun dove toward the horizon, Chester headed home.

Nestled in the recliner that sat in the exact middle of the sunken den, the three-hundred-and-twenty-four-pounder ate sausage-and-onion pizzas, drank orange soda, and turned on the pay-per-view wrestling event that he had ordered one week earlier. The first few matches were good, though not exceptional, and the promos were tolerable, but not especially convincing. There was an announcement for a women’s bout, and rather than watch yipping cheerleaders perform low-impact moves and painfully unfunny comedy, he went to his computer and downloaded some pornographic videos.

A bell rang for a title match, and Chester hurriedly pulled up his pants and returned to his plush recliner chair to watch the action. The bout was acceptable, and immediately followed by the highly anticipated main event. At the end of this fifty-six minute contest (which he thought was pretty good, but had too many fancy high-flying maneuvers and not enough real mat wrestling), he looked at the clock.

It was ten thirty-seven.

Dora was late.

“Bitch.”

Chester unlocked his cellphone and made a call. Holding the receiver against his right ear, he heard two rings and a small click.

“This is Dora Haglund,” said a prerecorded voice. “Please leave a—”

The redneck pressed the disconnect icon and redialed. Again, there were two rings and a click.

“This is Dora Hag—”

Chester killed the connection. Suspicions that he had dismissed during the previous week were now returning.

The redneck reopened his contact list, scrolled down to the letter ‘L,’ and thumbed a connection. In his right ear, the line rang twice.

“Hey, this is Lisa Gordon. I’m not in right now, so please leave a mess—”

Chester killed the connection. A thousand thoughts crowded into his percolating brain.

“Okay, think. Think what to do…”

Some of the thoughts got out of the way, and he organized an itinerary.

“First…”

The redneck thumbed a connection and put the receiver to his ear.

“This is Dora Haglund. Please leave a message after the beep.”

A brief tone sounded.

“Call me when you get this. You were supposed to be home forty-three minutes ago.”

Chester killed the connection and then made a different one.

“Hey, this is Lisa Gordon. I’m—”

The redneck cut the line, said “Gordon,” and kept the surname that he had just acquired in his mind as he bounded into the kitchen, pulled a phone book out of a high cabinet, and slammed the tome upon the counter.

“Gordon. Lisa Gordon.”

Chester flipped to the letter ‘G,’ turned some pages, and scanned the small print until he found the college girl’s name and address.

“Pay Miss Cunt a visit.”

The redneck tore the information out of the phone book, donned his camouflage clothing, put on black boots, grabbed his hunting knife, snatched his gym bag, reset the alarm, exited his house, and locked the door. Hastening across the porch, he looked up the driveway.

His stomach sank.

“No.”

The baby blue truck was gone.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

A cellphone buzzed in his pocket.

Myriad thoughts crowded into the big redneck’s little head.

“No…”

Again, the device vibrated.

Chester surveyed the street and the nearby driveways as if the missing truck were a pet that might have wandered off.

The absent vehicle was not in the vicinity.

For the third time, the cellphone buzzed. This little sound filled up the night.

Raising the luminous device, the redneck saw the name “Pete Johnson,” accepted the call, and put the receiver to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Dora is with a man right now.”

Chester was overwhelmed. His woman was gone and so was his truck. No words emerged from the electric static that filled his skull.

“Do you feel like having a friendly conversation?” inquired the secret asshole.

“Where the fuck is—”

“Profanity isn’t part of a friendly conversation.”

It took the redneck a moment to wrangle his anger. “Where’s Dora at?”

“You’re being brusque.”

Furious, the redneck kicked a porch post until the wood cracked.

“Do you know how to have a friendly conversation?” inquired the secret asshole.

“I know.”

“What do you know?”

“How to talk friendly.” Chester clenched his left fist. “Like you want.”

“Terrific. Shall I tell you some things about the man who’s with Dora?”

“Go ahead.”

“I sent him to the GCU dining hall and had him pretend to be a student so that he could meet her. He’s a good actor because he’s a prostitute.”

The redneck felt cold all over.

“He’s also a hunk,” continued the secret asshole. “In his twenties, good teeth, thick hair, a little bit ethnic—shaves his body so that you can better see his muscles, which are splendid. You’d never guess from looking at him that he has hepatitis C and AIDS.”

The redneck felt sick. Gripping the arm of the porch bench, he sat down and stuffed some air into his lungs. “Has…has he fucked her yet?”

“Profanity.”

“Have they been together? In bed?”

“At this point, they’re just friends. But if I send him a text message that has seven letters—‘G-o,’ space, ‘f-o-r,’ space, ‘i-t,’ period—he will consummate the relationship with Dora. She’s been feeling very vulnerable ever since you choked her.”

“And my truck?”

“It’s in a place. Maybe a safe place. Maybe not.”

Chester knew that he could no longer combat the secret asshole. “What do you want?”

“You have a client named Erin Green.”

“Yeah.”

“Never again are you allowed to visit her in person or send anyone else to collect money from her. From this point forward, she’ll send all of her payments to you in the mail. If she falls behind for some reason, you’ll just have to wait. Do you understand?”

The redneck wiped sweat from his stinging eyes. “I do.”

“If you approach her, directly or obliquely, I will find out. Then, there will be no more phone calls, no more demonstrations of what might happen, because it will happen:

“A consortium guy with seventy-eight associates, ruining your life.

“You can get a new girlfriend and install a dozen cameras in your truck, but I know a thousand ways to hurt you, and will do so, again and again and again, until you wrap yourself in a Confederate flag and put a gun in your mouth. Do you understand?”

“I’ll leave Erin alone,” said Chester, whose voice was small and unrecognizable as his own. “You’ll stop that guy from taking advantage of Dora?”

“I will. And I’ll make him disappear for good.”

“And the truck?”

“I’ll let you know where it is after you apologize to Dora, give her some flowers, and perform cunnilingus on her every day for the next two weeks—regardless of whether or not she’s taken a shower.”

The line went dead.

Relief and shame filled Chester, and for the first time in more than twenty years, he wept.

XV

Stemware and Shellfish

Forty-five minutes after the end of rush hour, Nowski drove Task up Long Avenue toward the financial district. The failing sun was an irritant that sat above the western horizon and reappeared every time the northbound vehicle passed through an intersection.

“How long do you think you’ll be?” asked the bodybuilder.

The slick plucked a piece of lint from the slacks of his caramel suit. “There’s gonna be shellfish.”

“So about an hour.”

“Yeah. Or more if there’re claws and things to break.”

“Think he’ll be amenable?”

“I don’t know if he’ll drop his cut to seven percent, but he is seeing me in person rather than sending his disgusting agent. Are you in a rush?”

“No. Why?”

“You asked how long the meeting would be,” said Task. “Do you need to be somewhere?”

“No.” Nowski braked for a yellow light. “Andrea wanted to know when I’d be back. We’re a little behind on wedding stuff ’cause she got three new clients, and I was so busy with you on that Chester thing.”

“That redneck was a hemorrhoid.”

The light changed, and the bodybuilder accelerated. Sunshine crossed the intersection and turned the windows into panes of fire.

Squinting, Task pulled out his comb. “You can drop me off and go. I’ll take a cab back.”

“No. Strembicky should see that there’s a suit in a luxury car waiting for you.”

The slick did not disagree with this statement. “Thanks.”

“Certainly.”

The black sedan entered the financial district, where gray and white high-rises with colorful accents blocked out the sun. Task applied some pomade and neatened himself as he pondered the upcoming meeting with Strembicky.

Spinning the wheel, Nowski turned into the deep driveway of a charcoal building that had turquoise highlights, fifty stories, and a name, which was The Spire. Two suited valets approached the vehicle, but the bodybuilder waved them off, parked alongside a nearby island of grass, and killed the engine. Dominating this green oasis was a fountain that had scores of spigots, a hundred pieces of aquamarine glass, and some irregular hunks of bent pewter. Three curious kingfishers were hopping around the perimeter of this object.

“Somebody chose to make that,” remarked the bodybuilder.

“More incredible is that the guy who owns The Spire saw it and said, ‘That needs to be in the driveway.’”

For a moment, two perplexed associates and three curious kingfishers scrutinized the thing.

“Is it art,” Nowski asked, “or just to scare birds away?”

“Doesn’t seem to work as either.”

Looking into the visor mirror, Task checked his teeth, saw no anomalies, and popped a mint into his mouth. “I’ll text if it looks like I’ll be gone more than sixty.”

“Enjoy your crustaceans.”

“Thanks.”

The slick walked across some ornate brickwork and passed through an automatic doorway into the tranquil, air-conditioned lobby of The Spire. A tall woman of thirty in a red skirt suit who had a round face, long fingers, and shampoo-commercial hair strode across the marble on high heels. Her head tilted down minutely when she reached Task, who stood one inch over six feet whenever he wore his Italians.

“You are Mr. Tasking?” asked the tall woman, who had a slightly stiff Russian accent.

“I am.”

“I’m Anya.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Task shook Anya’s long cool hand. The watch on her wrist probably cost more than the black luxury sedan waiting outside.

“Mr. Strembicky is upstairs. I shall take you to him now.”

“Thank you.”

The tall woman led the slick into a turquoise and white elevator, where three embedded televisions showed strange sea life. A bell chimed, and the enclosure rocketed up the shaft.

Task’s ears popped.

“Me too,” said Anya, who then massaged her left tragus.

The elevator slowed, and the slick felt his stomach stretch.

A musical tone sounded as the door opened, revealing a huge lounge area that had dark leather furniture and a panoramic view of Great Crown. Seated throughout the vastness were businessmen, most of whom were tanned and suited. Turquoise napkins sat underneath the glasses, snifters, and stemware from which all of these moneyed fellows drank.

“This way.”

Anya escorted Task toward the setting sun. “Mind these,” she said, pointing out a few invisible stairs.

“Thanks.”

High heels clicked up the steps, followed by the deeper tattoo of the two Italians.

Rising from the southwest corner table and dressed in a gray suit was Strembicky, a bronze and broad-shouldered fifty-seven-year-old Russian Jew who had silver hair, a matching mustache, and the strong, somber face of a dictator. The slick had not seen his guarantor in person in three years, and it looked like the fellow had lost ten pounds and half an inch of altitude since that last meeting.

“Darren Tasking.” Strembicky extended his right hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Mr. Strembicky.”

The affiliates shook hands and released each other.

“It’s been too long.” The guarantor’s somber eyes flickered up and down. “Did you get taller since the last time we met?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment and a metaphor.”

“Please do.”

“Enjoy your shellfish,” said Anya, who then turned and departed.

Strembicky motioned a thick, bronzed hand. “Please…”

The affiliates seated themselves on either side of a burnished wood table and looked toward the window.

Beyond the glass lay the heterogeneous mixture of districts that comprised Great Crown.

“From above,” the guarantor said, “this city resembles a woman who has one arm and no legs.”

Task tried to locate the described figure. “How?”

“It’s more obvious in a plane or a helicopter, but you can still see the general shape from here.” Strembicky pointed to the southernmost part of the city, which was a sprawling collection of shorter, older buildings. “The market, commerce, and shopping districts are her hips. North of that,” he said while moving his finger, “the Pastels and Chinatown give her a waist, and all around us in the financial and industrial districts are her breasts and shoulders.”

“I see that,” remarked the slick.

The guarantor motioned to the east, where a long narrow peninsula carried docks and boats into the ocean. “That’s her right arm—her only limb—and the suburbs are her head—” He gestured to the north side of the lounge.

Task turned around and snatched a glimpse of Cicada through the far window. “She’s got big hair.”

“That’s what women do in the suburbs.”

Strembicky threw a signal, and a sprightly male server who wore black and turquoise materialized.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“I’d like a martini,” said the guarantor. “Dry, stirred, and with gin. And bring out an iced shellfish platter for us to share.”

“Excellent.”

“Extra horseradish.”

“You look like the type,” remarked the server, who probably thought that all of his remarks were adorable.

“I’ll take a martini as well,” said the slick. “Filthy.”

Grinning, the sprite proclaimed, “I will bring out your orders right away,” and departed.

Strembicky returned his solemn gaze to the city and nodded his head. “Seven percent is fine.”

Task was disarmed by the offhanded revelation of this important information. Eventually, the words, “Thank you,” tumbled onto the table.

“A person who is concerned about business that’s not yet decided will speak more guardedly than would a person who no longer has that concern.”

“True,” the slick replied, “though I’m not often accused of being ambiguous.”

“My agent has made remarks to the effect.” The guarantor offered a very dry grin. “I’m glad that you gave me the opportunity to match Renaldo’s offer.”

Task folded his hands and nodded his head. “It was the proper thing to do.”

“I agree.”

Turquoise napkins fell on the table and became the landing pads for two martini glasses. Beside these drinks appeared a hill of ice that had been mounted by an army of peeled shrimp, raw oysters, and stone crab claws. Little dishes of horseradish, cocktail sauce, malt vinegar, saffron aioli, and mustard accompanied the platoon.

“I’m Kevin,” said the unburdened server. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“This is sufficient for now,” said Strembicky. “Thank you.”

The sprite spun and departed to a table where a white-haired man had one hand in the air and the other on the knee of somebody who could have been his granddaughter.

Task raised his drink into a beam of golden twilight. “To five years of beneficial affiliations.”

“May there be many more.”

“Indeed.”

Martini glasses clinked, and slumbering olives awakened.

The slick drank a hunk of salty alcohol and returned the glass to the damp circle in the exact middle of his napkin. Leather creaked as he reclined in his plush chair.

Strembicky lowered the drink from his mustache and fingered his wedding band. “You’re still a bachelor?”

“I am.”

“Is there somebody special in your life? A girlfriend?”

“A couple of deactivated ones turn up on occasion.”

Puzzled, the guarantor added some wrinkles to his face. “You’re not interested in a serious relationship?”

“I’m too busy for that kind of thing.”

Task did not usually engage in this type of conversation, but he would humor Strembicky, who had behaved quite graciously.

The guarantor drank some molten twilight. “How do you enjoy yourself?”

“I’m too busy for that kind of thing.”

Strembicky put his glass on a square and piled horseradish atop an oyster. “You could delegate some of your responsibilities.”

“I choose not to,” said Task.

The decorated mollusk quivered and was sucked from its home into the guarantor, who then chewed and swallowed. “You don’t think other people are capable of doing what you do?”

“I don’t want to run experiments to find out who they are. I did that once and my freedom was the variable.”

“That’s right…” Strembicky claimed a cold shrimp, which he then dipped in cocktail sauce. “How long were you inside?”

“Twenty-nine months and one week.” Task glanced through the window at the brick building on One Eighteen Pine Street, where he had been arrested ten years earlier during a raid because an associate of his had become a confidential informant. “Hiring a law-breaking stranger and then expecting him to be honest seems like a bit of a paradox. So, I oversee everything and work with guys I know.”

“Your approach makes sense, but will limit your ability to expand.”

“It will, but I earn, and my risk is nothing—a grain of rice, a stillborn flea—compared to most entrepreneurs.”

“There are ways of ensuring loyalty,” Strembicky stated while picking the shell off of a crab claw. “Send a man to Alaska, and all of the others will behave.”

The slick did not know how many murders his guarantor had committed (directly or otherwise), but such acts were unavoidable in any south organization the size of the consortium.

“I don’t send people to Alaska,” stated Task. “That’s consortium work, and I’m an entrepreneur.”

A soft pincer poked creamy mustard and went into Strembicky. “You are south.”

“I am, but if the machos turn up at one of my parlors, I can explain away roulette tables and sore vaginas. Floating corpses have no explanation.”

The guarantor put his martini below his mustache, swallowed a mouthful, and replaced the glass. “Your setup is low-risk and profitable, but it doesn’t seem to leave you any time to live.”

“That happens when I retire.”

Understanding shone upon Strembicky’s face. “You plan to retire young?”

“Correct.”

“Why’re you in such a rush?”

“I lost time, a spouse, and all of my earnings when I went to the broiler. I’m already thirty-seven, and lots of guys who’re south don’t get to eat shellfish in their fifties…unless it’s on the menu in prison or Heaven.”

The guarantor set down an excavated oyster. “And where are you in this grand scheme of yours?”

“Fifty-six percent of the way to my goal.”

Task thought of the three beautiful electric guitars on the wall of his guest room. These instruments had been neglected since his release from prison seven years earlier, and for a moment, he wondered if any of them were still in tune.

“Is something wrong?” inquired Strembicky.

“No.”

“Please…Have something to eat.”

Extending a hand and then two fingers, the slick seized a shrimp by its tail.

“I was going to offer you one of my operations,” the guarantor remarked, “but it seems like you are fully committed to your current setup.”

Chewing and swallowing the uncommonly sweet meat, Task set down all that remained of the creature’s exoskeleton. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m my own boss. Always.”

The sun sank into the Gulf of Mexico as the affiliates enjoyed their drinks and reorganized shellfish with their fingers and teeth.

At present, the guarantor swallowed an olive and remembered something. “A few of our mutual acquaintances have spoken very fondly of your new establishment on Preston Avenue.” (Four upper-level consortium guys were parlor club members.)

“Glad to hear it.”

“There’s a new girl who is very popular…”

“Daniela,” said Task, referring to Erin, who still used the pseudonym that he had given her just before her first shift. For a moment, he wondered if it were meaningful that this was also the name of his ex-wife.

“That’s the one.” Strembicky nodded his stoic head and motioned to a squadron of bivalves. “The raw oysters are quite good today.”

“I don’t eat raw oysters.”

“They’re perfectly safe.”

“I had a bad experience with them a few years ago and determined that they weren’t worth the risk.”

XVI

The Lowriders

Clouds concealed the city of Great Crown from the stars and the moon. Sodium lamps tossed ochre radiation upon Commerce Street, where a small number of automobiles sped east beneath blinking yellow lights. Sitting in a maroon lowrider that travelled this four-lane, one-way road and dressed in matching denim vests were two Hispanics in their mid-twenties. The guy in the passenger seat had five teardrops tattooed on his right cheek, and the other fellow had a beard and red eyes and held the wheel of the vehicle with the seven and two-thirds fingers that he possessed. Two baseball bats lay across the rear bench, and a hunting knife was stuck in the dashboard as if somebody had attempted to slay the car.

The music that came out of the speakers would not be classified as such by the major part of the human race. Atop waves of roaring static that were guitars, a person screeched and retched. The lowriders did not know whether the lyrics were in Spanish or English (and somebody had once said that the band was from Scandinavia, so perhaps the words were in a foreign language), but the attitudes, if not the specific concepts of the music, were conveyed to listeners.

The automobile shot underneath a blinking yellow light and several of its siblings. On the speedometer, the dial climbed toward the number sixty.

“Cuidado,” said Five Tears, whose tattoo and one-sixteenth Seminole Indian heritage had given him his nickname.

Hector raised his foot, quieting the engine, and scratched his crotch with his left hand, which was missing a pinky and a third of its ring finger.

Another blinking yellow light flew overhead.

The tattooed fellow snatched the quivering knife from the dashboard and pointed the tip at the left side of the road. “On the left.”

“Si.”

The bearded lowrider applied the brakes, and the maroon car slowed down. Through the windshield, both men saw the oaken façade of Michael’s Steak House.

Five Tears pointed the knife at the restaurant. “Aqui.”

“I see.”

The car drifted forward. Headlights illuminated the wooden exterior of the steak house and the glass door that led to the upstairs apartments. On the far side of this building was a dark alleyway that had a lot of trash bags and two orange garbage bins.

“¿Es que el lugar?” asked Hector.

In Spanish, the tattooed fellow told his bearded partner to park the car down the block.

Sitting upon two milk crates and using a third as a table, the lowriders played cards behind the garbage bins. The blinking traffic lights and the ochre street lamps illuminated the game, though did not shine upon the heavy black backpack that sat near the duo in a dark corner.

At ten minutes before four in the morning, something entered the alleyway. Five Tears and Hector set down their cards and peered around the bin.

Walking toward them was a large dog that had mangy, brindled fur.

The tattooed fellow quietly announced that he would handle the situation.

“Okay.”

Wary, the animal eyed the lowriders and stopped walking.

Ten yards separated the creature and the men.

Five Tears reached into a greasy bag of food. Paper crinkled.

A deep rumble came from the chest of the dog.

“Be nice,” whispered the tattooed fellow. “Be a nice guy.”

Growling, the creature showed its long brown teeth.

“Be a nice guy.”

From the bag, Five Tears withdrew a piece of chicken that smelled like garlic, lemons, and cilantro. This roasted thigh he put on the ground and stabbed with his hunting knife, creating what looked like a meat lollipop.

Sniffing the air, the dog stopped growling.

“Smells good, right?”

Drool spilled from the animal’s open mouth, changing from dim ochre to bright yellow every time the nearby traffic light flashed.

The tattooed fellow peeled the skin off of the thigh. This flap of wet poultry fluttered in the air and landed at a point exactly halfway between the men and the animal.

Sniffing, the dog lowered its head.

“Go get it.”

Overgrown toenails clicked on the asphalt as the animal walked toward the offering. A flashing tongue claimed the skin, and the dog raised its head, chewed once, and swallowed.

“Want more?”

Salivating, the animal looked over.

Five Tears extended the knife upon which he had impaled the chicken thigh. “Come get your dinner.”

The dog padded forward, dripping slaver. Three yards separated the animal from the offering.

Whispering in Spanish, the tattooed lowrider told his partner to use the one made out of wood.

Seven and two-thirds fingers gripped the handle of a maple baseball bat.

Four feet away, the dog hesitated.

Five Tears shook the roasted thigh. “Come on, guy. Eat this.”

Wary, the animal opened its mouth, took two steps, and sank its teeth into the chicken.

The tattooed fellow jerked the knife from the meat and speared the dog’s larynx. Chicken fell on the concrete, and the animal hissed, unable to bark.

The baseball bat cracked the dog’s skull.

Silence returned to the alleyway.

Five Tears tossed the dead animal into a thick trash bag, which he then heaved into a garbage bin, and Hector turned the puddle of blood into a vague brown stain with the bottoms of his boots.

“Stupid dog.”

The bearded lowrider picked up the chicken thigh and brushed off the dirt and saliva. “Still good.”

The eastern part of the sky was violescent when the lowriders returned their playing cards to the front compartment of the black backpack.

Each man grabbed two heavy trash bags and carried them to the foremost garbage bin, which was less than a foot from the sidewalk. The four ponderous burdens were then placed atop the closed lid of the bright orange receptacle.

Five Tears pulled himself on top of this bin. Prone upon the corrugated metal and hidden by the trash bags, he watched Commerce Street.

Six trucks, two joggers, three cars, a homeless drunk, and thirty-five minutes passed before the appearance of the black luxury sedan.

In Spanish, the prostrated observer told his bearded partner to stay hidden.

Hector slid between the two garbage bins.

Purring, the automobile sidled to the curb. A white bodybuilder was behind the wheel, and a pretty fellow who looked like a soap opera actor sat in the passenger seat. The associates looked up and down the road for threats, but did not notice the eyeball that monitored them from between two trash bags.

A kingfisher took flight as the bodybuilder shifted gears. The pretty guy said something, and suddenly, the big white was outside, walking toward the entrance next to the one for Michael’s Steak House.

An unseen door opened and shut.

Five Tears noted the time and also that the black sedan’s engine was still running. In the passenger seat, the pretty guy kept looking around for sketchy characters. It was unclear whether or not the man was armed.

Four uninteresting minutes passed until the bodybuilder returned to the sidewalk, where he walked calmly while scanning the environment. Yawning, he heaved himself into the car, closed the door, and reached under his shirt. His right hand withdrew a money belt, which he then set upon the armrest.

The tattooed lowrider smiled.

Purring, the black sedan shot east, cornered the next block, and vanished.

Five Tears sat up, swung his feet over the edge of the garbage bin, and leaped. His boots struck the asphalt, and his bearded partner emerged from his hiding place.

“Es bueno?” asked Hector.

The tattooed fellow remarked that things did indeed seem good.

His bearded partner asked if they would commit the robbery tomorrow.

“Tomorrow, we follow them around. See if they got any other pickups.”

“You think there’s more money?”

“Maybe.”

Smiling, Hector ate some dirty chicken.

XVII

Auntie’s Dumplings

Wearing hard Italians and an iridescent blue suit, Task turned from the midday sun, passed through a doorway being held open by Nowski, and entered Eight Dragons Chinese. Dingbang was waiting.

Without a word, the compact manager and the two associates wended around the chattering Chinatown residents and the far more serious (and pretentious) Occidental foodies who peopled the busy establishment. The grim-faced trio scattered a beaded curtain as they walked into a large and empty banquet room.

“This is terrible,” said the bodybuilder, who then pulled out lacquered chairs for himself and the slick. “Apocalyptic.”

Frowning, Task sat next to Nowski.

Dingbang unbuttoned his gold blazer, landed on the opposite side of the table, and barked something in Cantonese at a yawning waiter. Admonished, the fellow hastened across the red carpet and filled three waiting cups.

“How long has she got?” inquired the slick.

The manager lowered the ceramic cup from his frown. “The removal hearing is in three weeks.”

“Exactly?”

“Exactly.”

“So we’ve got twenty days to get her a husband.”

“Husband…?” The bodybuilder raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen Auntie, right?”

“We need her dumplings,” Task stated while gesturing with a cup of tea that smelled like flowers and hay. “If she goes, this restaurant will be diminished. Our lives will be diminished.”

Nowski and Dingbang grunted affirmations.

The hunched sixty-three-year-old creature who was known as Auntie demanded complete privacy whenever she made the fillings and doughs for her dumplings (which six local food critics had called the best in the city). Her refusal to share her recipes had made her irreplaceable.

The bodybuilder wiped his forehead with a red cloth napkin. “Maybe we should try to get the secrets from her again.”

“Shit hell no,” said the manager.

The slick set down his cup. “We’re not trying that again. Ever.”

Three years earlier, when Auntie had been talking about moving back to Mainland China, Task and Dingbang set up a hidden video camera in the kitchen in an effort to capture her culinary secrets. The woman had descried the device almost immediately, smashed its lens with a meat tenderizer, and stormed out, cursing loudly (and somewhat musically) in Mandarin. Only by doubling her wages and promising no further chicanery had the slick and the restaurant manager been able to convince the dumpling expert to return to Eight Dragons Chinese.

Nowski fingered his dimpled chin. “Her secrecy makes me wonder if anything scary’s in those dumplings.”

“If they were made from recycled uncles, I’d eat no fewer.” Task put down his tea. “We need to find her a husband.”

“We should speak to Auntie about this,” advised Dingbang.

“Good point.”

The manager shouted something in Cantonese, and the sleepy waiter retreated to the kitchen.

A Mandarin ululation echoed, and soon, the double doors swung wide, admitting steam and Auntie, a bent creature in a crimson peasant dress who had silver hair, one bad eye, and another that was terrible.

Looking in the general direction of the banquet room, the sexagenarian shuffled forward. Her route was not as direct as it might have been.

Task waved. “Nice to see you.”

The cloudy eye looked at the slick’s scalp and the lazy one drifted toward his right shoulder. “Mr. Tasking.”

“Dingbang told me about the letter that you got from the government—for the removal hearing. Do you want to stay here? In America?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want a husband?”

Auntie ruminated, fingering the three coarse black hairs that sprouted from her right cheek. “He has to clean up after himself.”

“He would.”

Frowning, the bent woman considered the situation for half a minute. “Give me a husband.”

“We’ll let you know when we have one.”

“Chinese.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want some orders of Auntie’s Special?”

“Six orders,” said Nowski.

The bent woman nodded her head, departed from the table, and returned to her foggy domain.

“We’ll hold auditions,” stated the slick. “Find some guy—a citizen, obviously—who we can pay to be her husband.”

The bodybuilder cleared his throat. “Is he gonna have to consummate the marriage?”

“Whatever Auntie wants.”

Nowski was troubled by this idea.

Task faced Dingbang. “Can you talk to the employees and ask around? See if anyone has any uncles or grandfathers who might be up for this?”

“I can,” said the manager.

“Concurrently,” the slick added, “we’ll post some online ads and put up some fliers.”

“Saying what?” asked the bodybuilder.

Sipping tea, Task pondered the content of the advertisement. “Put, ‘Golden Harmony Matchmaking Service for Mature Chinese-Americans.’”

“How much does the husband get?” asked Dingbang.

“Four large. He gets one up front, one a year later, and the rest when she receives her permanent citizenship, which is usually after three years of marriage.”

“I’ll ask around.”

Ten minutes later, the yawning waiter brought a trio of two-tiered bamboo steamers out of the kitchen. Lying upon a cabbage leaf in each of these cylinders were four plump and glistening Auntie’s Specials. Napkins draped laps as small square dishes of chili oil and hot mustard landed in the exact center of the table.

The associates and the manager picked up their chopsticks and seized plump dumplings from their respective steamers.

Silence fell.

Task brought his teeth together. Crabmeat, ground pork, garlic, lotus root, pickled turnips, cilantro, and many other flavors blossomed inside of his mouth. Reluctantly, he swallowed the marvelous creation.

“Five thousand for the husband.”

By the time the slick had finished his second order of dumplings, the dowry was up to six.

XVIII

The Bachelor Party

August was nearing its expiration date. The sun had not yet risen, and it was either late Saturday night or early Sunday morning.

Task removed his beige blazer from the snoring face of Nowski, who lay asleep in the lounge area of the parlor on Preston Avenue.

“It’s time to go.”

The bodybuilder rubbed his hazel eyes, nodded, stood, stretched his arms, and lumbered to the bathroom, which was currently occupied. As he waited for the toilet, his heavy skull lolled to the right.

“Nowski.”

The head became vertical.

A toilet flushed, and a sink hissed. From the bathroom emerged Erin, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and green flip-flops. This was the end of her fifth week at the Preston Avenue parlor, and she was holding up remarkably well.

Nowski shambled toward the toilet and closed the door.

“Karate John paid you for tonight?” Task asked Erin, who was entering the lounge area.

“He got me.”

Loud urination sounded in the bathroom as the butterfly fished a set of keys from her big sloppy purse, dragged the zipper, and did some buckles.

“That purple hybrid in the garage is yours?” inquired the slick.

“Yeah. Got it last Wednesday.”

“It’s cute.”

“Thanks.”

“Must feel good to have money.”

“Psychologically,” the butterfly replied while rubbing her hips.

“The members like you a lot.”

“Another guy proposed to me tonight. Last night. Whatever it was four hours ago.”

“Chili?”

“No. He did last week. It was…” The butterfly thought for a moment. “Lyle, I think.”

“Kyle?”

“That’s him.”

The toilet flushed.

“He has a wife,” remarked Task.

“Guess he’d like a matching set.”

“You don’t seem to have an equal.”

Oblivious of the compliment, Erin walked toward the airlock. “See you tonight.”

“I’ll be at a different parlor—there’s an event—but I might check in.”

This information did not seem to make any difference to the butterfly. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

Yawning, Erin entered the airlock, shut the inner door (which locked automatically), and undid the bolts of the one that led to the second-floor hallway.

Footfalls thudded as Nowski emerged from the bathroom. His eyes were halfway open.

“Wash your hands.”

The bodybuilder pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and returned to the bathroom.

Task slotted the thick Preston Avenue money belt into the hidden cache and closed the glove compartment. “Do you need to stop for some coffee before we do the roundup?”

Grunting an affirmation, Nowski switched on the headlights. Slanted shadows flew against the walls, and safety reflectors turned into yellow gems.

The bodybuilder backed the black luxury sedan from the space and drove down the ramp. Replacing the dark ceiling of the parking garage were a lavender sky and some thin clouds that looked like shredded paper.

“Not supposed to be that hot today,” remarked the slick. “In the seventies.”

“Mmph.”

Adjusting the wheel, Nowski turned north on Preston Avenue. A huge, heavy trash bag that had the arms and legs of the superintendent lurched toward a pine green garbage bin.

“Javier really handles that stuff like a pro,” remarked Task.

Garbage thudded inside of the metal receptacle. The slick waved at the indebted superintendent, and the latter man insincerely returned the gesture.

Yawning, Nowski stopped at a red light.

“Why’re you so tired?” asked Task. “You still fighting with Andrea about the guest list?”

“No—we made up.” A grin appeared on the bodybuilder’s face. “Three times.”

“Good to hear. I’ve got a few more questions for you about the bachelor party.”

“Once there’s pep.”

“Agreed.”

The light changed, and Nowski drove past the usual coffee place (which was not yet open) and continued north to the nearest twenty-four-hour gas station. At Premium Fuel & Food, he cut across the parking lot and veered toward the store.

Task exited the sedan, shut the door, and entered the yellow-and-red shop, which currently seemed to be unattended. Although this part of Great Crown was fairly safe, a hold-up could happen anywhere, and he looked behind the front counter for an unconscious or dead cashier.

Nobody was kissing the linoleum.

Task walked to the coffee pot and poured two large cups. Into the first, he put an artificial sweetener and some skim milk, and into the second, he added some heavy cream and five sugars. The slick set a five-dollar bill atop the register, grabbed the hot chemistry, and departed.

In the sedan, Nowski received his beverage. “That was quick.”

“Nobody was in there.”

“These’re gratis?”

Task shut the door. “I left a five.”

The bodybuilder drank four ounces of creamy pep and toggled the gear stick. “I’d’ve just taken them.”

“I wouldn’t recommend ever breaking the law in order to save five dollars. Especially in a place like that, which’ll have video.”

“Good point.”

The associates sipped coffee as the vehicle drifted toward the street.

A morbidly obese black fellow in a uniform emerged from the outdoor restroom, wiped his hands on his pants, and looked at the departing men.

Nowski swallowed some pep. “Nice to see they hire orcas.”

“Slow up.” Task lowered the passenger window and turned his head. “The money’s on the register.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Nowski returned the car to Preston Avenue, continued south for a few minutes, and cornered onto Commerce Street. Heading east, he drove toward the oldest of the four parlors, which was the one directly above Michael’s Steak House.

“The bachelor party,” said the slick, who then removed his cellphone from his pocket.

The bodybuilder swallowed four ounces and nodded his head. “Yeah.”

“I wanna adjust the date from the one we discussed the other day. It’ll still be the weekend before the wedding, but starting on Thursday instead of Friday.”

“Why?”

“That information’s classified.”

“Okay.”

“The attendees.” Task opened up a file on his touchscreen. “I’m assuming you’ll want Edgar, Karate John, Dublin, Johnny, Williams, Watkins, Red, Davidson, Brett, Dylan, and Peerson.”

“All of them. Yeah.”

“I wasn’t sure about Irving and TB Todd.”

“Irving—yes, if he can keep up with the itinerary. TB Todd’s a no—I didn’t invite him to the wedding.”

“Really?” The slick elevated an eyebrow. “You’ve known each other since you were appetizers.”

Nowski looked uncomfortable. “Yeah…”

“I don’t really care for the guy, but weren’t you at his wedding?”

“I was in his wedding—a groomsman.”

“And he doesn’t get some calligraphy? You two have a falling out or something?”

“No, no. It’s…I just don’t want that goddamn cough happening at the service, again and again and again, when the priest’s doing his routine or when me and Andrea are swapping vows and doing the big kiss.” The bodybuilder grimaced and exhaled through his nostrils. “I don’t feel good about not inviting him, but that’s why.”

“You gonna tell him?”

Nowski took some pep from his coffee and braked at a yellow light. “I’ll say I sent him an invitation and talk about how disappointed I was that he didn’t come.”

Instantly, Task saw a potential problem with this plan. “Then I need to make sure that Davidson, Red, and Williams don’t mention the bachelor party to him. They’re all in touch.”

“Right. Good idea.”

The light turned green, and the bodybuilder accelerated. On either side of Commerce Street loomed the dark façades of businesses that had not yet opened.

“So that’s who’s coming,” Task confirmed while replacing his cellphone. “I’m assuming that a devoted guy like you doesn’t want any strippers or hookers.”

“You are correct.”

“Had to ask.”

“Of course. And I’m sure Johnny and Brett will complain about the lack of tits. Dublin, too.”

“Dublin complains about everything—he’s still bringing up that jicama—and Johnny and Brett can go fuck an igloo. This party’s for Christopher Bronowski.”

“I appreciate that.”

Nowski dialed the steering wheel counterclockwise and sidled in front of Michael’s Steak House. His right hand flung the gear stick.

The associates scanned the area.

A milk truck was parked on the opposite side of the street, and one block to the west sat a yellow van and a maroon lowrider. No people were visible anywhere.

The slick drank some pep while the bodybuilder checked the semiautomatic strapped to his ankle holster, lowered the trouser cuff, and flung the door.

“Hold up.”

Pausing, Nowski faced Task. “What?”

“One more question about the bachelor party for you to think about. I need an answer soon.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you favor the Atlantic or the Pacific?”

The bodybuilder looked perplexed. “Never had to pick a favorite. There’s gonna be a boat or something?”

The slick shrugged, lowered a visor, and examined his teeth in the mirror. Idling, the car purred.

“You’re not even gonna give me a hint?”

Carefully, the slick organized a wayward lock of blond hair.

“I’ll tell you when I come down.”

Task raised the visor. “See you.”

Nowski pulled on the grab handle, heaved himself outside, and shut the door. Lumbering strides took him past the wooden façade of the steak house and into the stairwell.

Task monitored his surroundings while adjusting the air vents.

Something flashed in his side view mirror, and he looked west through the rear windshield.

At the far end of the next block, a jogger crossed Commerce Street, swinging his arms hard and high as if he were a renegade member of a marching band. The buoyant guy bounced onto the opposite sidewalk and soon disappeared around the corner.

Once again, the area was still.

The slick sat forward in his seat. Ahead of him were unlighted buildings and a lavender sky.

Something rumbled.

Task looked across the street.

A pair of taillights flickered as the dormant milk truck awakened. In the driver’s seat, a black man in overalls held a cellphone to his ear while adjusting the steering wheel with his other hand. The rumbling vehicle angled into the road and sluggishly departed.

A glance at the dashboard clock showed that Nowski had been inside for two minutes.

Yawning, Task stretched his arms. As he closed his mouth, a fluttering hunk of shadow and light launched into the air above the alleyway. The missile struck a pose, revealing itself as a kingfisher, and then wheeled, shrinking as it flew west into the sky. Soon, the bird was the size of an insect, and not long afterwards, it was the size of nothing.

The slick looked toward the alleyway that stood on the far side of Michael’s Steak House whence the flier had originated. For the third time in the last week, large trash bags lay atop the outer garbage bin.

A vague suspicion bubbled inside of Task’s brainpan.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the alleyway, he climbed into the driver’s seat, opened the armrest, discarded the contents (which were two weightlifting magazines and some protein bars), reached into the hidden compartment, and grabbed a polished hunk of metal.

The slick stepped on the brake and shifted the gear stick from park to drive. His left fist gripped the wheel, and his right hand held the gun. Eyeing the alleyway, he lifted his foot from the pedal.

The black sedan drifted forward.

Something flashed between the trash bags.

The driver’s window shattered as did the one on the passenger’s side, both destroyed by the same bullet. Task threw himself sideways across the armrest and the other seat and then kicked the gas pedal with his right foot.

Its engine hyperventilating, the car surged forward.

Wind came through the broken windows, and the slick tried to remember how to breathe. The gear stick pressed deep into his stomach.

“¡El coche!” yelled somebody. “¡Rapidamente!”

A second bullet ripped through the headrest, and a third clanked against the passenger seat belt. The firing gun made no noise.

Prostrated across the front seats and below the level of the windows, the slick glanced outside. Street lamps, treetops, and buildings flew past as the unguided car rolled east.

Task thought of Nowski, who would soon exit the building…

A bullet whistled and clanked against the trunk.

The slick withdrew his cellphone and thumbed the preset number for the bodybuilder.

A truck horn blared.

The unguided black sedan had reached the intersection.

Dropping the cellphone, Task lunged into the driver’s seat and stomped on the accelerator. The engine roared.

Truck tires screeched, and a horn blared louder and louder as the big vehicle skidded toward the car.

The slick kept his foot all the way down. All of his muscles tightened as he braced for impact, hoping that the engine would speed him clear.

Tires shrieked as the grille of the truck filled the driver’s side window. The big vehicle lurched and stopped.

There was no crash.

The black sedan shot onto the next block.

Task stomped the brake. Tires screeched until the car came to a complete stop.

The slick snatched the revolver, spun in his seat, and looked through the rear window.

On the far side of the intersection and halfway down the next block, a short man in a ski mask and dark clothing pointed a gun at Nowski’s face.

Task stopped breathing. His mouth went dry.

Slowly, the bodybuilder raised his empty hands as high as they would go. The gunman kept his weapon pointed as he snatched the money belt from the sidewalk.

Heart pounding, the slick watched.

The maroon lowrider sidled to Michael’s Steak House, and the masked robber backed away from Nowski, opened the passenger’s door, and climbed inside.

“Just drive away…” Task muttered to himself. “Just drive the fuck aw—”

“Don’t!” shouted Nowski.

An arm with a glinting metal terminus emerged from the side of the maroon lowrider.

The bodybuilder held his hands in front of his face.

“Stop!” shouted the slick.

Gunpowder flashed, and Nowski flew sideways.

Task went cold.

The bodybuilder slammed into the oaken panels of the restaurant façade and crumbled to the sidewalk.

A tiny grunt emerged from the slick’s fallen cellphone.

Horrified, Task faced forward, cut the wheel, and accelerated. Tires squealed, thudded onto the opposite sidewalk, and returned to the street as he completed his U-turn.

Facing the distant lowrider and signs that said ‘Wrong Way,’ the slick stomped the gas pedal. The black sedan surged west.

A speeding big rig flashed in Task’s peripheral vision. This massive vehicle would reach the intersection at the exact same time he did.

The slick jammed a heel on the brake.

Tires screeched, and the car stopped in the crosswalk as the huge semi truck zoomed past. The mass of metal cleared.

Task stomped the accelerator.

Three hundred feet ahead of the black sedan, the maroon lowrider finished a U-turn and rocketed away. There was no plate on the back of the vehicle.

Screeching, the killer’s car cornered and disappeared.

“Fuck.”

Discarding the idea of chasing the far faster vehicle, the slick braked, spun the steering wheel, and drove toward Michael’s Steak House. A dim and distant roar sounded from the vanished lowrider.

Task parked alongside the curb, flung the gear stick, pocketed the revolver, snatched his cellphone, launched himself outside, and circumvented the back of the black sedan.

A vacuum suddenly replaced his insides.

Upon the sidewalk lay Nowski, whose left temple had been punctured by a bullet. His head was in a pool of blood, and his hazel eyes were wide open.

Stunned, the slick stared at the bodybuilder’s deactivated face. The sight seemed unreal.

A glass door swung open, and Dublin emerged from the building. His eyes landed on the body. “Holy Christ.”

A police siren wailed in the west.

The slick eyed the plump, redheaded manager. “Go inside and shut down the parlor. Let the other guys know what happened, but tell them to stick to the itinerary.”

Shaken, Dublin nodded his head, opened the door, and returned to the stairwell. The latch found the jamb and clicked.

Inexorably, the police sirens in the west grew louder as did those in the north. Blocks separated the oncoming vehicles from the crime scene.

The slick composed some believable fiction for the machos as he walked to the edge of the sidewalk. Shielding his activities from the street, he broke the “Pete Johnson” cellphone, removed the memory chip, snapped the data card in half, wiped his prints from the (unused) revolver, and found a storm drain. Falling metal and plastic clattered upon subterranean concrete.

Task returned to Nowski.

“Sorry.”

The dead bodybuilder stared at the sky. Dawn sunlight shot into his open mouth and caught upon three silver fillings.

The sirens turned into speeding patrol cars and flashing lights.

Tires screeched, and an amplified voice shouted, “Put your fucking hands in the fucking air and step the fuck away from the fucking body!”

Task patted Nowski’s left shoulder, muttered, “Pacific was the better choice,” and displayed his empty palms.

XIX

Taking a Piss in the
Airless Room

A beefy Cuban macho who looked like he smoked cheap cigars and ate bargain meats entered the white interrogation room and shut the door. There was a blue folder tucked into the crease of his left armpit.

Seated upon a gray plastic chair behind a small table of the same color and material was Task. A lot of things were going on in his head, but his face showed only calm indignation. This was easy for him to verify, since the wall to his right had a large one-way mirror through which anonymous people had watched him sit and do nothing for two and a half hours.

“I’m Detective Delgado.”

“Don’t expect me to remember that.”

The macho seized a folding chair and traversed the airless room. “We have some questions for you.”

“You’re not fat enough to be plural.”

Ignoring the remark, Detective Delgado set the folder upon the table, opened the chair, and seated himself. His belt was troubled, and his feminine eyes were too small for his face. “Tell us everything that happened this—”

“Two Hispanic guys driving a maroon lowrider tried to carjack us.”

“Go through it again so that we—”

“You have my statement already—” Task gestured at the blue folder. “Now go do something.”

“Go through it again so that we can be sure we didn’t miss anything.”

It was clear that the macho was hoping for some inconsistencies to appear in future retellings of the story, and the slick did not want to risk a slip up. “You have my statement.”

“We need to hear it again.”

“My jaw is fatigued.”

“We wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.” Detective Delgado reclaimed the blue folder, walked across the room, and opened the door. “See you in three hours.”

The latch clicked into the jamb.

Silence expanded throughout the airless room, and the awful morning crawled slowly forward. Task knew that a person could be held without charges for thirty-six hours in a murder case, and this bit of information did not hasten the progress of time. Lacking his cellphone (and anything else of interest), he avoided morbid ruminations by focusing on his current and future problems.

The Commerce Street parlor was exposed and would never again be used, and the top priority for the slick was to learn the names of the lowriders and that of the person who had given them the address of the private club. There was little chance that a rival consortium was behind this crime, since Strembicky was vast, and no established group would go after his affiliate for a few thousand dollars.

Ruling out organizations left the possibility of an inside job. This did not make sense either, since the managers were all trusted friends and the butterflies earned more money every three days than did the lowriders that morning.

The possibilities were thus whittled to a more chance happening—such as a person in the building (or a neighboring one) figuring out the nature of the parlor and its yield and then relaying this information to some small-timers who knew stick-up guys or were stick-up guys or would soon become stick-up guys. This less nefarious hypothesis seemed to be the most likely explanation of the clumsy and lethal event that had occurred that morning on Commerce Street.

In the very near future, Task would sit down with Strembicky and have a quiet conversation about the lowriders.

No shellfish would be enjoyed at this meeting.

The slick looked at his watch. Eighteen minutes had elapsed since Detective Delgado’s departure from the airless room.

Sluggish time slowed.

Task tried not to think about Nowski’s parents (for whom he had a great fondness) and Andrea. These people would be devastated by the bodybuilder’s death, an event that even now seemed unreal and impossible.

The slick had been obliquely manipulating people into doing what he wanted them to do for twenty-three of his thirty-seven years, and in almost all cases, he had threatened rather than committed acts of violence. Even when he had been a dealer, he had peddled feel-good luxury items like weed, blow, and prescription painkillers rather than the hard stuff like heroin and crystal meth that turned people into gibbering lunatics and created situations. Pleasure in one form or another had always been his product.

But today, violence had arrived. Nowski was dead, and the two lowriders who had killed him were still out there.

“Fuck.”

The slick glanced at his watch. Detective Delgado had been gone for thirty-four minutes.

Facing the one-way mirror, Task looked into his own blue eyes. “Can I get some water?”

Fifty-two minutes later, a squat Asian clerk whose DNA came from a bulldog, walked into the room. Held in his right hand was a glinting object that was perhaps the smallest bottle of water in existence. This vessel was soon placed upon the gray table.

Wiping moisture from his frowning lips, the Asian clerk turned away.

Task looked at the bottle and saw that two thirds of its contents had been consumed.

The door shut. Diminishing footfalls sounded in the outer hallway.

The slick tossed the bottle into a garbage can and rolled his jacket into a ball, which he then placed atop the table. Leaning his head upon the ersatz pillow, he closed his eyes.

Darkness came. Thoughts turned into velvet notions as Task released consciousness. Underneath his eyelids lay the deactivated face of the dead bodybuilder. Hazel eyes stared.

Something thudded, awakening the slick and returning him to the airless room. With watery eyes, he made a survey of the white enclosure and saw that he was still alone.

Orders had probably been left to rouse the detainee should he fall asleep.

“Fucking machos.”

Task leaned back in his chair, put his Italians on the table, and waited.

Time crawled by for thirty minutes.

The slick asked his reflection about a toilet.

Twenty-five minutes passed, and the door opened. The Asian bulldog appeared and escorted the detainee to and from the bathroom.

Sometime afterward, Task drifted off to sleep, dreamt about the shooting, and was jarred awake by the pounding of a hard fist upon the door. Adrenalized, he was unable to again relinquish consciousness.

A subjective week later, it was eleven minutes after one in the afternoon. Three hours had elapsed since the disappearance of the Cuban macho.

Footfalls sounded outside of the airless room, and the slick did not alter his attitudes, which were reclining and unfriendly.

The door swung twelve inches from the jamb, and Detective Delgado leaned his head through the opening. “My lunch just arrived. Sandwiches. I’ll be back later.”

“Take your time.”

The latch clicked, and Task slapped a mask of indifference over his frustrations. He had hated the machos since childhood, but he begrudgingly recognized that they had in their ranks some expert assholes.

This Cuban sleuth was one such orifice.

At two twenty-four, the door opened, revealing Detective Delgado, who stood in the hallway with a small paper cup in his right hand. “How’s your jaw feeling? Still fatigued?”

“You win. I’m ready to spill the frijoles.”

The macho’s feminine eyes got smaller.

Task feigned confusion. “Have I misjudged your interest in beans?”

Detective Delgado shrugged, pitched the paper cup into the airless room, and shut the door. Footfalls departed along the outer hallway.

Once again, the detainee was alone.

The smell of café cubano filled the airless room, and Task’s empty stomach growled. On a regular day, he would have finished the roundup, returned to his apartment, slept two three-hour cycles, showered, and eaten by this time. The rich aroma of the Cuban espresso elicited a second grouchy remark from his stomach, and a yawn exploded across his face.

Weariness pulled at the edges of his mind.

The slick flung his Italians on the table and leaned back in his seat. In the mirror, he saw the bottoms of his shoes.

The left sole had a brown stain that was dried blood.

Task pushed Nowski’s face from his mind.

Tension and thoughts relaxed, and the airless room started to melt. A fist pounded on a door, startling the slick from a nap that had begun only ten seconds earlier.

Time staggered like a dying creature.

Eventually, four o’clock happened. Task was tired and hungry, but he knew better than to ask the machos for a pillow or food. It was more intellectually demanding to tell a lie than it was to tell the truth, and by depriving a detainee of sleep and sustenance, the detainers hoped to impede his ability to create fiction. This tactic had little effect on a calm guy who had been south for more than two decades, but it did make things uncomfortable.

Footfalls sounded outside of the room. The latch clicked, and the door swung wide. Standing in the hallway and chewing upon a crunchy something was Detective Delgado.

“Don’t hurt your teeth,” remarked Task.

The macho swallowed his food and wiped crumbs from his mouth. “Captain Alder says ‘Hi.’”

A decade earlier, Alder had been a Sergeant and the commanding officer of the team that had raided Task’s warehouse on One Eighteen Pine Street. This mouth-breathing slob had not been gentle when he applied stainless steel handcuffs to the slick’s wrists.

“Please give Alder my best,” said Task. “Him making Captain shows that anybody—regardless of his breath and ability to pronounce the word ‘nuclear’—can run a police station.”

“He made a lot of great arrests as a Sergeant. Tossed some stinky meat into the broiler.”

“Why lock up murderers and rapists when you can focus on real problems like luxury drugs?”

“You don’t sound very changed by your time in prison.”

“I used to put gel in my hair. Now, I choose pomade.”

“Your jaw seems to be working.”

“It’s operational.”

Detective Delgado walked into the room.

“Too bad about his marriage…” remarked Task.

The macho paused. His aloof manner could not conceal the dark suspicions that percolated inside of his brainpan.

The slick crossed his legs. “Mrs. Alder didn’t seem like the type to do something like that—though it seems like a lot of you guys neglect your wives.”

Shortly after getting out of prison, Task had paid a male prostitute to seduce Sergeant Alder’s wife, who was a lonely and very approachable target. This plot concluded when the macho received a DVD in the mail that showed his naked spouse performing fellatio on the rent boy immediately after engaging in a vigorous act of sodomy. Both of these sex acts had been suggested by the woman (who had not known that she was being filmed), and the professional had earned himself a sizable bonus.

Delgado stared at Task.

“And with a black guy—though I suppose there’s a reason for going with them.” The slick removed a piece of lint from his beige slacks and leaned back in his seat. “Two if they play jazz.”

The macho’s face was hard and ugly as he elbowed the door, set the blue folder upon the table, and reclaimed the plastic chair that he had used seven hours earlier during the first interview. “Tell us everything that happened on Commerce Street this morning.”

“I did.”

“Your statement doesn’t say anything about why you were on Commerce Street at five in the morning.”

“It does.” Task gestured to the blue folder. “May I?”

“Sure.”

Task opened the file, flipped to the second page, and rubbed some sloppy handwriting with the tip of his index finger. “Right here. ‘We were cruising around, listening to music, and Bronowski pulled over to take a piss.’”

“That doesn’t answer our question.”

“No? When I take a piss, I look for a suitable location. A bathroom is my first choice, but in an urban environment, an alleyway is a very close second.”

“Why were you and Christopher Bronowski on Commerce Street at five in the morning?”

“Why am I being treated like a murder suspect when there’s absolutely no chance that I’m the murderer?”

“There’s a chance.”

“Really? You’re saying ‘there’s a chance’ I shot my friend with a gun that doesn’t exist and then shot at myself while leaving skid marks for two different vehicles up and down Commerce Street?” The slick scratched his skull. “That idea wouldn’t stick to flypaper if you stapled it.”

“There’s a chance you shot Bronowski.”

“Why? And with what?”

Grinning, Detective Delgado leaned back in his seat. “Some of the guys found something in the storm drain. Wanna guess what it is?”

Task was a convicted felon, and thus, he had not wanted the machos to find him with a firearm, but the discarded snub-nosed revolver (which was legally registered to Nowski) had no fingerprints, and its ballistics would not match the head wound.

This was a bluff.

“Any guesses what was down there?” prompted Detective Delgado.

“An alligator?”

“Guess again.”

“A Chihuahua ironically named Giant?”

“I’ll give you a hint. It’s covered with fingerprints and made out of metal.”

“I give up.”

“A snub-nosed revolver.”

“Should I gasp?”

“Should you?”

Leaning back, Task put his Italians on the table. “I’m not inspired.”

Detective Delgado shoved the shoes off of the gray plastic. “Don’t.”

Heat flashed on the slick’s face. “Don’t touch me.”

“Tell us what happened this morning on Commerce Street, and we’ll let you go.”

“So, then you’re admitting I’m not a suspect. The plural ‘you’—” Task gestured at the one-way glass. “If I were, an anecdote wouldn’t get me out of here.”

No reply came from the macho.

The slick cracked his knuckles. “I’ll answer a question for you, if you answer one for me.”

“What’s your question?”

“Are you married?”

A ponderous silence sucked the oxygen from the stale air. Hatred shone in Detective Delgado’s eyes.

Task leaned back in his seat and gestured with his right hand. “I didn’t see a ring on your finger, but lots of guys take them off at work. Or maybe you’re just going steady with someone…?”

No response emerged from the macho.

“Jaw fatigue?”

Detective Delgado reclaimed his folder, rose from his seat, and crossed the airless room. The door opened, and two Italians smacked the surface of the plastic table.

Silently, the macho departed. The latch hit the jamb, and a bolt snapped.

Reclining, Task looked at himself in the one-way glass. His aloof manner well hid the apprehensions that now filled his food bag.

He knew that he had made an error.

Hunger, sleep deprivation, and egotism had launched the remarks about Mrs. Alder from his mouth. The dynamic of the conversation had been changed for the better, but the provocations had been shortsighted and stupid. An airless room was a very dangerous place for a guy who was south.

“I’d like to call my lawyer right now,” the slick said to his reflected face.

This request received no response.

Time crawled forward.

Twenty minutes later, Task looked at his reflection. “I need to use the bathroom.”

This request was also ignored.

Time slowed. The slick’s eyelids grew heavy, and he laid his ponderous head upon his rolled-up jacket. Sleep instantly dissolved the airless room. A weird tapestry of women and childhood replaced reality. The lowrider shot Nowski.

Startled by his subconscious, Task awakened. A glance at his watch told him that it was twenty-one minutes after six o’clock. He had been out for more than an hour.

This was the first time that the slick had slept for more than thirty seconds since his confinement had begun, and he knew right away what this allowance meant. Nobody was behind the one-way glass. His requests for a lawyer and a toilet had been made to an empty room.

A cold finger of apprehension poked Task when he considered why Detective Delgado would have dismissed the staff from the observation room.

Footfalls sounded in the hallway outside. These were made by more than one person.

Dread filled the slick, and all around him, the airless room shrank. The footfalls grew louder as the approaching group neared the locked door.

For a moment, there was silence.

The bolt snapped, and Task felt his neck tighten. His heartbeats changed from waltz to salsa.

The door swung wide. Detective Delgado rolled up his shirtsleeves as he walked into the room, escorting a big black macho who had a blue uniform and a sizable collection of sinews. Walking behind these two fellows and dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a charcoal t-shirt was Captain Alder, a stocky fellow who had a cracked leather face and a crooked nose. His hands were big and hard.

“I was just thinking about you,” remarked Task, who was trying to sound nonchalant.

A cowboy boot kicked the door shut. “Bolt it,” said Captain Alder.

Somebody in the hallway turned the lock. Metal snapped into place, echoing.

“You work at this precinct?” inquired the slick.

“Nope. Came all the way from downtown.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“How about flattened?”

“Your alliteration’s really improving.”

Detective Delgado and the uniformed macho flanked Task on his left and right sides while Captain Alder stalked directly forward.

These odds were impossible.

The slick leaned back in his chair, put his Italians on the table, and tried to slow his pounding heart. “What did—”

Captain Alder shoved the shoes away and lowered his wrinkled face. “You have anything you want to tell me about my ex-wife?”

Task waved the onion-scented question away from his nostrils. “Your breath might’ve driven her off.”

The superior officer eyed the flanking machos, who then braced the slick’s arms.

Captain Alder leaned toward Task. “Tell me what you told Delgado about my ex.”

“I forgot.”

An open hand smacked the slick’s face. His right cheek burned.

“Remember now?”

“Remember what?”

Captain Alder seized Task’s hair. “Tell me what you told Delgado about my ex.”

The slick’s mouth went dry, and his heart pounded.

“Talk,” said the wrinkled macho, who then made a fist with his free hand.

Burning pains radiated from Task’s scalp. This conversation would end with physical abuse, and there was no reason for him to delay the inevitable.

“Talk!”

“You’re still not over that whore?”

A fist pounded the slick’s left eye. Fluorescent lights flew through the air, glaring, as his head snapped backward. The flanking machos tightened their grips upon his arms.

Dazed, Task righted his skull.

Captain Alder swept aside the table, which sailed across the room and smacked the far wall.

The slick cleared his throat. “That table was innocent.”

“Tell me how you know about my ex.”

“Did a search online. Put in, ‘Alder’ and ‘dick’ and ‘sucks a,’ and this video with your wife just turned up.”

The remaining oxygen disappeared from the room.

“Seven hundred thousand people had watched,” the slick continued, “though there were a lot of negative comments about her cellulite.”

A right hook slammed into Task’s stomach. Air rushed out of his lungs, and he doubled over. A fist grabbed his hair and raised his head.

Gasping, the slick tried to inflate his lungs. “Did I mention…that I forwarded the link?”

A straight jab slammed into Task’s throat. Pain exploded, and suddenly, he was choking on oxygen.

“Nice one,” remarked Detective Delgado.

The wrinkled macho leaned into the slick’s face “Got some more jokes?”

“Some.”

A left hook pounded the side of Task’s head, and everything shook. His battered ear beeped like a smoke alarm.

“Still feeling humorous?” inquired Captain Alder.

Task gathered saliva and blood, turned his head, and spat on the white linoleum. “Less.”

“You gonna tell me how you know about my ex?”

The slick shot a second red gob directly beside the first.

“Is that your answer?” inquired the wrinkled macho.

“It isn’t artwork,” rasped Task.

“You sure you’ve got nothing to tell me about her?”

“I really think it’s time for you to move on.”

Detective Delgado and the uniformed macho tightened their grips.

A cowboy boot stomped Task’s pelvis.

Bright red pain filled the slick, who suddenly could not breathe. The next thing that he felt was urine warming his boxer shorts and spreading across his left thigh.

His limbs were released.

Detective Delgado gestured. “He wasn’t kidding about needing to take a piss.”

Unable to breathe, Task leaned forward until his forehead touched his knees. His entire body was cold.

“Don’t let him ruin that chair,” said Captain Alder. “It’s good plastic.”

The uniformed macho seized a chair leg and dumped Task onto the floor.

Prone, the slick rubbed his pelvis and sucked oxygen.

A shadow and two cowboy boots straddled the nearby tiles.

Task wiped moisture from his eyes and looked up.

Hatred and misery shone upon the face of Captain Alder. “Anything else you wanna say about my ex? Or about anything?”

The slick shook his head. “No.”

A cowboy boot slammed into Task’s stomach. Pained and unable to breathe, he writhed upon the white linoleum.

“Worm,” growled Captain Alder, who then turned around and walked away.

A bolt snapped. The door opened, and the wrinkled macho departed, followed by his uniformed underling. A latch clicked in the jamb.

Task and Detective Delgado were once again alone in the airless room.

Wheezing, the slick pressed his palms to the linoleum and pushed himself into a sitting position. His smashed ear rang, and the right one, his pelvis, and his left eye throbbed. Wet fabric clung to his groin. A glance at the one-way mirror showed him that he should not look at a one-way mirror.

“You got off easy for what you did,” Detective Delgado said while picking up the capsized table.

“I didn’t do anything,” croaked the slick. “I just heard about it.”

The macho set the plank of gray plastic in the center of the room. “Even if that’s true—and it probably isn’t—you still deserve what he gave you for talking that way about the dead.”

Task felt a chill. “She’s dead?”

Detective Delgado picked up the toppled chair. “You’re saying you didn’t know?”

“I didn’t.”

“She died.” The macho placed the seat behind the table. “A couple of weeks after the divorce.”

“What happened?”

“She killed herself.”

Disturbed, the slick looked for his voice and cleared his throat. “They’re sure it was suicide?”

“She drank until her blood was point four and drove into the ocean.”

Task was nauseated. Cold sweat dripped down his face as he considered Mrs. Alder’s suicide, which was a terrible and completely unanticipated consequence of his plot against her husband. For the first time in many months, he thought about the dead imbecile who had been his mother.

Detective Delgado said, “You don’t look so hot,” walked through the doorway, and left Task alone with his conscience.

His inner self was poor company.

XX

Andrea’s Statement

At ten forty-nine that night, Task was released from the airless room. No formal charges had been pressed against him, but he was not allowed to leave town.

His throat and right ear were bright red, and his left eye was a piece of fruit. Pelvic pains altered his gait as he proceeded through the central pool of the spacious, air-conditioned precinct. His slacks and boxer shorts had dried hours earlier, but their condition reverted to wetness when a female macho bumped into him and purposefully spilled tea all over his groin and left leg. Thirty insults appeared in the slick’s mind, but he said none of them as he circumvented the woman and continued toward the exit.

If Task tried to press charges for what had occurred earlier today in the airless room, one hundred machos who had perfect records and square chins would testify that they saw the detainee physically assault Captain Alder. Legal action would yield nothing, and there was also a part of the slick that felt he had earned what he had received…and probably deserved a lot worse. One of his plots had caused an innocent woman to kill herself. A pawn had become a tipped-over chess piece.

Someone laughed as Task shoved the thick front door of the precinct and entered the warm night. He walked down the concrete steps to the sidewalk and proceeded to the curb, where he spent ten uncomfortable minutes waiting for a taxicab.

Wincing, the slick climbed into the vehicle and closed the door. “Barrel and Sixty-fourth.”

“Yessir,” said the driver, who was a lean Haitian of about sixty years. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

The cabbie dialed the steering wheel, accelerated, and returned his attention to the rearview mirror. “You don’t look it.”

“Silence gets a better tip.”

The driver pulled an invisible zipper across his mouth and quietly drove his fare to the stated destination, where sat the tan condominium complex. Task paid, ambled past the concerned eyes of the attendant, and took the elevator. The match fell as he opened his front door, and soon, he was inside, snapping bolts and turning on lights.

Alone in the beige and white apartment, the slick removed his wrinkled suit, threw out his boxer shorts, and went into his shower. The hissing emission stung his black eye, swollen ear, and reddened throat, and he tilted the perforated chrome head so that the water struck below these injuries, yet above the tender, purplish-black bruise that the captain had stamped upon his pelvis. He coaxed foam from a washcloth, gently cleaned his wounds, and then scoured the dermal remainder.

Drying himself, Task morosely considered Nowski’s fiancé, Andrea. The personal trainer was a smart and outspoken individual who would not accept platitudes, and a visit with her was the next item on his itinerary. In addition to offering the woman his condolences in person, he needed to verify that she had not said anything incriminating when she had spoken to the machos. Although she knew the script, she was probably in shock and not thinking very clearly.

Wearing a black silk shirt, charcoal slacks, and new Italians, Task grabbed an auxiliary cellphone, picked up a business card, left the apartment, set a match in the jamb, turned the locks, and went down to the parking garage, where he surveyed thick shadows and dim corners as he strode toward his silver luxury vehicle. There was no way to know when or if the lowriders would come back for him, and he had to remain vigilant until the pair had been apprehended by the machos or sent to Alaska.

The slick climbed into his car, where the clean firearm hidden within the passenger’s seat gave him some comfort. Keys jingled as he ignited the engine, and soon, headlights scattered the darkness.

The silver sedan corkscrewed up to the street and headed east.

Task thumbed a connection and brought the cellphone to his right ear. Hissing, he jerked the receiver from the swollen flesh.

The slick set the device against the undamaged side of his head. In his left ear, the line rang twice and clicked.

“Where are you?” asked Dublin.

“Driving to see Andrea. Your situation’s tidy?”

“It is.”

This meant that the parlor on Commerce Street had been abandoned and that all of the members who frequented this establishment had been notified of its closing. Soon, the equipment would be removed, and the nonexistent tenant who had his name on the lease would stop paying rent.

“Everything else is linear?” Task inquired of the other three parlors.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll be in touch later.”

“My phone’ll be on.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

The line went dead. Stopping at a red light, the slick scrolled to a different number and made a new connection.

An artificial female said, “Please leave a message after the beep.”

“Hey. I’d like to get together for biscotti and discuss some current events. Thanks.”

Task killed the connection. Strembicky (or whoever was attending this number for him) knew that ‘biscotti’ meant Darren Tasking and that ‘current events’ indicated a high degree of urgency.

Time moved quickly as the slick drove the silver sedan five miles to the east and two to the south. At this juncture stood the light rose condominium complex in which the bodybuilder and his fiancé had lived for the last four years.

Task thrust his hand into the slit in the passenger’s seat, retrieved his (unlicensed) snub-nosed revolver, and then pocketed the small firearm. Watching the environs, he strode up the walkway, climbed the steps, and entered the carpeted lobby.

A paunchy doorman of fifty looked at the slick. “You get mugged?”

“Boxing.”

“You gotta keep your guard up when you’re in the ring. Like this—” The fellow raised his fists, titled his chin down, and hunched forward, demonstrating the proper way to receive punches.

“I’ll try to remember.”

The doorman dodged his invisible opponent and relaxed his posture. “Should I let them know you’re here?”

Task did not know if Andrea had a visitor or if the doorman was oblivious of Nowski’s death, but he did not ask the fellow for a clarification. “Sure.”

“It’s Darren, right?”

“Right.”

The fellow picked up the receiver of an oversized red telephone that looked like it could launch a Cold War missile. “Darren’s here to see you.”

A buzzing insect responded.

Nodding, the doorman said, “Okay,” and replaced the receiver in the cradle. “Go on up.”

“Thanks.”

Dreading the coming conversation, the slick took the elevator to the second floor, entered a rose and white hallway, and walked to apartment 207. His hand was shaking as he fingered the button.

A bolt snapped, and the door opened. Inside the foyer stood Andrea, dressed in a red bathrobe and furry slippers. Her black hair was a messy knot, and her face and eyes were swollen.

“I’m so sorry about what happened,” said Task.

Andrea nodded.

The slick hugged the personal trainer, and she returned his embrace, sniffled, and took a step back.

“Come in.”

Task walked inside, shut the door, and followed Andrea to the familiar living room, which smelled like cigarettes and was decorated with a dozen framed pictures of the affectionate couple hiking, kayaking, skiing, rock climbing, and mountain biking. At present, the slick found it very difficult to look at these photographs.

Andrea walked past Nowski’s recliner (a weathered artifact from his previous apartment), set a pink box of tissues upon the armrest of the L-shaped suede couch, seated herself, claimed an ashtray, and motioned to a nearby cushion.

Task sat on the indicated square. “How’re you holding up?”

The trainer ignored the question, took a lighted cigarette from the ashtray (even though she had quit smoking three years earlier), and motioned to the slick’s battered face. “Was that the killers or the machos?”

“The machos.”

“Fucking assholes.”

“They talked to you…?”

“Yeah.”

“Here?” asked the slick, wondering if the machos had possibly planted a bug.

“No. I met them at the hospital. After I saw the body.”

“You stuck to the script?”

Andrea dragged on her cigarette. “I told them that you guys like to drive around when the roads’re empty, listening to music and talk radio.”

“Perfect,” said Task. “Did they say anything to that?”

“They were suspicious, but I kept saying that until they got sick of hearing it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.” Andrea exhaled a cloud. “Now what the fuck happened?”

“We were doing the roundup.” Task grimaced and shook his head. “Nowski goes inside, and I stay in the car—like usual. Couple of minutes later, I see something in the alley that’s right next to the restaurant. I get behind the wheel, drive over to check it out. A guy starts shooting at me, and I floor it.

“As soon as I can, I try to call Nowski, tell him to stay indoors, but I can’t get to him in time.”

The trainer shot smoke from the side of her mouth. “You drove off?”

“I was avoiding bullets. They w—”

“Why didn’t you shoot back? There’s a gun in the armrest.”

“I didn’t have time.”

“You had enough time to accelerate.” Andrea mashed the cigarette in the ashtray and snorted smoke. “Seems like pulling a trigger half an inch would be faster than pressing a gas pedal all the way down.”

“It was a reflex—I was being shot at. The first bullet just missed my head—and Nowski wasn’t even outside when I hit the gas. I thought—”

“You left him there.” The trainer shook her head in disbelief. “Just fucking drove off and left him.”

“That’s not how it—”

“Did you see it happen?”

The question hung in the air like a disgusting smell. Somehow, this long and terrible day had just gotten longer and more terrible.

Tears shined in Andrea’s eyes, but she kept the moisture from spilling over. “Did you see it happen?”

Task cleared his throat and nodded his head. “Yeah.”

“You weren’t too busy getting a breakfast burrito?”

The slick raised a hand in defense. “I think I should go. I’m obviously upsetting you and that’s the last thing in the world I wanna do right now.”

The trainer reached for a bulb of white wine, took a sip, and looked at its contents, averting her gaze from the person whom she now partially blamed for the death of her fiancé. “You have any idea who these fucks are?”

“I’ll find out.”

“You let me know when you do.”

“I will.”

Task rose from the sofa and set a business card upon the table. “That’s my new number—call if you need anything.”

No response came from the trainer. A vast sadness was smothering her anger.

“And if you don’t want me at the funeral, I’ll understand.”

“You’re coming to the funeral,” replied Andrea. “There’s no way that you aren’t. You’re his best friend.”

“Thank you.”

The air was heavy with silence and smoke.

“Have you spoken to his parents?” asked the slick.

“Yeah. His dad’s in shock, but his mom’s holding up okay, considering what happened. She’s letting the family know, talking to the priest, starting to make arrangements for the wake and the service.”

Task located his voice and cleared his throat. “Call me for anything you need. Whenever. Okay?”

“Sorry I yelled at you.”

“You’re entitled.”

No response came from the trainer, who stared at her bulb of white wine with swollen, red eyes. It seemed like she had run out of words.

“I’ll let myself out.”

XXI

The Gray Cycle

Task drove the silver sedan north and west. Sharp, heavy thoughts rattled around in his brainpan, and exhaustion combated his senses. Outside, the city was nothing but a collection of dim, moving shapes.

The slick returned his car to the parking garage of his building and wound down to the nether level. Eyeing the shadows, he climbed out of the vehicle and up the stairs. The snub-nosed revolver remained inside of his right pocket.

Task opened the door to 208, and the match fell from the jamb. Pain, exhaustion, and guilt were thick in his brain as he walked into the living room, turned on the lights, snapped two bolts, ambled into the kitchen, poured himself a scotch, took the drink to the den, switched on a standing lamp, and sat on a couch. White leather creaked beneath his weight.

Silence expanded, giving volume to the events that had filled the thousand-hour day.

The slick marinated his tongue in scotch, swallowed, and set down the tumbler. Slow fingers unlocked his cellphone and highlighted the number he wanted.

“Yeah?” said Dublin, who sounded groggy.

“I need you to join me for my morning drive.”

“The kind of morning that occurs in four hours?”

“That’s its location.”

“Yours or Fraulein?” asked the manager.

“Mine.”

“You’ve got any cough syrup?”

“One bottle,” Task said while removing the revolver from his pocket. “But we could use more.”

“I’ll bring some.”

Dublin was a good marksman who had shot some human legs, a couple of feet, and a dozen cars over the years. (Most of these incidents related to somebody not yielding the right of way or somebody doing something disrespectful to his prized German two-seater, Fraulein.)

“I’ll be by your place at five,” said Task.

An unintelligible mutter came from the manager.

“Bye.”

“Yeah.”

The slick killed the connection, set the alarm on his cellphone for four fifteen, finished his scotch, leaned back on the sofa, and shut his eyes. Nightmares came instantly. These distorted tableaux were inhabited by Nowski, Detective Delgado, Captain Alder, Mrs. Alder, Andrea, and strange hybrids of these people. His subconscious had been completely flooded by the grim events of his waking life.

The cellphone alarm chimed, startling Task awake. It was either very late Sunday or very early Monday. The injuries on his head, neck, and pelvis throbbed anew, reborn and invigorated by the three hours of fitful sleep that had occurred upon the white leather couch.

Wincing, the slick headed for the bathroom. Pain shot through his bladder when he urinated, and he checked the toilet bowl for blood, but saw only piss. He flushed, washed his hands and face, changed shirts, grabbed a charcoal jacket, pocketed the revolver and a bottle of painkillers, snagged three videocassette cases, set a match in the doorjamb, and returned to the parking garage.

The gray and black enclosure was quiet.

Watching the shadows for lowriders, Task walked to his silver sedan, sank into the upholstery, and ignited the engine. He adjusted the steering wheel with one hand and gripped his revolver with the other as he drove up toward ground level. His home and the parlors were the most likely locations for a second ambush, and he needed to be especially vigilant in these locations.

The silver car climbed the ramp that led to the surface. Headlights lashed Barrel Avenue, and the slick saw that the street was empty (as was usually the case at this time of morning). In the east, the black sky was starting to go gray.

Task relaxed, pocketed his firearm, dialed the steering wheel counterclockwise, and headed north. A couple of minutes later, he realized that he was driving toward Ed’s, the diner where he usually met Nowski, rather than toward Dublin’s building, which was at the edge of the Pastels.

The slick righted his course, drove for ten minutes, and sidled to the curb outside of a light-yellow building.

A minute later, the plump manager emerged, dressed in a black shirt and blue jeans and holding a metal lunchbox. His curly red hair had been subdued by gel, and his frown looked like bratwurst.

Dublin circumvented the car, tossed himself into the passenger seat, and slammed the door. Menthol and rubbing alcohol smells filled the car.

“Is that cologne?” inquired Task.

“Aftershave.”

The slick palmed silver tabs, lowering all four automatic windows. “Try a gallon less.”

“Did the machos do that to your face?”

“Yeah.”

Task toggled the gear stick, spun the steering wheel, and pressed the accelerator. Diagonal tires pulled the sedan through a U-turn.

“We’re starting at the place on Lewis?” asked Dublin.

“Yep.”

The slick righted the car, drove to the end of the block, and cornered. A glance at the dashboard told him that it was twelve minutes after five.

Silence sat between the pair for a mile.

The manager raised his dented lunchbox, which was adorned with some pictures of vintage muscle cars.

“Your cough syrup’s in there?” inquired Task.

“Some of my best.”

“How many’d you bring?”

“Four.”

“You can shoot with your feet?”

“There isn’t ever gonna be a situation where I’m thinking, ‘I really wish I had one less gun right now.’”

“Put the extras in here—” The slick ran his right index finger along a vertical slit on the side of the passenger seat.

Dublin opened the lunchbox and withdrew two semiautomatics, which he then holstered. The other weapons he covered with a handkerchief and slid into the upholstery.

“Any idea who hit us yesterday?”

“No.”

“Spics or niggers?”

“Sounded like Hispanics, though they were in ski masks and didn’t say much.”

“Shooting a guy for twenty-eight hundred.” Bratwurst appeared on the lower half of the manager’s face. “You think they’ll be back?”

“They tried to kill me once…and obviously they know something about our operations.”

“You need help putting them on the plane to Alaska, I’m there.”

During high school, Nowski had gone out with Dublin’s kid sister Frances, a darling and petite girl who was almost nothing like her brother. The relationship had ended amicably after about a year, and by that time, the bodybuilder and the grumpy redhead had become friends.

Task slowed the sedan for two joggers who were bouncing across the road. “I’ll keep you in mind.”

Five minutes later, the car hugged the curb of the ten-story baby blue building in which lay the Lewis Street parlor.

The slick surveyed the Pastels.

Bicycle reflectors and bright white sneakers danced upon curvilinear trails in the park across the way. Nobody threatening was in the vicinity.

“See you.”

Dublin grunted, heaved himself outside, and shut the door.

A cellphone buzzed.

Only three people currently had Task’s new number: Dublin, Andrea, and Strembicky.

Carefully watching the area, the slick plucked the device from his pocket and glanced at the display.

The call was from his guarantor.

Task thumbed the touchscreen, put the cellphone to his ear, and grunted, jerking the plastic from the swollen flesh. His left hand then applied the receiver to the opposite side of his head. “Good morning.”

“Is this a bad time?” inquired Strembicky.

“No. Just dealing with a souvenir that the machos gave me.”

The line turned into an empty cavern. No sounds were conveyed for a few moments.

“You conversed with them?” asked the guarantor.

“Yeah. And a bunch of their questions had five to ten fingers.”

Again, the line was silent.

“Can you be at the bakery by nine?” inquired Strembicky.

“Yeah.”

“Come alone.”

The line went dead.

Task was not at all surprised by the brusque nature of the conversation. If a guy spoke to the machos, he was suspect.

Pocketing the cellphone, the slick surveyed the area.

Nobody was around, excepting a shirtless man in red shorts whose dog was making impasto paintings in the grass with its behind.

The front door of the apartment building flashed, swinging open, and Dublin walked outside. Glancing suspiciously in all directions, he crossed the front lot, circumvented the car, and heaved himself into the passenger seat.

Aftershave replaced oxygen, but the slick chose not to again remark upon the smell.

The manager shut the door and shoved the money belt underneath his seat.

“Everything’s linear?”

“Yeah. Though Watkins is pretty freaked out about what happened to Nowski.”

“I’ll talk to him once I’ve got some answers.”

The charcoal sky became medium gray as Task drove south and west to One Hundred and Eighty-ninth Avenue. There, he sidled the car and watched his associate walk into the twenty-story building that contained the only bi-level parlor—2G had an airlock, three bedrooms, and a closeted stairwell that led up to 3G, a loft space that had been turned into a casino. The front entrance of the upper unit had been sealed off with bricks, and its interior could only be accessed through the nether apartment.

Sitting in the silver sedan, Task surveyed the area.

The sidewalk provided an unyielding mattress for one bearded vagrant who did not move (but was probably still alive), and the road was empty.

Yawning enormously, the slick nestled his skull in the headrest.

Something flashed outside.

Task sat up and looked toward the moving object.

Standing beside the hood ornament was a gray kingfisher with a white collar and a blue ascot. If this fellow’s uptown relative had alerted the slick to the presence of the hidden shooters a few seconds earlier than it had, the bodybuilder might still be alive.

Distant tires screeched, and the frightened bird corkscrewed into the slate vault. Something zoomed around the corner of the next block.

Withdrawing the snub-nosed revolver, Task looked west. His breath caught, and ice replaced his insides.

The moving object was low to the ground and maroon.

Heart pounding, the slick raised his gun.

The lowrider roared directly at the parked silver sedan.

Task aimed his revolver through the windshield and targeted the driver’s side of the oncoming car. Holding his hands steady, he squeezed his right index finger.

The gun had no trigger.

Startled, the slick woke up behind the wheel of the parked sedan, which was outside of the parlor on Preston Avenue. Dublin was inside the building, and the coffee that Task had purchased after leaving One Hundred and Eighty-ninth currently overpowered the smells of man perfume.

A quick survey of the area revealed nothing but some parked cars, a row of off-white buildings, and the garbage bins where the indebted superintendent Javier was currently carrying two big trash bags.

Dublin emerged from the building, chewing on something that dripped crumbs. Rolled up under his armpit was the money belt, which evidently could not fit around his waist.

The manager heaved himself into the sedan and slid the monetary bundle underneath his seat. His jaw worked, chewing something that smelled like cinnamon.

“If it doesn’t get around your waist, put it under your shirt.”

Dublin swallowed what he was eating. “Fine.”

“They have pastries in there?”

“Yeah.”

“Karate John’s keeping it clean?”

“This is an actual concern of yours?” the manager asked while wiping his mouth. “Crumbs?”

“Vermin are a concern. If somebody decides to send an exterminator around, something might get noticed.”

“It looked clean.”

The slick stepped on the brake and clutched the gear stick.

“That ear’s really swelling up.”

Task glanced into the rearview mirror and swiveled his head.

Jutting from the left side of his skull was an ugly purple flap.

“And your right eye’s Oriental.”

Spinning the wheel, Task returned the silver sedan to the street. “Count and package the sum.”

“In what?” asked Dublin.

“Look in the back.”

“Oh.”

The manager retrieved the videocassette boxes from the rear bench and gathered the money belts from underneath his seat.

Turning the wheel, the slick cornered onto an empty side street, where he watched the mirrors for two-legged or four-wheeled followers.

Nobody was trailing the sedan.

Task drove toward the Pastels.

In the passenger seat, Dublin fingered the earnings for Saturday and Sunday. “Twelve thousand nine hundred forty.”

“Okay.”

On another day, this figure would have put the slick in a good mood. A lot of green fruit had been earned during the five-week period that all four parlors had been open, and he was now fifty-eight percent of the way to his three-and-a-half-million-dollar retirement goal. (A sum that would be comprised of stockpiled cash, real estate, and a portfolio of legitimate investments.)

The manager opened a plastic videocassette case that showed a tanned, oiled, and shirtless guy who held an Uzi in each hand and a survival knife in his teeth. Inside of the empty clamshell box for The Deadliest Solution, the manager laid a third of the bills. Another slice of green fruit was deposited into the container for Wild Cats in the Oven, which showed two buxom women in tattered prison apparel choking and scratching each other through thick iron bars, and the monetary remainder went into The Pentagram Hunter.

Dublin bound these cases together with two rubber bands and shoved the bundle under his seat. “Ready for Mexico.”

Task cornered onto Middle Street and the Pastels slid into view. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” said Dublin. “You dropping me off now?”

“I’ve got a meeting.”

“Affiliates?”

“Yep.”

“I hope they can do something here.”

“They’re vast.”

The manager scratched an armpit. “So what am I doing now that Commerce is closed?”

“You’ll do the roundup with me until we open a new parlor.”

Bratwurst appeared on the lower half of Dublin’s face. “I’ve been managing longer than Karate John or Bill. Let one of them be your gopher.”

“You’re better equipped to handle a situation than they are.”

The manager could not disagree with this statement. “Fine.”

Ten minutes later, the slick parked outside of the light-yellow apartment building. “I’ll let you know when I hear about a wake or the funeral.”

Dublin grumbled something, slammed the door, and departed.

Thinking of the upcoming meeting with Strembicky and watching for lowriders, Task drove north.

XXII

A White Crucible with
Tinted Windows

Grayness spread across the sky as Task took Long Avenue to the financial district, cornered a few extra times to make sure that he was not being followed, and parked in the back lot of the uptown post office, which had not yet opened.

He set the alarm on his cellphone, ate another painkiller, stretched his sunglasses across his face, leaned his chair all the way back, and put his skull in the headrest. Eyelids and darkness fell. Self-recriminations washed over him until an alarm sent them back to the subconscious ocean. Somehow, ninety-eight minutes had passed in three seconds.

Task sucked on a breath mint as he took the videocassettes into the building where three weeks earlier, Nowski and a yegg had filled Chester Fredericks’s postal box with quick-dry cement. For the twentieth time that morning, the slick thought of his friend’s death and felt an absence.

Italian soles cracked loudly upon the marble floor as Task strode across the room to the packaging area. There, he wrote the mailing and return addresses on a cardboard box and inserted the videocassette cases. He then set the parcel in front of a meek Asian fellow who sat behind the front counter in a light blue uniform that looked like it had been washed ten thousand times.

“Going to Mexico City,” remarked the postal worker, showing off the fact that he could read.

“You are correct.”

“How fast do you want it to get there?”

“There’s no rush.”

“The contents of the package?”

“Videocassettes.”

“Videocassettes?” The Asian fellow grinned. “This package is going back in time?”

“I’ve got an hombre who still watches them.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

The cardboard box landed upon a scale, and the postal worker made some tabulations. “It’s twenty-four forty.”

Twenty-five dollars already lay upon the table.

“Psychic.” The Asian fellow claimed the money and then fiddled with his drawer. “Your change…”

Two quarters and a dime slid across the laminated surface and were deposited by Task into a clear plastic box that had a picture of a dolorous black child whose ribs were showing.

“Have a good day,” said the postal worker.

“You, too.”

The slick returned to the road and drove toward a glowing horizon where the sun threatened thick clouds. Eighteen minutes later, the silver sedan landed in front of Finkle’s Bakery.

Task climbed out of the car and stretched his sore limbs. Pains that felt like bird beaks poked his right eye, left ear, and pelvis, and he withdrew a bottle from his pocket. Pills rattled against plastic as he ate another painkiller.

Automobiles moved up and down the avenue, and the appearance of a maroon van momentarily startled the slick, who had been in a lot of confrontations during his lifetime, but had not until yesterday witnessed a homicide or been the object of gunfire.

At three minutes to nine, the front doorway of the bakery yielded a skinny black guy who wore a cooking apron and some flour on his hands. “C’mon.”

Task followed the baker into the establishment, between two silver counters, through the main kitchen area (where an old white guy and three Mexicans shaped lumps of dough), and past four tall ovens that radiated heat and pumpernickel.

The black fellow stopped and gestured at the rear hallway, which was long and dark. “There’s a door at the end.”

“Thanks.”

“Certainly,” said the baker, who then vanished.

Strembicky had always been a reliable fellow, but a feeling of unease filled Task as he proceeded down the unlighted passageway. His footfalls cracked loudly, echoing, and his neck tightened. The small snub-nosed revolver that lay in his pocket did not give him any comfort: One man could not fight a consortium.

The slick circumvented a stack of plastic milk crates, passed a humming walk-in refrigerator, and reached the exit. His right hand pressed the push-bar.

A bathroom door swung wide, revealing the barrel of a raised gun. The firearm was held by a silhouetted man who had a buzzcut, a dark suit, and shoulders that looked like a plateau.

Task did not move.

“Show me all ten,” said the cog, who had a mild Russian accent.

The slick raised his hands. “I’ve got a gun in my left pocket.”

The underling stepped forward and claimed the snub-nosed revolver. Patting down the slick, he looked for a wire or a concealed weapon. His hands momentarily cupped a wallet, some keys, and a proof of gender.

“You can relax.”

Task lowered his arms, and the buzzcut cog elbowed the push bar. Gray daylight brightened the hallway.

“You first.”

The slick walked outside.

Parked in the middle of the alleyway was a white town car that had tinted windows. The rear door on the passenger side swung open.

Task strode toward this invitation.

Sitting in the back of the vehicle upon white upholstery was Strembicky, dressed in a light gray suit. His dictatorial physiognomy was grave.

The slick climbed into the vehicle and sat upon the bench. “Thanks for coming in person.”

“Shut the door.”

Task grabbed the leather strap and pulled. The latch struck the jamb and clicked.

Sitting in the front passenger seat and facing forward was the agent, who did not in any way acknowledge the slick’s arrival. His long gray ponytail dangled over the headrest like a dead thing.

The buzzcut cog entered the car and installed himself behind the steering wheel, where he slotted a key and twisted his fist. Under the hood, a drowsy feline purred.

The white town car floated south through the alleyway.

Task cleared his throat and faced Strembicky. “You know what happened yesterday?”

“You are a headline.”

The guarantor set a newspaper upon the bench. Some large capital letters declared: ‘Man Shot Dead in Attempted Carjacking on Commerce Street.’

“Was this a carjacking?” asked Strembicky, who seemed doubtful.

“No. I have a parlor on Commerce Street. My associate and I went to—”

“Christopher Bronowski?” said Strembicky, who then poked the newspaper article with a bronze finger.

“Yes. Bronowski and I were collecting the Saturday night earnings, and the lowriders were there waiting for us—in the alley next door.”

The guarantor frowned, and in the passenger seat, the agent displayed his ugly profile. Shadows slid across the tinted glass.

“I abandoned the parlor,” added Task.

“Naturally,” said Strembicky. “Do you have any guesses as to the identities of these robbers?”

“No. It sounded like they were Hispanic, though they were wearing masks and might’ve been flinging Spanish as a misdirection.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“It’s very unlikely, but it’s possible.”

Garbage bins slid past as the agent removed a small yellow notepad. The white town car dipped and then floated onto an empty avenue.

“How much money did they take?” inquired Strembicky.

“Twenty-eight hundred.”

“Do you have any idea how they might have learned about your parlor?”

“I have a theory.”

“Please share this with me.”

“My feeling is that a person who lives nearby or works in the immediate area saw something noteworthy and then gave that noteworthy something to some guys who’re south—crude orphans with no affiliates. No consortium is gonna write a headline for twenty-eight hundred, and no entrepreneur who is established enough to have consortium backing is gonna risk everything for that amount either.”

“I agree with you, though I will speak with other consortium bosses and make sure.”

“Thank you.”

The buzzcut cog slowed the town car as a blond toothpick on a skinny bicycle shot across the road.

Strembicky leaned back and rubbed his thick mustache. “Is it possible that a person or group who has a grudge against you and Christopher Bronowski used the robbery to obscure what was supposed to be two contract killings?”

“I considered that idea, but think it’s very, very unlikely. Everybody liked Nowski: He was friends with all of his ex-girlfriends, which says everything. And it would’ve been easier to shoot us both right when we parked rather than wait for us to get separated. These guys definitely wanted the money.”

The buzzcut cog dialed the steering wheel clockwise, and the car floated onto a side street where a hunched vagrant was varnishing a brick wall with the contents of his bladder. In the passenger seat, the agent scribbled notes in a small spiral pad.

“Were you and Christopher Bronowski close?” asked the guarantor.

“We were.”

“You have my condolences,” said Strembicky, whose dictatorial face showed genuine sympathy.

The slick reclaimed his thoughts and cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Tall buildings surrounded the white town car, and the interior darkened.

“You would like for us to help you locate the robbers?”

“I would.” Task cleared a creak out of his throat. “And I’ve got some ideas how to find them.”

“I’m certain that you do. Yet before I commit any consortium resources to a manhunt, I must know your objective.”

“Locate the guys who shot Nowski, see who and what they know, and then send them to Alaska.”

“Are you certain of this?” inquired Strembicky, whose sad eyes showed more than a little skepticism. “In our last meeting, you stated that you are an entrepreneur and not a consortium guy. You told me quite clearly that you do not send people to Alaska.”

“As of yesterday, I’m willing to make two exceptions.”

“Because you seek revenge?”

“No.” Task shook his head. “Killing two thugs who’re probably complete strangers isn’t gonna make me feel better about what happened to my friend…but it will remove an unknown entity that now threatens my business, my associates, and me.”

The guarantor glanced at the agent (who was still writing in the notepad) and then returned his attention to the slick. “You will be able to put bullets into the faces of two weeping human beings who’re telling you about their families and begging for their lives?”

Task was uncertain how a tableau like the one described would affect his resolve, but he knew that he could not balk if he wanted help from Strembicky. “I’ll be able to change their latitude.”

With focused eyes, the guarantor scrutinized. “You’re certain of this?”

“Yes,” replied the slick, who was confident, but not certain.

Doubt played across Strembicky’s dictatorial face. “If you cannot do what you’ve promised, my men will help you find your resolve.”

Task felt cold sweat upon his back. “I’ll be able to do it.”

“Very well.” The guarantor motioned with his left hand. “What’s the name of the policeman who reorganized your face?”

The slick was uninterested in further harming the macho whose wife he had driven to commit suicide. “I’ll handle that.”

“Very well.” Strembicky crossed his legs in the European style. “What are your suggestions for the manhunt?”

Suppressing concerns about committing two acts of first-degree murder, Task pulled up the itinerary that he had devised while in the airless room. “The maroon lowrider was probably stolen—anybody who owns a showy vehicle like that isn’t gonna go around and kill people in it—so you should try to find out if it turned up at a chop shop—I know you trade in that industry.

“It’s also conceivable that they’ll try to disguise the car. If so, the thing could be at a body shop getting a new paint job and rims and whatever other dumb shit they put on them these days.”

The guarantor nodded, approvingly, and the agent wrote upon his notepad.

“Have your bookies and candy men inform you of any new customers—especially Hispanics—or any regulars who suddenly have a lot of extra cash to spend.”

“I will speak to the appropriate parties,” said Strembicky. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“I do.

“Get the names of the employees at Michael’s Steak House and also those of the tenants upstairs.

“For the restaurant, send in a couple to have dinner. Lots of restaurants post the schedule by the office wall—mine does—or near a time clock, and this document should have all of the employee names. Have your girl act drunk, stumble into the back, and grab the list.

“Identifying the upstairs residents should be simple—mailing lists or management files should work. You could even send in a guy pretending to be an exterminator.

“Take all of these names and feed them to your rotary.”

“What will he be looking for?” inquired the guarantor.

“Hispanics who have records get the gold, Hispanic males aged thirteen to fifty get silver, and ex-cons of any ethnicity get bronze.”

Strembicky eyed the agent. “Do you have all of that?”

An ugly silhouette nodded.

The guarantor returned his attention to the slick. “We shall discuss these ideas with our group.”

“Thank you.”

The windows darkened as the vehicle returned to the alleyway.

“There is the matter of compensation,” said the agent, who was addressing the slick for the very first time that morning.

Task was not surprised that this topic had been broached. A manhunt would probably require a lot of very careful work from the consortium, especially since the machos and media were already at the perimeters of the event.

Garbage bins drifted past as the slick returned his attention to the guarantor. “What were you thinking?”

“A five-year commitment from you to us at the current rate of seven percent.”

“Unless I retire before then or am forced to leave town, I will give you five years.”

“Agreed.”

Strembicky and Task shook hands, and the car came to a halt.

“Will you continue to use the phone that I called earlier this morning?” asked the guarantor.

“It’s clean.”

“I will be in touch.”

“Thank you.”

The rear passenger door swung open, pulled by the buzzcut cog who had vanished from the driver’s seat.

“My condolences again,” said Strembicky.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The slick stepped out of the vehicle and into the alleyway, where he received his emptied snub-nosed revolver from the underling.

“Ask Chuck for a raisin pumpernickel,” advised the guarantor, whose face was soon replaced by a closed door.

Task flashed a palm, turned around, and walked toward the back of the bakery. His injuries throbbed, and the moist morning air felt like somebody’s breath.

Silently, the white town car floated away.

The slick flung the door and returned to the rear hallway of the bakery. Premeditated murder was the crime that turned a person into a candidate for a lethal injection (or a two-hundred-year prison sentence), but he was confident that he would not get caught. Strembicky was a journeyman in the human disposal business, and the lowriders would almost certainly be undesirables whose deaths would not demand too much investigation (if their bodies were ever even found). Task was not comfortable with the idea of committing homicide, but he could not live in fear, wondering for weeks or months or years when he would walk into a second and final ambush.

He needed resolution.

Hard Italians smacked tiles as the slick proceeded through a room of hot yeast.

The skinny black baker eyed the preoccupied walker. “Would you like some bread?”

“I’m not hungry,” replied Task, even though painkillers were the only solid food that he had eaten during the last thirty-seven hours.

XXIII

They Stood in the Sun

The police and the medical examiner held the body of Christopher Bronowski for sixty-three hours, and thus delayed, he missed his own wake. Three days after the shooting, a graveside funeral service was held in a north Great Crown cemetery named His Glorious Resurrection. The sky was blue and clear, and the sun was pretending that it was mid-spring rather than late summer. There were not enough chairs for the three-hundred-plus mourners, and consequently, most of the male attendees younger than fifty had to stand in the grass. At the front of the largest upright group was Task, who wore sunglasses, a black suit, and Italian shoes.

“Don’t touch that,” Dublin hissed at Edgar, who was leaning against a tombstone that belonged to Jessica L. Henderson (1927–1993). “It’s inappropriate.”

“Jess likes the attention.”

The manager shoved the short fellow off of the stone. “Have some fucking respect.”

“Shhh,” hissed the World War II veteran, Irving, whose blue suit might have been taken during occupation.

Task looked across the top of the closed coffin at Nowski’s parents, whom he had known since childhood and still thought of as Mr. and Mrs. Bronowski, rather than by their first names (which were Bob and Vanessa). The stately, six-foot-tall woman from whom the deceased bodybuilder had received most of his good features kept her back straight and her dimpled chin raised as the priest did his routine. Clutching the matriarch’s right arm in both of his hands was her five-foot-eight husband, whose bewildered face resembled that of a lost child. His downturned gaze never left his shiny shoes.

The sight of Nowski’s parents opened a chasm inside of Task, and he had to look away.

Not far from the Bronowskis stood Andrea, who looked like she was suffering from pneumonia. The trainer was accompanied by her youthful mother (who cried continually), her awkward kid sister, and her three brothers, all of whom were slightly successful lawyers.

A face in the crowd turned toward Task, and when he looked over, he saw that it belonged to his ex-wife, Daniela. The two of them had only spoken twice since their divorce had been finalized nine-and-a-half years earlier, and although he had little interest in socializing with her, he would be polite if she approached him after the service. At present, small cordial waves were exchanged between the two vow breakers.

A loud, wet cough sounded from deep within the standing group. Although TB Todd had not been invited to the wedding, he had turned up at the funeral.

The priest continued his divine monologue. All of his words were tiny flitting syllables when compared to the ponderous wooden declaration before the assemblage.

“May Christopher Bronowski’s soul and the souls of all the faithful, departed through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”

“Amen,” muttered a major part of the congregation.

“Glad he’s outta purgatory,” whispered Dublin. “That place is crap.”

Andrea joined Mr. and Mrs. Bronowski, and together, the three of them approached the coffin. The matriarch claimed a fistful of dirt, which she soon tossed upon the glossy wood. This ritual was repeated by the trainer, and then by the stunned father, who still held his wife’s right arm while staring at his shoes.

The funeral director pushed a button. A winch clanked, and the coffin shuddered. The collection of bones and muscles that had been Nowski began its slow descent into the earth.

Andrea walked away from her dead fiancé, and Mrs. Bronowski went in a different direction, towing her stunned husband.

All over the cemetery grounds, the congregation disassembled.

Task strode toward Nowski’s parents, who were currently on the far side of thirty yards and five times as many people. Most of the attendees were north and believed that the bodybuilder had been a personal trainer, but a few of them probably suspected that he was south (even if they did not know the meaning of this term). The sudden, violent manner of his death, and the sight of the battered slick who had been with him during the shooting would not discourage speculations.

Italian soles squeaked as Task wended through the desultory congregation, treading bright green grass that had been nurtured by the dead. Ahead of him, the bereaved parents were receiving condolences from a tearful Hispanic family of four. Mrs. Bronowski said something pleasant in response while her husband just gripped her arm and stared at his shoes. It was unclear to the slick exactly how much the bodybuilder’s mother and father knew about their son’s vocation, though the woman could do arithmetic and had a brother who was south (and in jail).

Somebody tapped Task’s shoulder, and he turned around.

Standing there in a black dress was his petite ex-wife, Daniela, whose light brown hair was now parted in a stylish bob that put a wave of bangs over her left eye. Her nose and cheeks had sharpened during the intervening years, and there were a few wrinkles around her hazel eyes, but overall, she looked good and healthy. Upon the ring finger of her left hand, something glared.

“Hey,” said the petite woman.

“Hi.”

“Should we hug?”

“If you think we should.”

Neither vow breaker moved toward the other.

During the final year of their marriage, Daniela’s brother had died in a drug-related homicide in Virginia. This event had deeply affected the petite woman, and suddenly she could no longer accept the fact that her husband profited from the sale of such substances. The slick talked about changing his vice from candy to gambling, but then the raid at One Eighteen Pine Street had occurred…

Three weeks after an iron door clanked shut in the state broiler, Task received his divorce papers, which he signed without protest. His money and assets had been seized by the state, and he knew that when he was again free, he would have to work three times as hard to meet his retirement deadline. There would be no time for a dissatisfied spouse in that kind of life. And nothing in the world was more contagious than a woman’s unhappiness.

“It was nice of you to come,” the slick said to his ex-wife.

“I felt like I should. I always liked Chris.”

Task motioned to the platinum wedding band. “Congrats.”

“Thanks.”

“Unless he’s a macho.”

“He’s a musician.”

“Does he have a ponytail?”

“No.”

“Then I wish you the best.”

“Thanks.”

An awkward silence sat between the divorced couple.

Daniela gestured at the sky. “The weather’s pretty nice for a change.”

“So either God’s into irony or he’s a dick.”

A sad smile appeared on the petite woman’s face. “How’re you doing?”

“Okay, considering.”

Daniela looked at Task’s swollen ear and the portion of his black eye that the sunglasses did not cover. “You don’t look like it.”

The slick noticed something over his ex-wife’s right shoulder.

Mr. and Mrs. Bronowski were approaching a black funeral limousine.

“I need to go take care of something,” said Task. “Sorry.”

“Oh…okay. I think I’m just gonna go home.”

“Take care.”

Moisture glimmered at the edges of Daniela’s eyes. “Don’t let something like this happen to you, okay?”

“It won’t.”

The petite woman was not reassured.

Task waved, turned around, and circumvented three of Nowski’s ex-girlfriends, all of whom were smoking.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bronowski,” said the slick, following after the bereaved parents.

The matriarch paused, as did her husband, who still clasped her right arm. Like a single organism, the couple turned around.

“I’d like to offer you both my condolences.”

Mrs. Bronowski eyed Task. “Did Chris make some kind of mistake?”

“Pardon me?”

“Did Chris do something he shouldn’t have? Something that caused this—” The tall woman motioned to the hole into which the coffin had been lowered.

“No.” The slick shook his head. “We were ambushed. It—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Anger flashed in Mrs. Bronowski’s eyes, but her voice remained even. “Don’t you dare with Chris lying right over there in a box in the ground.”

Staring at his shoes, Mr. Bronowski tightened his grip upon his wife’s right arm.

“I’m not lying,” said Task. “I promise. We were ambushed.”

“Then why? Don’t tell me they wanted his car like it said in the newspaper, ’cause I know that’s bullshit.”

“We were supposed to pick up some money…and somebody else found out about it.”

This was more than the slick had intended to say, yet far less than the tall woman deserved to hear.

Mrs. Bronowski started to turn away.

“Wait. Please.” Task reached into his jacket and withdrew a thick envelope. “I’d like to help out with the funeral.”

“No, thank you.”

“Please.” The slick extended the tribute. “Some of this is Chris’s anyways.”

The tall woman took the envelope, which was heavy with thirty thousand dollars. “He could’ve been a gym teacher or done what Andrea does or—or a hundred other things instead of work with you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Task, who knew that his apology was laughable.

Mrs. Bronowski threw the envelope.

The white rectangle arced through the air, skipped across the dirt, and slid into the open grave.

Disgusted, the tall woman glared at the slick. “You don’t get to feel good about this.”

“I don’t.”

Mr. Bronowski raised his confused face and stared at Task. “We used to have you over for dinner. When you were little.”

Unable to speak, the slick nodded his head.

The tall woman turned her husband around and led him toward the limousine, where a silver-haired chauffeur was opening a rear door. From another part of the disorganized congregation, Andrea and her youthful mother angled toward the vehicle.

Task turned away and joined Dublin and Karate John, who were near the grave.

“You’re just gonna leave that envelope in there?” asked the redheaded manager. “Let them bury it?”

“His mom put it there, and it’s staying.”

The sun was in the middle of the sky when the associates left the grave. Joining them as they entered the cemetery parking lot was Watkins, the black manager who ran the Lewis Street parlor. His blue tie was out of his jacket, flapping over his shoulder, and his anxious eyes lacked symmetry.

“Something’s being done, right?” Watkins asked Task. “Making sure that what happened to Nowski won’t happen again? With these lowriders?”

“A consortium is helping me with that right now. But until we get them, be careful.”

XXIV

Riding Low and High

Atop a bare king-sized mattress on her hands and knees was a nude, nineteen-year-old Dominican prostitute whose mouth and vaginal canal were stoppered by erections. Seven and two thirds fingers gripped the girl’s smooth, caramel buttocks, and two complete hands cradled the back of her head while twirling rings of her dyed blond hair. The engorged lowriders had removed their boots and pulled down their pants, but were otherwise fully dressed.

Hector heaved himself forward, garnering a pained whimper from the prostitute. Aroused by the sound, he withdrew everything but his glans and slammed himself deeper.

The impact sent the girl’s breasts swinging.

“Tetas bonitas.”

Breathing deeply, Five Tears rocked the young Dominican’s skull back and forth along his phallus. “Bueno, bueno…”

A hand that lacked a pinky and a third of its ring finger slid from the woman’s left buttock to a pendulous breast. “Are you ready for New Year’s?” the bearded lowrider asked his partner.

The tattooed fellow replied that he was ready.

“Rápido, amigo.”

Hector and Five Tears quickened the tempo, and the penetrated Dominican whimpered. Her breasts swung back and forth and then flailed in wild circles.

“¡Más rápido!” exclaimed the bearded lowrider, who had become a fast piston. “Tres.”

The tattooed fellow shook the prostitute’s head like a maraca. “Dos.”

The girl started to squeal.

“¡Uno!”

Groaning in unison, the lowriders slammed their bodies against the Dominican girl. Each man hurled ejaculate deep into her tubes.

“Fuck,” said Hector, who then gasped and shook his head. “That felt like a laser coming out.”

The lowriders withdrew themselves from the Dominican girl. At present, the tattooed fellow noticed his partner’s dripping phallus.

“Oye. You didn’t wear anything?”

“No.”

“You should wear something when you go in the oyster.”

Hector explained that his cousin was on birth control.

“Para las enfermedades,” Five Tears replied while pulling up his pants.

“She doesn’t have diseases.”

Upon the bare mattress, the Dominican girl rolled onto her back. “I only let my cousins go inside without protection. Everybody else has to wear something.”

“See?” said the bearded lowrider. “Corazon is careful.”

The prostitute put a wad of paper towels between her legs and from the nightstand retrieved her pink cellphone, which had a picture of a smiling animal that came from a Japanese cartoon. “Guys, don’t look.”

The lowriders politely turned their heads as Corazon unlocked her cellphone. Nobody in the world was allowed to see her pass code.

Hector put two twenty-dollar bills into a ceramic piggy bank that stood atop a bureau. “¿Corazon?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you put sheets on the bed?”

“It’s too expensive to clean them all the time.” The Dominican girl did not remove her eyes from her cellphone as she spoke. “I’d have to charge more to fuck.”

“Well, that was some good loving you gave us.”

Corazon shrugged. Upon the luminous touchscreen of her cellphone, her thumbs danced a merengue.

“Bye,” said the bearded lowrider.

“Okay.”

The partners walked toward the door.

“Un momento,” said Five Tears, who then stopped and turned around.

“Wanna fuck some more?” asked Hector. “You can take the oyster this time.”

“Uncle Pedro.”

The bearded lowrider was confused, and for a moment, he wondered why his tattooed associate would want to fuck a man, especially a fat, hairy, and old one like his Uncle Pedro. This unpleasant image was soon replaced by comprehension.

“Para apostar…” said Hector.

“Correcto.”

The bearded lowrider turned and approached his cousin. “Does Uncle Pedro have any tips for us?”

Looking at the cellphone, the Dominican girl sighed. “I’ll check.”

Thumbs tap danced upon the touchscreen for a few seconds and stopped. Waiting for a response, Corazon reached between her legs and removed the wadded paper towel, which was damp with semen and besmirched by a lone drop of blood. This refuse was tossed into a little pink trash basket that looked like it had been made for a toddler. The Dominican girl then placed a fresh paper towel upon her labia, eyed the touchscreen, and sighed.

Hector did not want to annoy Corazon. “If he’s not around, you can just tell—”

A ding emerged from the pink cellphone.

“It’s him,” said the Dominican girl, whose eyes were now scanning the screen.

Patiently, the lowriders awaited Uncle Pedro’s betting tip.

“He says some guy named Flores is gonna win.”’

“Flores? In the fight against Johnson?”

Corazon typed and launched a short text message. As she adjusted the paper towel that lay between her legs, the cellphone dinged. “Yes.”

“How sure is he?” asked Five Tears. “What’s his percent?”

Sighing, the Dominican girl typed. The next reply landed almost instantly.

“Ninety percent.”

“Ninety?” repeated tattooed fellow, who was incredulous. “You’re sure?”

Corazon slid her fingers upon the touchscreen, enlarging the image, which she then turned around and held aloft. In the middle of the luminous rectangle was the figure, 90%.

Uncle Pedro was rarely more than seventy percent certain of his predictions, and this number greatly impressed both of the lowriders.

“Thanks for asking him.”

“And the loving.”

Midnight and clouds converged upon Great Crown. The partners were sitting in a grumbling dark blue lowrider that was not as fast as the maroon one they had stolen (and later shoved into the ocean), but it was reliable and legally theirs. Seven and two thirds fingers gripped the gold-plated steering wheel as the automobile sped north on Long Avenue.

“Ninety percent,” Hector repeated for the fifth time since leaving Corazon’s apartment. “We should bet all twenty-eight.”

Five Tears lowered his roach clip, exhaled a milky plume of marijuana, and said that it was unwise to wager everything.

“Noventa por ciento,” replied the bearded lowrider, repeating himself in Spanish so that the reiteration would be less obvious. “It could be a year before we get another that’s ninety.”

His partner said that they should not bet all of their earnings.

“Half?” inquired Hector, who then sliced the air with his abridged left hand.

Five Tears sucked on his dwindling roach and ruminated. “Si—fourteen hundred.”

A raindrop smacked the windshield, and distant thunder rumbled.

“Okay.” The bearded lowrider checked his mirrors and switched to the left lane. “Let’s get the money and visit Alvarez.” (This was the bookie with whom the partners had always placed their bets.)

“No.”

“¿Por que? I trust him.”

Five Tears said that Alvarez would ask how the two of them had earned fourteen hundred dollars.

“¿Quien?”

The roach glowed, and its smoke disappeared inside the passenger. Holding the legacy of the joint in his lungs, the tattooed fellow croaked, “We’ll go to a white bookie for this. Ernesto goes to the Russians and says you can trust them.”

“No Jews.”

“They’re Russians, not Jews.”

Another raindrop cracked against the windshield.

“Okay.”

Exhaling thick vapors, Five Tears leaned back in his seat. A purple lowrider whooshed past in the oncoming lane, and two raindrops smacked the windshield.

Something occurred to the tattooed fellow. “After we place the bet, we should find another car.”

Hector looked at Five Tears. “You wanna do some business on Preston Avenue?”

“Si. He won’t expect us to come again so soon. And in the rain.”

Two more drops smacked the glass.

XXV

Conscious of Erin Green

Rain crackled against the window of the bedroom where lay Task, whose subconscious mind was currently (and baroquely) accusing him of a great many things. Thunder rumbled, awakening him from the troubling tableaux.

A digital clock told him it was just after two in the morning.

The slick grabbed his cellphone, sat on the edge of the mattress, and checked to see who had called, wondering if tonight would be the night he committed two acts of first-degree murder. There were no messages (other than one from Dingbang about a possible husband for Auntie), and Task was equally relieved and disappointed to find that homicide was not on his itinerary.

One week had passed since the meeting with Strembicky, and thus far, the consortium manhunt had yielded no fruit.

Loath to subject himself to any more nightmares, the slick decided to clean himself up and go to one of his parlors. Something cracked like a gunshot, startling him, and he soon realized that what he had heard was only an ambitious raindrop striking the air conditioner.

Task walked across the brown carpet, turned on his bedroom television, and raised the volume. Listening to a movie in which the residents of a small town tried to figure out why a bunch of bloodless corpses had perforated necks, he went to the toilet, urinated, washed his hands, shaved, and showered. The sheriff was asking a dwarf librarian for a book about vampires when the slick killed the power and left his apartment.

Hidden by the right leg of his mocha slacks and tucked into an ankle holster was his snub-nosed revolver.

Watching the shadows, Task descended the stairs to the lower level of the parking garage, approached his silver sedan, and seated himself. Darkness scurried as he turned on the lights. Purring, the car corkscrewed upwards to the street, where the windshield became a rippling sheet of water.

Wipers elbowed the rain as the slick drove southwest toward Preston Avenue. He was not sure when he had made the decision to go to this particular parlor, but it seemed to be his destination.

The yellow and white smears of street lamps and headlights swam across the windshield. Task turned on the radio and heard a blues-rock standard that his bar band had covered sixteen years earlier. This memory and the thought of the three dusty guitars that hung upon the paneled wall of his guest room sent his thumb to the power button.

The music vanished.

Listening to the rain and his thoughts, he drove through the wet city.

Task cornered onto Preston Avenue, reached the building that contained the parlor, and turned toward the entrance of the parking garage. The raindrops that fell between the car and the dark opening were changed into a curtain of diamonds by the headlights.

Soon, the silver sedan was out of the storm, trailing fluid as it climbed up the ramp. The slick claimed the open space next to the familiar purple compact, exited his vehicle, took the elevator to the second floor, walked to 243, bypassed the outer door, and turned the bolts.

Inside the airlock, he sent a text message to the manager. A reply came, and a moment later, two locks snapped.

The inner door was withdrawn by Karate John, whose face evinced concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

Task entered the lounge area of the parlor, shut the door, and twisted the bolts. Two longtime clients were sharing drinks on a sofa, and a third fellow was walking into the hollow refrigerator that led to the casino.

The manager appraised his boss. “You’ve come by early to check on things?”

“My apartment was feeling vast.”

Understanding came to Karate John, who then massaged his velvet beard. “Do you want to spend some time with Gabriella or Daniela?”

“Daniela?” Task repeated while thinking of his ex-wife whom he had seen four days ago at the funeral.

“Erin,” whispered the manager.

Preoccupied, the slick had momentarily forgotten the name that he had given the brunette butterfly. “I’m just interested in a drink. Maybe some conversation or cards.”

“Scotch?”

“Sure.”

Karate John opened the refrigerator and led Task through the recessed doorway into the gambling den, where soothing electronic music complimented the gold and blue track lighting. A politician, Chili, and an upper-level consortium guy named G.K. sat at the blackjack table, waiting for the return of the dealer. The members waved upon seeing the proprietor.

“Still raining hard out there?” asked the baseball player.

“Like bricks.” Task eyed Karate John. “See to them—I’ll help myself.”

Prompted, the manager returned to the waiting gamblers, all of whom had thick wallets and happy hands.

The slick went to the bar, poured an inch, and installed himself in a plush, royal blue chair. Preoccupied, he drank and stared at the blackjack table.

A cellphone buzzed in his pocket.

His skin tightened.

Rain crackled like popcorn against the curtained window that sat on the west wall.

Task retrieved the buzzing device and saw that the caller was Dingbang, rather than Strembicky. Equally relieved and disappointed, the slick let his voicemail hear the Asian fellow’s late-night complaints.

Rain crackled against the glass as the storm continued.

Task got up and poured himself a drink that had one more inch than did its predecessor. Two hands of blackjack later, the scotch was gone.

The walls of the room shifted, and gravity tugged at the slick’s uneven head. Buzzed, he rose from his chair, found his footing, and departed from the casino. Things wobbled as he entered the lounge and reclined upon the sofa that his dead friend had favored for his catnaps.

Task let his eyelids fall. Some guys said something about a basketball team, and somebody laughed. The voices went away.

Suddenly, there was a warehouse.

The slick stood in front of this enormous gray edifice, pulling the handle of an impossibly large door until it was five inches from the jamb. Somehow, he squeezed through this opening and entered the building. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.

Handcuffed to incredibly elaborate steel pipes were Nowski, Andrea, Mr. Bronowski, Mrs. Bronowski, Captain Alder, Mrs. Alder, Daniela, Strembicky, and the agent.

Task walked toward the captives, whose throats were pale and exposed. Held in his right hand was an open pocketknife.

“Are you okay?”

The prisoners became a sofa cushion, and the slick opened his eyes.

Leaning over the couch in jeans, a sleeveless green t-shirt, and matching flip-flops was Erin. Her big sloppy purse adorned her left shoulder, and a lime scrunchie kept her chestnut hair from her face, which was currently wrinkled with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Task sat up and glanced at his cellphone, which contained no new messages. “I’m fine.”

“You’re losing weight,” the butterfly remarked through a frown. “What’d you eat for dinner?”

“Scotch.”

“That’s it?”

Rain crackled on the window as the slick ruminated. “Some painkillers.”

“Wanna go to the diner with me?”

Task’s stomach made some puppy dog noises.

“Sounds like you need it,” remarked Erin.

“I’ve got work to do.”

“Can it wait? Or be done by somebody else?”

“I’ll do the roundup with Dublin,” Karate John announced from the far side of the lounge. “You should go eat.”

“I need to do the roundup,” replied the slick. “I’ll grab something la—”

“Go with her and eat.” Sadness shone in the manager’s gray eyes. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself since Nowski died.”

Task did not bother to dispute this statement. “I appreciate the offer…but I should go. The lowriders are still out there, and if something—”

“Dublin and I go to the firing range every Tuesday and are capable. Go have a decent meal. Please.”

“Fine. I’ll eat.”

The slick stood, wavered, and realized that he was still a little bit drunk. It took him fifteen seconds to put his arms through the sleeves of his mocha blazer and another ten to get the top button through the slit.

Karate John eyed Erin. “You’re driving.”

“Affirmative.”

The trio was joined by the Brazilian, and as a group, they proceeded through the airlock, across the second-floor hallway, and down into the parking garage, where they then divided into three units. Task walked alongside Erin, checking the shadows for lowriders, while Gabriella and Karate John went in different directions, casually waving goodbye to each other in an attempt to hide the fact that they slept together (even though their boss knew about their trysts and did not care).

Flip-flops slapped heels and scuffed the concrete as the butterfly led the slick toward her purple hybrid. Sliding across the ground were a rectilinear shadow and a curved one that had swaying hips. Outside the parking garage, rain hissed.

“You parked next to me,” remarked Erin.

Task nodded his head, wondering if this action was yet another meaningful decision that had been made by his subconscious. “Did you do well tonight?” he asked while minding his footsteps so that he would not weave.

“How drunk are you?”

“A little.” The slick disliked the feeling of being drunk unless he was about to go to sleep. “But it’s fading.”

Erin pointed a small black rectangle at her car, which then chirped like a bird. “Nine in tips.”

“Wow.”

Karate John flashed a palm through the window of his black sports utility vehicle as he drove down the ramp.

“Any proposals?” asked Task.

“One.”

“Seems like you could make a career out of being an ex-wife.”

“I don’t really believe in alimony.”

“No?”

“Child support makes sense—and so does paying up front for sex—but reimbursing somebody for being your spouse seems to retroactively turn the entire marriage into a business transaction.”

“Interesting way of putting it.”

The slick and the butterfly reached the purple hybrid.

Standing beside the passenger door, Task surveyed the parking garage.

The dim gray enclosure was motionless.

At present, the slick remembered the dream in which he had carried a pocketknife across a warehouse toward the exposed throats of his friends, his affiliates, his ex-wife, a macho, and several corpses. His scalp tingled.

Dismissing the image, he opened the car door.

“Wait!”

Task froze.

Something crackled, startling the slick. Anxious, he looked around for the source of the noise.

“You okay?” inquired Erin, who had just pulled four inches of duct tape from the roll in her hands.

“Yeah.”

Adhesive crackled as the butterfly lengthened the strip. “Let me get the dog hair off of your seat.” She tore off the ten-inch piece and turned it into a loop. “You’re not allergic are you? To dogs?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Erin put the tape on her right hand, leaned into the car, and patted the passenger seat.

An engine purred, and Task watched Gabriella speed her dented black sports car down the ramp. “What kind of dog do you have?”

“Brussels Griffon, French Bulldog, Chihuahua, Yorkshire Terrier, and Bichon Frisé.”

“How many dogs is that?”

“Five. Small ones.” The butterfly rotated the loop of tape (revealing a side now covered with fur) and continued to pat the seat. “Can you throw those in the trunk?” She pointed to a stack of pillows that filled the foot well.

“Sure.” The slick claimed the pile. “What’re they for?”

“When I take the gang for a ride. They like put their heads through the window, feel the breeze, but they’re too little to get up there. Except for Wooferson—the Bichon.”

Task approached the trunk, which was silently opening on automatic hinges.

“I put that big fluffy pillow on the dashboard with bungee cords,” Erin added, “so that the gang’ll be safer if some asshole hits us.”

The slick put the pillows into the trunk, which contained five empty pet carriers and a large bag of gourmet dog food. “You’re a very considerate dog owner.”

“I don’t feel like I ‘own’ them—like they’re my property or anything. We just hang out. At home or in the park or cruising around, listening to music.” The butterfly stood up and pulled the loop of furry tape from her hand. “They’re into rap.”

Task closed the trunk. “That’s too bad.”

“Some rap’s okay—especially when there’s one of those buxom black ladies who can sing for real doing back-up—but that’s what they like. If I put on rock or pop or some other kind of music, Spazzington gets crazy.”

“Spazzington’s a good name.”

“Thanks.”

Erin followed her long bare legs into the driver’s seat, and Task closed the door behind her. Monitoring the parking garage, he circumvented the purple vehicle and entered on the passenger’s side. His right hand gripped the strap and shut the door.

The butterfly divided her breasts with a seat belt and slotted the buckle, which snapped. “You really think whoever robbed you is coming back?”

“It’s possible,” replied Task. “Especially if they’re stupid.”

“They outsmarted you, so they probably aren’t stupid.”

“Well…they surprised me, which isn’t the same as outsmarting me.”

Erin held up her hands. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t.” The slick eyed the rearview mirror. “But there’s a difference between two guys playing chess, and one guy taking a bunch of pieces off of the board before his opponent even knows there’s a game.”

“You’re right.”

“But still…there’re some things I should’ve done differently.” Task recalled Andrea saying, “You left him there,” and felt a flush of shame.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The slick threw a practiced shrug. “What diner’s your favorite?”

Erin tossed her big sloppy purse into a space that a dwarf might have called a back seat. “I like Ed’s.”

“Me, too.”

The butterfly slotted the key into the ignition. Attached to her right elbow was the ball of furry tape.

Task removed the hirsute parasite, which he then stuffed into a cigarette compartment.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll throw it out at Ed’s. Unless you’re saving them up to build some kind of canine collage.”

“I’m not.”

The engine chittered three times and rumbled.

Anxious, the slick eyed the mirrors.

Erin shifted into reverse, and the gray wall retreated. Spinning the fuzzy purple steering wheel, she lifted her foot from the gas and braked. The vehicle stopped in the middle of the ramp.

Task looked through the windshield.

One hundred feet below loomed the bluish-black swatch that was the exit.

A glance at the dashboard clock told the slick that it was five thirteen.

Leaning forward, he raised the cuff of his right pant leg and withdrew his revolver.

Erin fingered the button for the high beams, shifted into drive, and accelerated toward the dark opening.

“Be careful,” warned Task, whose heart was thudding.

“How about fast?”

The engine changed keys. Concrete pillars and parked automobiles whooshed past the purple hybrid. Headlights shot through the exit into the rain.

The windshield crackled and became an opaque sheet of water as the vehicle left the parking garage. Unable to see, the slick stopped breathing.

Erin activated the wipers and dialed the steering wheel clockwise. Headlights swept across layers of falling tinsel.

Preston Avenue was empty, excepting the line of dark automobiles parked along the opposite curb.

Relieved, Task inflated his lungs, returned the revolver to his ankle holster, and patted the dashboard. “You know how to handle this thing.”

“Thanks. Though I drive a lot safer when I’ve got the gang.”

“My life’s not as valuable theirs?”

“Don’t be offended when I don’t answer that.”

Blinking yellow dots and luminous smears swam upon the windshield as tires cut water. The digital speedometer soon reached fifty.

“How does Diego feel about the gang?”

“He’s allergic.”

“Does he take pills or something?”

“No—I moved out and got a new place near Kingfisher Park. Queen Evil—the French Bulldog—already knows how to get there on her own.”

“You’re still seeing Diego?”

“No,” Erin said while keeping her eyes on the road. “We broke up.”

Task felt the atmosphere change. The air thickened, and the sounds of the storm grew louder. Nobody said anything.

Four years earlier, the slick had stopped having physical relations with his butterflies. His decision was not because he had a moral problem with taking care of his physical urges in this manner, but because the chosen women had been disappointed when he had not treated them any differently in the workplace. This unfulfilled expectation had created tension and eventually caused one very valuable commodity to quit.

Erin was now making Task reconsider his self-imposed rule. She had a lovely face, creamy skin, and a lot of great equipment, but the thing that really made her exceptional was the fact that she was so together. This was not how the slick would describe any other prostitute he had ever met, and he doubted that she would remain in the sex industry for very long.

Eventually, Task broke the silence. “Ending it with Diego seems like a good move.” This comment did not sound nonchalant, despite the hopes of the commentator.

The butterfly squeezed the fuzzy purple steering wheel. “I just couldn’t look at his worthless, lazy ass any longer. And I’ve always wanted dogs like this—a gang of littles.”

“I’d like to see them sometime.” This request had launched itself out of the slick’s mouth without any permission from his brain.

Erin eyed Task and then returned her attention to the road.

Outside, the storm roared.

Using an index finger that had green glitter nail polish, Erin pulled a loose chestnut curl behind her right ear. “We’ll see.”

A blinking yellow light swam across the windshield.

“Music?” asked the butterfly.

“Sure.”

The seat belt slid between Erin’s breasts as she leaned toward the radio.

Task felt the warmth of a budding erection. Deprivations, alcohol, and the qualities of the nearby woman were conspiring against his professional boundaries.

A rap song thudded into existence, and Erin fingered the middle preset button. Filling the car was a New Wave pop song that had been manufactured in the nineteen eighties by European robots who wore skinny ties and exclusive jackets.

The butterfly leaned back in her seat and gestured. “This good?”

“Much better than rap.”

“What do you like?”

“Blues and rock. Jazz when there’s some unity, and it isn’t just some pretentious heroin addict ‘exploring his instrument’ while other dudes wait for him to finish.”

The seat belt cupped Erin’s left breast as she leaned forward and fingered a different button. A blues song crawled out of the speakers.

“This kinda stuff?”

“Sure.”

Thunder rumbled as the butterfly sat back, flicked the turn signal, and spun the fuzzy steering wheel. The purple hybrid veered, carrying the blues and its two quiet listeners onto a cross street.

Focusing on the music (which was mediocre but had a strong bass line) kept Task from thinking about how Erin had looked upon the stage of Cherry Red while spinning around a sparkling pole in high heels and a thong.

Wipers swung back and forth, elbowing clear spaces upon the windshield.

“You play an instrument, right?” asked the butterfly.

“Did.”

“Guitar?”

“Yeah.” Task eyed Erin. “Why’d you guess that?”

“That’s the type of guy you are. Guitarist.”

The headlights of an oncoming city bus sparkled in the butterfly’s eyes and turned her thin green shirt into some kind of brassiere bas-relief. Amidst these lines were the raised circles of her areolae.

The oncoming vehicle zoomed past, and the interior of the car darkened.

At present, the slick returned his gaze to the road. “What type of guy is a guitarist?”

“It’s not an insult or anything.”

“I’m curious. You seem to have things figured out.”

Rain thickened, and Erin ratcheted a knob, which hastened the vacillations of the wipers. “There’re some exceptions, but yeah, I’ve got it figured.”

“Let me hear it.”

“Okay.

“Singers have to get a lot of attention. They need for other people to think they’re profound or special or sexy—kinda like actors. They crave validation, and’re often really insecure. That’s not the kind of guy you are.

“Drummers are usually loudmouths and sort of primitive. A lot of them have anger issues and stupid ideas that the rest of the band just tries to ignore. You aren’t that kind of guy either.

“Bassists aren’t doing all that much—they just kind of help things along, filling in the cracks. Half the time they’re playing, they look like they’re fishing for trout. That doesn’t fit you either…though it would’ve been my second guess, since sometimes they secretly run the whole show.”

The butterfly slowed the car and cornered. “Guitarists are different. Most of them study music and write music. And when they’re on stage, they don’t tell people who they are or what they’re thinking like a singer does, they show people who they are with the things that they create. With their ideas.”

For a moment, the slick wondered if plots that involved the creep, six black guys, and cement-filled postal boxes had superseded music as his primary mode of creative expression. “Sounds like you’ve been around some musicians.”

“A few.” Erin glanced at Task. “Why don’t you play anymore?”

“I’m doing this. My business.”

“Can’t you do both at the same time?”

“Not to my satisfaction.”

“Were you good?”

“Decent.”

“You think you’ll play again?”

“I plan to.”

A very lovely thing happened to Erin’s face. “Good.”

“I need sunglasses for that smile.”

Grinning, the butterfly patted the slick’s left thigh.

The feelings of guilt, dread, and pain that had filled Task for the past week were momentarily pushed to the perimeters.

Erin returned her right hand to the steering wheel.

“How does Spazzington feel about blues?” asked the slick.

“Don’t know.” The butterfly scratched the back of her head and shrugged. “Maybe I’ll find out.”

Task felt a gentle tug in his insides.

The wipers swept across the windshield, revealing a neon turquoise rectangle floating in the air. A halo of rain shimmered around this familiar sign, which was for Ed’s.

Headlights materialized.

Task glanced at the oncoming vehicle (which was a yellow station wagon) and realized that his nerves were far calmer than they had been at the beginning of the trip. The idea that the lowriders had identified the passenger of the purple hybrid and trailed him across the city without being noticed seemed preposterous, if not impossible.

Green glitter sparkled as Erin snapped the turn signal and turned the steering wheel clockwise.

“I like your nail polish.”

“Thanks.”

Tires splashed in a hollow, and the hood dipped. Bouncing forward, the purple hybrid entered the parking lot. The four spaces along the overhang were occupied by vehicles, which the slick surmised belonged to employees.

“Can you grab my bag?” asked the butterfly. “I’ve got an umbrella we can share.”

“Great.”

Task threw a hand into the back seat and seized the big sloppy purse as Erin slotted the car into an open space, shoved the gear stick into park, and killed the engine.

Raindrops crackled loudly upon the hood and windshield.

“Here,” said the slick, proffering a heap of straps, pockets, and buckles.

Turning, Erin looked at Task. Her gaze went deep into his eyes, lingering as she claimed her purse.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

The slick had wanted to lean forward and kiss the butterfly during that thick moment, but intellectually, he knew that he had made the right decision. If something were to happen between them, it should not occur an hour after she had finished a long night of work as a prostitute.

Erin flung a buckle-adorned flap, pulled a zipper, and opened her purse. Green glitter fingertips turned aside protein bars, breath mints, scrunchies, a paperback novel entitled Invocation in Blood, and a water bottle. During this rummaging, a driver’s license surfaced.

Task eyed the card.

The name at the top of the identification was Erin Hope Green, and the photograph was of the gorgeous brunette, but the slick noticed that something was off. This license (though valid) was the kind that the state of Florida had stopped issuing five years earlier, yet the woman had specifically told him that she had moved to Great Crown from California three years earlier. Although she might have simply misremembered the dates, it was possible that she had consciously lied about how long she had lived in the city. This discrepancy was not something about which he was especially concerned (most women in the sex industry lied about their pasts), but it did arouse his curiosity.

“Got it,” said Erin, who then withdrew a shiny purple baton.

“You like purple.”

“And green.”

“Your last name prophesied that.” Task claimed the collapsed umbrella. “I’ll come around and get you.”

“A gentleman.”

“Despite myself.”

The slick pocketed the ball of furry tape and climbed outside. Rain pelted him as he opened the umbrella. Partially shielded from the downpour, he closed his door, circumvented the front bumper, and strode to the driver’s side.

Erin soon joined Task underneath the small purple dome.

Rain hissed like television static as the slick elbowed the door, put the umbrella in his left hand, and curled his right arm around the butterfly’s bare shoulders.

“Let’s go.”

Pressing themselves together, Task and Erin proceeded toward the diner. Hard Italians and green flip-flops splashed water as rainfall soaked the slick’s left shoulder, which did not quite fit under the small umbrella. Quickening their strides, the pair entered a luminous curtain of turquoise rain that took its color from the neon sign. The precipitation changed back into flickering lines of white and gray as they circumvented the employee vehicles.

Erin and Task hurried under the overhang, where the rain was replaced by warm humid air.

Sporadically wet, the slick lowered the umbrella and shook off the accumulation. “That was exciting.”

“They usually tell you when a hurricane’s coming.” The butterfly aimed her little black remote at the storm, and ninety feet away, the purple hybrid chirped. “Glad I’ve got my flip-flops on.”

“You’re being facetious?”

Erin reached into her big sloppy purse and exchanged her keys for some folded paper towels. “I’d rather do this than have wet socks—” She leaned over and dried her pretty feet.

Task wriggled his toes and felt the water that had gotten into his Italians. “You’ve got a point.” He removed the ball of furry tape from his pocket. “Sure you don’t need this for canine repairs?”

“I’m sure.”

The slick put the hirsute wad into the trashcan, where the butterfly soon discarded some soggy paper towels. At present, she reorganized some chestnut curls that had escaped during the dash.

Task motioned to the front door and looked at Erin, whose green eyes returned his gaze. This look put an ache in his chest, and it was clear that the woman was also feeling something…though that did not necessarily mean that she would give in to her impulse.

Once again, the slick told himself that he should not kiss the butterfly after her long night in the parlor. “Let’s go inside,” said his mouth, simultaneously impressing and disappointing the rest of his body.

Erin broke the lingering eye contact. “Yeah—I’m hungry.”

Flip-flops shuffled, and Italians cracked.

At the front entrance, Task opened the door.

The butterfly said, “Thanks,” as she entered the turquoise and white diner, where she was soon followed by the slick.

“Anywhere you like,” said Charlie, who had planted her vehicular rump upon a stool at the front counter.

“Thanks.”

“Nice to see you.”

“You, too.”

Task deposited the wet umbrella in a bucket and guided Erin to a window booth, where they sat opposite each other upon turquoise vinyl benches.

“Did this pretty little thing do that to your face?” the black waitress asked while setting two enormous menus upon the table.

“Got in a fight with a squirrel.”

“Doesn’t look like you won.”

“No, but I got plenty of acorns.”

The waitress set waters upon the table. “So, where’s your buddy? Mr. Chicken Salad with Bacon on Rye?”

Task did not want to discuss Nowski at this time. “He’s away.”

“Okay. This one’s prettier anyhow.” The waitress repositioned her automobile and walked toward the kitchen. “I’ll come back for your orders.”

The slick raised his menu, thinking of the dead bodybuilder. His eyes started to sting.

“You guys were really close?” Erin asked from the other side of the laminated wall.

Task did not lower the barrier. “Yeah.” His throat felt thick.

The butterfly stood up, walked to the opposite bench, and scooted across the vinyl until she was next to the slick. Her right hand landed upon his nape and gently massaged tense muscles.

Warmed by the gesture, Task set down his menu and looked at Erin. “Thank you.”

The butterfly nodded her head. Her gaze was direct, and her lips were only inches away.

A cellphone buzzed.

The slick felt the device vibrate inside his right pocket, and his stomach knotted.

“You okay?” asked Erin.

“I’m sorry…but I need to see who this is…”

“Go ahead. It’s fine.”

Task withdrew the cellphone from his pocket and looked at the touchscreen.

The call was from Strembicky.

XXVI

Under the Overhang

Task excused himself, walked out into the damp air, and stood underneath the overhang in front of Ed’s. The cellphone was held to his good ear by his bad hand.

“Hello?”

“We’ve recently acquired some merchandise that will be of interest to you,” said Strembicky.

The slick’s stomach tightened. Rain hissed upon the parking lot pavement and crackled upon the roof.

“Hello?” inquired the guarantor.

“I’m here.” Task sucked moist air into his lungs and pushed some words to his mouth. “Where can I see this merchandise?”

“I’ll send somebody to come and get you. What’s your current location?”

“I can come meet you.”

“I’ll send somebody to come and get you. What’s your current location?”

The downpour was so heavy that the purple hybrid was only a watercolor impression of itself. A semi truck shot down the road, dragging a wake like a speedboat.

“What is your current location?”

Wind blew warm, wet air across the slick’s face and stirred the corners of his jacket. “I’m at Ed’s. It’s a diner on White off of Long. You know it?”

“Please wait one moment.”

Audible on the line was some muted conversation in another language. Amidst this garbled discourse were the words, ‘Ed’s,’ ‘White,’ and ‘Long.’

“A vehicle will be there in twenty minutes,” stated Strembicky.

“What am I looking for?”

There was a pause that the rain filled with white noise.

“They will find you,” replied the guarantor.

“Okay.”

The line went dead.

Task slid the cellphone into his pocket.

Another warm, wet breeze played across his skin and stirred the corners of his jacket. In the near future, the lowriders would be room temperature, and the threat would be removed. The slick, his associates, and his parlors would once again be safe.

This rationale did not make Task any more comfortable with the idea of committing two acts of first-degree murder, though fortunately for him, he no longer had the ability to walk away.

A consortium vehicle was coming.

Two mosquitoes flew between the slick’s face and the sheets of water that fell just beyond the edge of the overhang. The insects hummed as they wove nonsensical circles, afraid of the rain and uninterested in the bruised man’s blood. A manicured hand that would soon commit murder gently waved the pests away.

Task watched the storm pound the city, and eventually, his gaze returned to the purple hybrid. Recalling the thoughtful woman who awaited him inside the diner, he turned around and passed through the doorway. The soles of his Italians cracked upon the white and turquoise tiles as he approached the booth, which was surmounted by a chestnut ponytail, a long neck, and two bare shoulders.

Erin turned around in her seat. “Is everything okay?”

“There’s some junk I need to deal with,” said Task, who then sat on the opposite side of the table.

“I told Charlie to give you your usual. In case we had to go.”

“That was thoughtful.” The slick was not sure that he would be able to eat an omelet, but he appreciated the gesture. “What’d you get?”

“Scrambled eggs and bacon. And cheese grits, which is my number one favorite thing on the menu.”

“They’re good here.”

The waitress emerged from the kitchen, carrying a big tray of food.

“That was fast,” remarked Task.

“You were out there for a while.”

The slick glanced at the counter clock and saw that the time was eighteen after six. Apparently, he had stood underneath the overhang for fifteen minutes, staring at bugs and the storm.

Plates clanked upon the surface of the table, and soon, the smells of eggs, ham, bacon, Swiss, cheddar, and grits filled the air.

“Mmmm,” said Erin. “Looks great.”

Making a U-turn, Charlie drove toward the front counter. “Enjoy.”

The wall clock clicked, garnering Task’s attention.

Five minutes remained before the arrival of the consortium vehicle.

“In a rush?” asked Erin.

“Somebody’s picking me up.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Soon.”

An unspoken question wrinkled the butterfly’s face.

“I can’t talk about it,” said the slick. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” Erin pointed a green glitter fingertip at the food. “Eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Task cut into his omelet with the side of his fork, saw something flash in his peripheral vision, and looked through the window.

A pair of headlights sped down the street and disappeared around a corner.

The slick slotted eggs into his mouth, chewed thrice, and swallowed.

Across the table, the butterfly put a spoon into her bowl of cheddar cheese grits. The utensil clanked against the porcelain as she stirred.

A renegade raindrop smacked the window, and again, the clock ticked.

Uncomfortable with these sounds, Task thought of something to say. “How long do you expect to work at the parlor?”

Erin lowered her gaze and stirred her grits. Her downturned face showed uncertainty.

“It’s okay.” The slick raised a forkful of hash browns that were actually hash blacks. “I know this isn’t gonna be your career for very long.”

“Why’s that?”

Task chewed and swallowed his potatoes. “You’re too together.”

Relaxing, Erin lifted her gaze. “Two months, maybe three. Until I get myself out of debt and put away some savings.”

“What then?”

“You’re interested in what I do after?”

“Very.”

Suddenly shy, the butterfly lowered her gaze and resumed stirring her grits.

The pitiless clock ticked. On the far side of myriad raindrops and three intersections shone two sparkling dots.

The slick lost his appetite.

“I was in nursing school before I got in trouble,” Erin said, “so I’ll finish that and get my license.”

“Not a veterinarian?”

“I can handle a lot—obviously—but I couldn’t go to work every day and see sick doggies. No way.”

“You’d be a good RN.”

The sparkling dots crossed an intersection and turned into cones of light.

“It’d feel good,” the butterfly said, “doing something like that.”

“I’m sure it would.”

The moving headlights glared as the vehicle turned into the parking lot. Rolling through the rain was a white sports utility vehicle that had black windows.

Suppressing anxieties, Task waved at the oncoming automobile and looked across the table.

Erin was gone.

An irrational fear suddenly joined all of the slick’s very rational ones but vanished when he saw the butterfly returning from the front counter. Held in her hands were a white takeout container, two napkins, and a plastic fork.

“You’re taking the rest of that food with you.”

“Okay.”

“And eating it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Erin transferred the remainder of Task’s omelet and hash blacks into the proper storage compartments and slotted his fork and napkin in an empty groove. “There.”

The slick set a fifty-dollar bill on the table and received the takeout container. “Thank you.”

“Be careful.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Concern shone upon the butterfly’s face. “Be careful.”

Task said, “Bye,” turned around, and walked through the doorway. Warm, wet air enveloped him, and beyond the overhang, hedges shuddered, tickled by the downpour.

Holding the takeout container over his head, the slick hastened toward the white SUV. Rain soaked his sleeves as his Italians splashed water. The distance between him and the automobile diminished to ten feet, and the front passenger door swung open.

Task climbed into the dark leather interior. Behind the wheel sat a muscular cog in a black jogging suit who had a goatee and a cauliflower right ear.

The slick closed the door.

Four automatic locks clicked in unison.

“Put all of your weapons in here,” said an unseen man who sat in the darkness behind Task.

Leather upholstery creaked, and a metal toolbox landed upon the armrest.

The slick set his takeout container on top of the steel container. “Get your boss on the phone before I do anything.”

Clothing rustled, and leather upholstery creaked. A click followed, barely distinguishable from the polyrhythmic tattoo of the storm upon the windshield and roof.

Waiting, Task watched the small figure who was dimly visible in the rearview mirror. The left cheek and corresponding ear of this fellow were illuminated by a cellphone.

A small voice sounded in the receiver.

“He wants to talk to you,” said the short fellow who sat in the back seat.

The reply was brief. Light and shadows moved throughout the interior as the cellphone floated toward the front.

The slick took the device, which he then set against his good ear. “Hello?”

“You wanted to talk to me?” asked Strembicky.

“I didn’t recognize these guys and wanted some verification.”

“They’re mine.”

“Okay. Bye.”

The line went dead.

Task saw the name Leo V. at the top of the screen and returned the cellphone to the short, well-dressed fellow in the backseat.

The goateed cog set the takeout container upon the dashboard and then opened the toolbox. A white washcloth lay inside.

“Your weapons,” Leo V. prompted from the backseat.

“I only have one. And it seems like I’m gonna need it.”

“The weaponry will be supplied by us.”

The slick then understood why the consortium guys were asking for his gun. “My gun doesn’t have a biography. It’s clean.”

“Probably.”

Task took the washcloth, removed the revolver from his ankle holster, wiped his fingerprints from the surface, popped the cylinder, dumped the bullets, and cleaned the shells. Mummified in white fabric, the gun and ammunition were placed inside of the toolbox.

Leo V. shut the lid and took the container into the backseat.

The goateed cog accelerated. Cones of light scanned the downpour, and the SUV dipped as it left the parking lot.

Task resisted the impulse to look back and see if Erin were still in the booth with her cheddar grits and scrambled eggs.

Dialing the wheel clockwise, the goateed cog drove east. Four oncoming headlights shone in the opposite lane, but the bottom pair were only a watery reflection of the ones on top.

“You found both of them?” Task asked while turning off his cellphone.

The fellow behind the wheel ignored the question and scratched his cauliflower ear.

Irked, the slick glanced at the short shadow that sat in the rearview mirror. “Can you count all the way up to two?”

“We’re not gonna get conversational.”

Four headlights swept past the SUV, pulling a long, high wake.

It was clear to Task that the pair had been told to keep quiet. All of the men who worked for Strembicky were well-disciplined, and thus, there was no point in making any further inquiries.

XXVII

A Neuron Fires

Task leaned back in the passenger seat of the white sports utility vehicle and shifted his attention from the lumps that sat nearby to the rumbling ones that hung in the vault overhead. His wet clothing clung to his feet, shins, and arms, and he was cold despite the warm weather.

The automobile rolled east for seven minutes, cornered, and proceeded north. Financial district skyscrapers appeared on the blurry horizon and expanded until the automobile was in a deep valley of concrete façades and dark windows. Ten more minutes of travel in this direction brought the vehicle into a developing area.

The goateed cog cut the wheel and steered directly at a tall barb-wire fence that had an orange privacy mesh. Tires squeaked, and the truck stopped moving. Locks clicked, rising, and Leo V. exited from the back of the vehicle. His big black umbrella opened like the wings of a bat.

The short fellow shut the door, walked into the headlights, and reached into the right pocket of his dark blue suit. Keys in his hand, he undid three padlocks (which held just as many chains) and shoved the gate.

The driver accelerated past his peer and into the muddy lot. Two hundred feet away stood a thing that would one day be a skyscraper but was currently a lot of girders and ideas.

Task glanced at the side view mirror.

Leo V. fastened the chains around the reunited fence posts and then walked toward the vehicle. The back door opened and shut.

Tires churned wet earth as the SUV rolled toward the foundations of the partially completed skyscraper.

The goateed cog cut the wheel to the right. Headlights panned across the percolating mud and shone upon a saffron-colored, sixty-foot long box of corrugated metal. A curtained window glowed on the right side of the trailer, and on the opposite end stood an off-white door.

The SUV stopped.

A lot of fears crowded into Task, who was now unarmed on a closed construction site with some consortium guys in the middle of a storm. Concerns of treachery suddenly joined his other more logical apprehensions, and briefly, he wondered why he had not allowed himself to look back at Erin as the automobile had left the diner.

The goateed cog shoved the gear stick into park.

“Go in,” said Leo V., who did not choose to lend out his umbrella.

Task pulled the latch and leaned sideways. The storm squeezed through the opening, pelting him as he climbed out of his seat.

Italians slapped the mud, and the slick shut the door. Mud percolated like magma as he walked through the downpour toward the saffron trailer. The floral curtain flinched, moved by an unseen watcher.

Rain hissed.

Task reached the stairwell that led to the off-white door. Hard leather clanked upon steel as he climbed, trailing ochre gobs. Physical discomforts and the deluge partially distracted him from his fears.

A bolt clicked, and the slick raised his gaze.

The off-white panel swung inward, revealing the buzzcut cog who had driven Strembicky’s town car at the bakery one week earlier. Fresh bandages sat on his jaw and right arm, and dangling from one of his gloved hands was a red fire extinguisher.

The underling stepped aside, revealing a bright saffron interior.

Task walked through the doorway.

Seated in a rolling chair and wearing a black windbreaker suit and blue rubber gloves was the agent. His left elbow was on an office desk that had a bottle of water, two coffees, and a black toolbox.

The buzzcut cog waved at the SUV, shut the door, and turned the bolt, which snapped.

Anxious, Task looked around.

Nobody but the fat fellow and his underling inhabited the Spartan room.

Concerns of treachery percolated inside the slick’s brainpan once again, and he took a moment to master his fears before he spoke. “Is the boss here?”

“No,” replied the agent.

“Is he coming?”

“No.” The fat fellow motioned to the black toolbox. “This is for you.”

Task walked to the desk and withdrew a handkerchief, which he then used to lift the lid.

Lying inside the toolbox were a pair of blue rubber gloves and a nickel-plated revolver.

The slick wiped some wet hair out of his eyes and took a deep breath. Careful not to touch the toolbox itself, he claimed the gloves and pulled them over his hands. His fingertips throbbed inside of the tight rubber.

Somebody groaned.

Task looked to the far side of the trailer and saw a closed white door. The plaintive sound had emerged from beyond that barrier.

Rain rattled on the roof as the slick returned his attention to the toolbox and withdrew the nickel-plated revolver. His rubberized fingers pressed the release and opened the weapon.

Sitting in the cylinder was exactly one bullet.

Task looked at the agent. “You only got one of them?”

“Only one of them is still alive.”

The slick swung the cylinder in place. “So, what happened?”

“Two Hispanic gentlemen contacted one of our bookies. They wished to place a bet on Flores versus Johnson.”

“How much?”

“Fourteen hundred dollars.”

Task was incredulous. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” the fat fellow said through a smirk. “The robbers were told to come in and make a deposit.

“We were waiting.”

“I can’t believe they bet exactly half of the take.” The slick scratched an itch on his face with a rubber digit. “Fucking morons.”

“They are unintelligent, though they move very, very quickly—” The agent pointed at the bandages that adorned the buzzcut cog. “And another one of ours is in the hospital.”

“Serious?”

“It’s not trivial, but he’ll recover.” The fat fellow stood from the chair. “Are you ready?”

The slick fingered the nickel-plated revolver, inhaled deeply, and steeled himself. “I am.”

The three men walked toward the white door. Clattering rain and heavy footfalls resounded throughout space.

Task eyed the agent. “Did you find out their source?”

“The one that died did not survive long enough to be questioned, and our captive has been less than cooperative.”

“I need that information.”

“We know that you do.” The word “you” was emphasized in this statement.

The slick knew that things were going to get mean. This would not be a short and clean execution.

The buzzcut cog stopped and opened the door.

Curled up in a fetal position at the bottom of a shower was a naked and unconscious Hispanic who had a beard, a lot of scars, and a purple bruise on his forehead the size of a golf ball. Stainless steel handcuffs clasped his ankles and wrists, and his left foot wore an entire roll of duct tape.

“This is Hector Bello,” stated the agent. “He was released from the broiler a little less than four months ago.”

The slick noticed that the captive was missing two and one third fingers. “What happened to his hands?”

“He came like that,” said the buzzcut cog. “Except for the foot, which I shot twice.”

The fat fellow gestured. “Let’s start.”

Holding the fire extinguisher, the underling stepped forward, aimed the discharge hose, and squeezed the lever.

Foam slapped Hector’s face. Yelling, he spat out chemicals.

“¡Hijos de putas! You fucking—”

Foam filled his mouth.

Choking, the lowrider twisted away from the spray and rolled onto his side.

The buzzcut cog released the lever and withdrew from the bathroom.

Task walked through the doorway. “Who told you about the Commerce Street pickup?”

Hector rolled onto his back and opened his swollen red eyes. An ugly grin remodeled the forest of wiry hair that comprised his beard. “It’s the soap opera actor.”

“Who told you about the Commerce Street pickup?”

“How’s your friend?” The lowrider chuckled and sat upright. “Mr. Beefcake?”

The slick disregarded the goad. “Who told you about the pickup?”

“You didn’t like it when we shot at you, did you? Hiding like a faggot-ass bitch while your—”

Task slammed the revolver into the golf ball-sized bruise. Hector winced, gritting his teeth, but made no sound.

“Who told you about the pickup?” asked the slick.

“It wasn’t nice leaving your friend like that. He—”

Task stomped his right heel upon the duct-taped foot. Bones crackled.

Jaw clenched, Hector silently endured his pain.

“Who told you about the pickup?”

“Fuck you.”

The slick kicked the lowrider’s nose. Cartilage snapped.

“Who?”

Blood filled Hector’s nostrils and dripped down his foamy beard. A thin and staccato squeak came from behind his ugly yellow teeth.

He was laughing.

It was unclear if the lowrider was high on something or a masochist (or both), but his incomplete hands and the scars all over his body proved that he was well acquainted with pain. A man like this would probably be able to endure physical torments until his brain relinquished consciousness.

An oblique tactic was needed.

Withdrawing from the bathroom, Task faced the agent. “Did you find a cellphone on him or his buddy?”

“Both,” answered the buzzcut cog. “They’re in the car.”

“Get them.”

The consortium guys exchanged a look, and a moment later, the underling walked toward the off-white door.

Inside the bathroom, Hector leaned his back against the tiled wall of the shower. Blood drained from his smashed nose and ran down his throat and torso, bisecting him like a zipper. The discharge from the fire extinguisher had turned his eyes into puffy red bivalves.

An umbrella expanded over the head of the buzzcut cog as he walked outside. The door shut, and heavy footfalls clanked down the steps.

Task hoped that the cellphones would not be locked, yet he knew that they would be. Pondering plots, he walked over to the curtained window and peered outside.

The white SUV was missing, as was the underling, though the splashing footfalls of the latter were now audible behind the trailer.

“Did Mr. Beefcake have a nice funeral?”

The slick ignored the goad. Falling rain rattled on the ceiling, and a couple of loose panels buzzed. The buzzcut cog soon reappeared outside, carrying a plump trash bag.

“Did he get buried with his favorite set of dumbbells?”

Another squeaky laugh came from Hector, who was obviously doing what he could to hasten his execution. This antagonism would not alter Task’s itinerary, but it did make the imminent murder more palatable.

Footfalls clanked as the buzzcut cog climbed the steps. Collapsing the umbrella, he entered the trailer and elbowed the door. A bolt snapped, and the dripping trash bag thudded upon the office desk.

“Did he shit himself when we shot him?” asked the lowrider. “Fill his pants with all that sperm you pump up his ass?”

The underling rooted in the open trash bag and walked across the trailer toward the bathroom. Held in his right hand were a red touchscreen cellphone and a black one.

The slick took the slender devices.

Squeaking, Hector flashed his bloodstained teeth.

Task activated the black cellphone.

The touchscreen illuminated. Atop an empty box were the words, “Enter Code.”

The slick tried the red one and came to the same digital barrier, though with the additional information that there were ‘7 Missed Calls.’

“Too bad, maricón,” said the lowrider. “I guess you can’t use them…”

Task slid the cellphones into his jacket pocket, turned to the bathroom doorway, and eyed Hector. “Now you’re fucked.”

“They’re locked. Both of them.”

“I know—I have the same kind myself. But you know what happens when there’s an incoming call?”

The lowrider looked confused.

“You’re an imbecile,” the slick stated, “so I’ll just tell you rather than watch you attempt to fire a neuron.

“Two things happen when a call comes in: A phone number appears on the screen or a name does, depending on what you’ve entered.”

The lowrider shrugged. “So?”

“Looks like the neuron’s asleep,” remarked the buzzcut cog.

“If a phone number comes up,” Task continued, “I’ll write it down and send a text message to the caller from a computer at an Internet cafe.”

Hector spat red ichor. “Nobody’ll tell you shit.”

“This caller will,” said the slick. “This caller will think I’m you because the text message will be from an email account that has the name Hector Bello, which I am about to create.

“So I’ll send the caller a text message from my Hector Bello account, saying that I’m at a café using a computer because my phone’s having problems and my normal email account was hacked.

“The next day, I’ll let the caller know that I need his or her full mailing address for a special package that I’m sending out.”

Task motioned to the consortium guys. “Then we’ll visit the caller.”

The lowrider was unable to keep a smile on his face.

“If we get a name,” the slick resumed, “then we just look that person up and make a visit.

“Very simple.”

Hector said nothing.

Task walked to the office desk and grabbed the rolling chair, which he then pushed across the trailer until it was in front of the bathroom doorway. Upon the dimpled seat cushion, he set the black and red cellphones.

The slick eyed the lowrider. “Now give us some answers.”

“Fuck you, faggot. I ain’t telling you shit.”

“Who told you about the Commerce Street pickup?”

“¡Vas al infierno!”

“Okay.” Task gestured his blue rubber hands at the cellphones that lay upon the chair. “The first person who calls is the first person we’ll visit. And the red one’s been very busy.”

“Fuck you.”

“All we want to know is who told you about the pickup. Once we—”

Growling death metal music filled the air, and the slick lowered his gaze.

Upon the touchscreen of the red cellphone was a blurry photograph of a Hispanic girl who had the major part of an erection in her mouth. A name sat above the pornographic image.

“Corazon Jimenez,” said Task.

Hector tensed.

The slick picked up the growling device and showed the photograph to the agent. “Take a picture so it’ll be easier to find her.”

The fat fellow photographed the digital fellatio with his own cellphone. “I have it.”

“Okay. And send it to me.”

“I will.”

“Copy me in,” said the buzzcut cog. “For fun.”

“I will.”

The touchscreen stated that Corazon Jimenez was being diverted to a voicemail account.

Task set the red cellphone beside its black sibling and eyed Hector. “Give up your source or we visit Corazon Jimenez.”

Fear played upon the lowrider’s face, yet he remained silent.

“I’m voting for a visit with Corazon.” The buzzcut cog cracked his knuckles. “I bet she’s a screamer.”

“We’ll find out,” promised Task.

Defeated, Hector lowered his sad head and sucked oxygen. “The guy’s a citizen. North. He saw something funny going on and told me about it, ’cause he knows how I am. That’s all, I swear. You can’t kill him just for that.”

“If what you’re saying’s true, we’d have no reason to kill him,” stated the slick. “But we need to know how he learned about the pickup.”

“He drives a dairy truck that delivers up and down Commerce. He saw you doing your pickup a coupla times and told me about it. That’s it. I swear.”

Task had seen many such vehicles on Commerce Street over the years, and he believed Hector, whom he suspected lacked the ability to fabricate believably under pressure (if ever). “What’s his name?”

“I— I swear that’s what happened. The guy’s north. A citizen. H—”

“Then he has nothing to worry about.”

“He has a family.”

The slick gripped the back of the chair and leaned forward. “Unless I hear a name from you right now, Corazon will get raped by a lot of men and die in that shower.”

“Fernando.”

“Fernando what?”

“Jimenez.”

“He’s related to Corazon?”

“They’re brother and sister. My cousins.”

The buzzcut cog tittered.

“What truck company’s Fernando with?” inquired Task.

“Great Crown Dairy.”

The slick looked at the agent, who was already making a connection on his cellphone. “Are you calling your rotary?”

Nodding, the fat fellow walked toward the office desk. If the rotary did not know somebody at Great Crown Dairy, he would be able to find somebody who did in a matter of minutes. A short and accurate biography of Fernando Jimenez would soon be on its way.

Hector spat blood on the tiles and looked at Task. “You have consortium backing?”

The slick glanced at the buzzcut cog. “That neuron fired.”

“I heard a pop.”

Grimacing, the lowrider shifted his leaky, duct-taped foot. “We didn’t know when we rolled you.”

“Obviously.”

On the far side of the trailer, the agent talked quietly into his cellphone. Amidst the drowsy syllables of another language were recognizable words like “Fernando,” “Jimenez,” “Commerce,” “Great,” “Crown,” and “Dairy.”

Task reached his rubberized right hand into his jacket and withdrew the nickel-plated revolver. The metronome inside his chest beat a little faster.

Rain crackled against the roof of the trailer. Near the central join in the ceiling, two saffron panels buzzed.

The agent uttered a few seemingly positive syllables, killed the connection, and rejoined the others. “Fernando Jimenez works at Great Crown Dairy. His route regularly puts him on Commerce Street at or before dawn.”

“He’s north?” asked the slick.

The fat fellow scratched his wrinkled nose. “He has a spotless record other than one DUI, which he received while riding a bicycle.”

Relieved that the murders would end today in this trailer, Task steeled himself for the coming deed. Muscles tensed throughout his body as he carried the nickel-plated revolver into the bathroom.

Seated upon the floor of the shower was Hector. The bearded fellow stared vacantly at his duct-taped foot while calmly and silently awaiting the end of his life.

Heart thudding, the slick took a deep breath, aimed his gun, and curled a rubber index finger around the trigger. A bruised scalp and an array of dark and dirty hair lay six inches from the end of the barrel.

“Once he’s dead,” Task said to the consortium guys, “we’ll pick up Fernando and Corazon.”

“No!” The terrified lowrider looked up at the slick. “You promised that—”

Gunpowder exploded in Hector’s face, and the bullet slammed his skull against the wall.

Task lowered the revolver. His hands were shaking, and his heart was pounding.

Shot through the brain, the lowrider slumped sideways while kicking the floor with his duct-taped foot. Shocked eyes stared out from his face.

The slick took a breath.

Hector blindly gulped air while bad sounds and worse substances came from his anus. Gradually, all of his autonomic and reflexive movements slowed down and stopped.

Rain crackled upon the roof.

Relieved yet nauseated, Task exhaled.

“Let me get in there,” said the buzzcut cog, who then squeezed past the slick, entered the bathroom, leaned over, checked the lowrider’s pulse, and twisted a shower knob.

Hot water sprayed against the wall. Blood and pinkish-gray protein fell to the tiles.

“It’s time to go,” announced the agent.

Task was confused. “We just…leave him there?”

“We have a disposal team.”

The underling aimed the showerhead directly at the corpse. Hot water sent blood, brains, dirt, urine, and feces toward the drain.

The slick stared at the dead thing.

“Return the gun to the toolbox,” prompted the fat fellow.

“Okay.”

Task walked across the trailer and set the weapon inside the toolbox. The killers were dead, and the threat to him, his associates, and his business had been eliminated. Intellectual relief was starting to combat his emotional shock.

The buzzcut cog shut off the shower, walked to the front door, and picked up his umbrella. “You were just fucking with him, right?”

Confused by the inquiry, the slick looked at the underling. “Pardon me?”

“About us getting Fernando and Corazon. You said that just to fuck with him at the end, right? To make it worse when he died?”

“He didn’t deserve to die with dignity.”

“That’s what I thought.” A small amount of disappointment shone upon the buzzcut cog’s face. “Was just checking.”

Rain crackled upon the roof as the agent withdrew an umbrella from the office desk, reached out, and palmed a light switch. The trailer became a slab of night.

In this darkness, Task saw a lot of imaginary faces.

A bolt snapped, and a rectangular piece of the storm appeared as a doorway on the near wall.

“The men who brought you over will take you back,” the silhouetted agent informed the slick.

“Okay.”

Covered by umbrellas, the consortium guys walked outside. Footfalls clanked as the pair approached the percolating mud.

Task remained just inside the doorway. His back was to the darkness, which now smelled like gunpowder, blood, and feces.

XXVIII

The Marble Island

Rain crackled upon the windshield of the white sports utility vehicle, which was currently pulling a tall wake down Long Avenue. Leo V. and the goateed cog who had the cauliflower ear held unconnected conversations on their cellphones while in the passenger seat, Task leaned his wet head against the glass and peeled off his rubber gloves, which he then turned into a small blue ball and pocketed.

Traffic thickened as numerous Crowners drove to their mundane jobs. The slick had never been able to accept the idea of having a boss, but at that moment, he better understood the value of a mild life. Such an existence rarely contained murder.

The goateed cog cornered twice, splashed through some sheets of water, and cut the wheel to the right. Dark air replaced the storm as the white SUV entered the parking garage on Preston Avenue.

“This is yours.”

Leo V. put the steel toolbox upon the armrest.

Task opened the lid.

Inside lay his snub-nosed revolver, which he had earlier wiped clean.

“Where’s the ammunition?”

“I saw some birds that looked hungry.”

The slick holstered the weapon on his right leg and dropped his pant cuff. “Bye.”

The driver scratched his cauliflower ear while his short associate typed upon his cellphone. Neither man looked over nor said anything.

Task entered the dimly lighted parking garage and shut the door. The sound echoed throughout the enclosure as the white SUV returned to the storm. Luminous cones of rain swung away and disappeared, chased by a wake that taillights turned red.

In soggy clothing, the slick walked up the ramp toward his silver luxury sedan. The execution in the trailer had been a disgusting event that would stay with him for the rest of his life, but morally, he had no qualms about what he had done. His primary concern was that he could now be apprehended for murder, though only if the consortium (who were accomplices in this deed and at risk for killing the other lowrider) made an uncommonly stupid mistake or if the machos put a lot of effort into locating a missing ex-convict. Both of these eventualities seemed very unlikely.

Task climbed into his car and shut the door. A yawn exploded across his face, and his shoulders relaxed for the first time in eight days. Relief was a sudden, warm fluid that spread throughout his aching system.

Leaning back in his seat, the slick turned on his cellphone, which had been off since he had left the diner. There were two missed calls and the same number of messages. The first voicemail was from Karate John, and the second was from Erin.

Warmed by the thought of the latter individual, Task put the cellphone to his good ear and listened.

“First message,” stated an artificial female. “Sunday. Six twenty-eight a.m.”

“Good morning,” said Karate John. “I hope you had a good breakfast with Daniela—Erin, I mean. Everything went fine with the roundup. See you tonight.”

A click sounded.

“Second message. Sunday. Seven fifty-nine a.m.”

“Hey, this is Erin. I hope everything’s okay with you. I…I wanted to say that you can call if you wanted to talk or something—I’ll leave my phone on. Okay. Bye.”

“End of m—”

Task killed the call, highlighted Erin’s number, and thumbed the connection. The line rang, repeated, and clicked.

“Hi. This is Erin. Leave a message after the Chihuahua.”

A dog yipped.

“Hey, this is Darren. I guess you’re asleep. I wanted to let you know everything’s okay. Thanks for calling.

“Bye.”

Disappointed, the slick killed the connection, pocketed his cellphone, and ignited the engine. The silver sedan slid out of the space and onto the ramp.

Glaring headlights shot through the windshield, and Task squinted as he stepped on the brakes.

Sitting at the bottom of decline was the white SUV. Nobody was visible behind the tinted glass.

The surprising reappearance of the consortium vehicle made the slick uneasy, and the empty gun in his ankle holster did not grow his confidence. One hundred and fifty feet of slanted concrete separated the two vehicles.

The window on the driver’s side of the SUV started to open.

Task tensed. His right hand shifted the gear stick into reverse while he monitored the truck.

A small white square emerged from the open window.

The slick soon recognized the extruding object as the takeout container that he had left behind. Relieved, he switched gears, drove to the bottom of the ramp, and took the leftovers from the goateed cog.

“Thanks.”

The driver rolled up his window and backed into the storm. Headlights swept across the silver sedan’s windshield, and soon, the SUV vanished into the boiling storm.

A cellphone buzzed.

Setting the leftovers upon the dashboard, the slick removed the vibrating device from his pocket and looked at the display.

The caller was Erin.

Task slotted his car into a nearby space, shoved the gear stick, and brought the receiver to his good ear. “I hope I didn’t wake you when I called.”

“How are you?” asked Erin.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. Things are—”

Task lost his voice.

The lowriders were dead, but so were Nowski, whom he had abandoned, and Mrs. Alder, whom he had driven to commit suicide. Ambushed by his emotions, the bruised murderer in soggy clothing tried to remember how to talk.

Outside of the parking garage, rained hissed.

“Darren? Are you okay…?”

“Could I come over?” This question had escaped from Task’s mouth before he was even aware of its existence.

A chasm opened up on the line.

The slick tried to think of something to say that would cancel out what he had just said.

Erin cleared her throat. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“It probably isn’t.”

“You’re my boss.”

“For two or three more months.”

“Yeah. And it could get…complicated if something happened between us.”

“I understand. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.”

“Okay…” said Erin, who sounded atypically uncertain. “Did you eat that omelette?”

“I’ve got it right here.”

“Still? It’s probably rubber by now. Or turned back into a chicken.”

“It’s fine. You should get some sleep—you’re on again tonight.”

“Yeah. I should.”

For a ponderous moment, the line was a vacuum.

“I’ll see you later,” said Task.

“Yeah…okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The slick killed and pocketed his cellphone. Even though everything that the butterfly had said was true (and smart), he was still disappointed by the outcome of the conversation. At present, he glanced at the cold and unappetizing food, shut the lid, and returned to the storm.

Wipers put curved trapezoids on the windshield as the silver sedan rolled east. For the first time in several years, Task thought about contacting his older brother Garrett, who was currently in a Georgia broiler (this time for breaking and entering rather than stealing sports cars, which had been a habit of his since the late eighties), but the idea of making this phone call was soon dismissed. The two siblings had never gotten along, and the only things that they had in common as adults were their hair color and their dislikes, which included their dead parents, the machos, and each other.

Cornering onto Ninetieth Avenue, the slick began the northbound part of his trip home. The one hundred and ten minutes collectively known as morning rush hour had ended, and although the storm was starting to look like a permanent affliction, the traffic had taken a decongestant.

Pulling a wake, the silver sedan neared a homeless fellow who stood on a corner with his head tilted back and his mouth wide open. Rain bubbled in the gaping orifice, turning the man into some kind of hobo fountain.

The soundtrack that the storm provided grew monotonous, and the slick reached for the radio.

A cellphone buzzed.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Task withdrew the device from his pocket and eyed the screen.

The caller was Erin.

Puzzled, Task thumbed the connect icon. “Good morning, again.”

“So where do you live?” asked the butterfly, as if she and he were in the exact middle of a conversation.

“Barrel off of Sixty-fourth.”

“What’s the street address?”

“Eighteen ninety-two. Do you need the zip code? Or that deluxe zip code?”

“I’m gonna make you some breakfast—’cause I know that omelette’s just sitting there or already in the garbage. But that’s all that’s gonna happen, okay? Nothing else while I’m doing this kind of job and working for you.”

Task noted and appreciated the implication that something would happen between the two of them in the future. “Is conversation allowed?”

“I’ll authorize conversation. Nothing else.”

“Do I need to sign something?” The slick braked for a yellow light. “Might be hard to get to a notary.”

“I’ll accept a verbal agreement.”

“I, Darren Tasking, agree to share breakfast and conversation and nothing but breakfast and conversation with Erin Green on the morning of Monday, the Second of September.”

“Okay. I’m leaving the grocery now. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“Then you’ll beat me. There’s visitor parking on the second floor of the garage—park there and we’ll meet in the lobby.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Task killed the connection. Even if nothing but breakfast and conversation occurred in his apartment, he would be happy to have the upbeat, clever, and beautiful distraction. The slick fingered his radio and let some music accompany him as he drove home.

Fifteen minutes later, the tan condominium complex appeared in a curved trapezoid. Task dialed the steering wheel counterclockwise, and the silver sedan corkscrewed down to the bottom of the parking garage. Tenacious raindrops were turned into golden beads by the overhead lights.

Looking in the visor mirror, the slick pomaded and combed his hair, then checked his teeth, which were clean. His swollen right ear was iridescent, and his left eye was halfway between normal and a piece of fruit.

“Fucking machos.”

Task pinched three breath mints, swallowed one whole like a pill, chewed the second like a kid’s vitamin, and sucked on the third as if it were a piece of hard candy. Since early adolescence, he had used this system, which freshened exhalations currently happening as well as those that would happen in near and more distant futures.

The slick exited, locked the silver sedan, and climbed the stairs. Pocketing his keys, he felt the rubber wad that had once been two separate gloves. Some unpleasant images from the trailer resurfaced in his mind, and thinking of the tableau, he checked his jacket and pants for blood. Two small stains that might have been mud or grease or lowrider sat on his right cuff near the ornamental buttons, but the rest of his mocha suit was clean, albeit damp and wrinkled.

Task reached the ground level and opened the door.

Inside of the lobby and sitting upon a plush burgundy sofa was Erin, whose long, smooth legs were crossed just beyond the hem of her green sundress. A tall grocery bag sat beside the wedge sandals that adorned her feet.

The sight of the butterfly plucked a string in the slick’s guts. “Good morning, again.”

“Hey.” Green fabric stirred as Erin rose from the sofa. “I just got here.”

Task claimed the brown paper bag.

The butterfly surveyed the slick while pulling her big sloppy purse onto her left shoulder. “You look okay.”

“And you look far better.”

Erin raised an index finger. “None of that.”

“Wasn’t conversation authorized?”

“No flirting.”

Task suppressed a smile. “Is there a list of acceptable topics? Dogs? Grits?”

“Both approved.”

“I’ll try to stick to those.” The slick motioned to the rear of the lobby. “This way…”

The pair proceeded across the room, and Task created a luminous arrow with his elbow.

A bell chimed, echoing as the elevator opened.

Carrying the grocery bag, the slick followed the butterfly into the mirrored interior, turned to the side, and fingered the button for the second floor. The door closed, and the duo fixed their eyes on the wall panel, as if the sight of a digital display changing from 1 to 2 might prove to be a marvelous event. A sweet, pleasant spice that was either perfume or scented body oil entered Task’s head.

Flinching, the elevator stopped. The door opened, and the slick motioned for his guest to precede him into the brown and gold hallway.

“This building’s pretty fancy,” remarked Erin, whose wedge sandals pressed triangular impressions into the carpet as she walked.

Task followed. “I like it.”

“It’s condos?”

“Yes.”

Outside of apartment 208, the slick undid the locks, opened the door, and watched the match fall from the jamb. “After you…”

Erin walked into the dim interior, followed by Task, who then turned on a standing lamp.

“Wow,” said the butterfly. “This place is really nice.”

“Thanks.”

Task closed the door and twisted the locks, which snapped. These metallic reports shot across the living room and ricocheted back from the den.

Erin wrinkled her mouth. “Though sort of empty.”

“Should I get a dog? Or ninety?”

“You’re a cat person.”

“I am?”

“It’s pretty obvious.”

The slick led the butterfly into the kitchen, turned on the overhead lights, and set the grocery bag upon the black marble island that stood in the middle of the room. “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”

Erin removed her gaze from the stainless steel stove and scrutinized Task.

“Really.” The slick flashed his palms defensively. “Just a quick one. I need to.”

“You’re coming out of that shower fully clothed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Task pointed to the dark hallway. “There’s a second bathroom down there on the right—past the guest room—if you need to use it.”

“Thanks.” Erin set down her purse, turned on the faucet, and squirted some soap into her hands. “But I’m good for now.”

“Pans are in the cabinet above the stove. Bowls are—”

“I’ll be able to figure it out,” said the butterfly, who then turned away to face the sink. Her bare shoulders rose and fell as she washed her hands.

“I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Go take your shower.”

The hem of the green summer dress swayed left and right, caressing Erin’s creamy calves as she rinsed her hands. Watching the play of the pendulous fabric, Task felt an ache of lust.

The butterfly cleared her throat. “Be sure to wash those eyes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Use bleach.”

XXIX

Invisible Wires

Task walked into his bedroom, closed the door, and undressed. Upon a shelf in his closet, he set his Italians, his ankle holster, and all of the clothing that he had worn during the murder. This collection would be soaked in soapy water before it was taken to the cleaners.

The slick opened the revolver cylinder, slotted bullets, and placed the loaded weapon inside of his nightstand.

He went into the bathroom. In the mirror, he eyed his injured pelvis, which was no longer reddish-purple, but a dark yellow.

His hands turned two knobs. Water hissed from the showerhead, and he tried not to think about the blood, brain matter, and feces that had gone down the drain in the saffron trailer.

Using a washcloth and mindful of his injuries, Task started to clean himself. Warmth enveloped his aching flesh, and as his body relaxed, his eyelids drooped. His head dipped forward, and a dozen gibbering faces swarmed his consciousness. A clank in the kitchen startled him awake.

Task made the water colder, which felt unpleasant, but roused his weary flesh. Two minutes later, he finished his shower and stepped onto the bathmat.

Clanks sounded in the kitchen as the slick dried himself, urinated, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, pomaded, and combed his hair. In the bedroom, he pulled on boxer shorts, black linen pants, and a matching silk shirt. A big yawn swallowed his face as he proceeded up the hall and entered the kitchen.

At the marble island stood Erin, who was slicing into something that looked like a human heart but was actually a red pepper. Three small onions, some mushrooms, a bundle of asparagus, an egg carton, and a wedge of cheese lay nearby.

“Frittata?” asked the slick, whose assorted exes had all made different versions of this dish.

“Right.” The butterfly pointed the chef knife at the slick. “You look really tired.”

Shrugging, Task rubbed his red eyes.

Erin sliced the halved peppers into quarters. “When was the last time you sharpened this?”

“I just get a new one when it gets dull.”

“This is a nice knife.” The butterfly turned the pepper quarters into eighths and then lined up these slices with her green glitter fingertips. “It just needs to be sharpened.”

“I’ll try to remember.” The slick looked away from the shadow of the woman’s cleavage and gestured at the raw ingredients. “Do you need help with this? I can break eggs or stir things. Juggle up to two onions.”

“I’m good.”

“Do you—” Another yawn tore across Task’s face.

Erin looked up from the cutting board. “Go lie down. I’ll get you when it’s done.”

“Okay. Do you and the frittata want some music?”

The butterfly rocked the blade. “That’d be nice.”

Task walked down the hallway and cornered into the guest room. Beneath the three vintage guitars that hung upon the wall was a silver boombox, which he grabbed by the handle, took to the kitchen, set near the sink, and plugged into the wall. Horns blasted from the speakers.

Turning down the volume, the slick miniaturized the big jazz band. “What kind of music do you want?”

“That’s good.”

“You sure you don’t—”

“Go to sleep.” Erin turned away, opened a cupboard, and reached toward the top shelf. The loose dress cupped her buttocks, showing the lines of her panties as she grabbed a mixing bowl. “I’ll get you when it’s ready.”

“Thanks. I’ll be on a couch in the den.”

The butterfly noticed that the slick was admiring her rear end. “Go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Task entered the dining room and continued walking until he reached the den, which was dimly illuminated by the gray daylight that limned the venetian blinds. White leather creaked as he lay upon the sofa, shoved a cushion under his head, and closed his eyes.

The lowrider’s perforated skull slammed against the shower stall.

This image faded as the slick turned his thoughts away from the murder tableau and focused upon his business, which was once again safe, and the butterfly, who would be open to his solicitations in two or three months.

Rain crackled against the glass while miniaturized jazz and quiet culinary percussion echoed within the kitchen. These sounds became less distinct and soon vanished.

Silence and darkness enveloped everything for an unknown duration.

Leather creaked.

The cushions shifted, and there was the sound of a zipper being pulled. Soft fingers curled under the elastic band of Task’s boxer shorts and drew his pants and underwear down his legs. Linen and cotton slid past his bare feet.

Discarded fabric rumpled.

Air conditioning touched his exposed phallus, which was warm and solid.

Again, leather creaked.

A foggy awareness came to the slick, who suddenly realized that he was not dreaming. He opened his eyes.

A green summer dress lay upon the back of a nearby chair. Straddling Task’s bare legs on her hands and knees was Erin, clothed in a black brassiere and matching panties. Chestnut hair covered her downturned face as she lowered her head.

The butterfly ran her tongue along the shaft of the slick’s hardened phallus.

Leather creaked, and Task groaned as Erin took the glans in her lips, tilted her head, and swallowed the erection.

The slick felt his entire body surge into the butterfly’s mouth.

Withdrawing, Erin kept the glans between her lips. Her tongue flickered.

An animal noise escaped Task.

Chestnut hair pooled as the butterfly lowered her head. Her nose touched the slick’s injured pelvis, and the pain that he felt was exquisite. Again, she raised herself, drawing the ring of her lips along his phallus until only the tip remained in her mouth.

Task reached his right hand toward Erin. His fingertips touched her soft face, and she gently pushed his hand away.

The butterfly removed the phallus from her mouth and looked up at the slick. “Just lie back.”

“Okay.”

Erin slid her right hand under her panties, rubbed herself in slow circles, and took Task inside of her mouth once more. A velvet moan rose from her throat, which the slick both heard and felt.

Leather creaked as the butterfly repositioned her knees and bobbed her head. Between her legs, the movements of her right hand quickened.

A long deep moan came from Erin as she bobbed her head up and down on the slickened phallus. Leather creaked under her knees.

Task felt his entire body pool inside of his erection.

Chestnut hair scattered as the actions of the butterfly became faster and more forceful.

The slick knew that his climax was imminent. “If you don’t stop…I’m gonna finish…”

Erin said, “Don’t hold back,” and resumed her performance with increased fervor. Her right hand fluttered like a bird wing between her legs, and her upraised buttocks twitched. Shuddering spasms shook her entire body as she climaxed.

Sensations converged inside of the slick, and ejaculate that felt like lava shot deep into the butterfly’s throat.

Task groaned, wholly consumed by the blissful explosion, which soon became a series of electric pangs.

Erin raised her head, removed her right hand from her panties, and climbed off of the sofa. Turning away, she reclaimed her green summer dress.

“You broke our deal,” said the slick.

“I had to make sure we didn’t sleep together.”

“I approve of your methods.”

Rain crackled against the glass as the butterfly pulled the green dress over her body. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”

“For two or three months?”

“Until then,” said Erin, who was obviously embarrassed by what had just happened.

Reaching out, Task claimed his boxer shorts and black linen pants. His phallus dangled as he stood, and his guest kept her attention elsewhere as he donned his underwear.

Miniaturized jazz and a confluence of egg, cheese, and vegetable odors emanated from the kitchen.

“That frittata smells good,” remarked the slick.

The butterfly slid her right foot into a wedge sandal, and five pieces of green glitter emerged from the front. “Should be done soon.”

“How long was I out for?”

Erin stepped into her other shoe and fastened its ankle strap across the eyes of her screaming skull tattoo. “About forty minutes.”

“Seemed like a second.”

Task pulled on his linen pants, drew the zipper, and slotted the button. His groin was warmed by a pleasant ache.

Wedge sandals pressed triangles into the carpet as Erin walked toward the dining room. “C’mon.”

“Coming.”

The murder of Hector, the beating in the airless room, and the deaths of Nowski and Mrs. Alder returned to Task while he traversed that dark den, but all of these hard memories were softened by the strong, warm presence of Erin.

“Hey.” The slick cleared his throat. “Hold on just a moment.”

Stopping at the far side of the dining room table, the butterfly turned around. There she waited, silhouetted by the kitchen lights.

“I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable,” Task said across a distance of twenty feet, “but I need to say something.

“Us going to Ed’s together, and what just happened in the den, and you making breakfast…all this really means a lot to me right now. This has been an amazingly terrible time in my life except for the part with you.

“So, thank you.”

The butterfly stood completely still. Her backlighted features were unclear in the semidarkness.

Rain crackled against the glass, and in the kitchen, a tiny saxophonist took a solo.

Uncomfortable, Task looked away and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I want to kiss you…but I’m worried about where that’ll lead.” Erin shook her head. “Actually—I know where that’ll lead.”

The slick felt the atmosphere in the dining room thicken. “Let’s have that frittata.”

A smile glowed in the semidarkness. “Right.”

The pair returned to the kitchen.

“Should be done by now.”

“Good.”

Erin washed her hands, donned zebra-patterned cooking mittens, and pulled a cast iron skillet from the oven while Task gathered plates and utensils and poured two mugs of decaffeinated coffee. The confluence of delicious smells reawakened the latter individual’s appetite.

In the dining room, the slick turned on the chandelier, arranged the drinks and tableware, and set down a wooden coaster, upon which the butterfly gently placed the perfectly browned and very odiferous frittata.

“That thing smells great,” remarked Task.

Erin removed the mittens and fixed a dress strap that had migrated to the edge of her left shoulder. “Hope it tastes that way.”

“I’m confident.”

The slick pulled out a chair for the butterfly, which he then slid into the folds of her green dress. Heart-shaped buttocks landed upon the cushion.

“That chair’s in Heaven.”

“No flirting.”

Task walked to the opposite setting, cut into the frittata, and plated two large savory wedges. “The den didn’t change that rule?”

“The den was two other people. Now, we’re these two.”

“I know how to compartmentalize.”

Erin elevated an eyebrow. “I’m willing to bet that’s an understatement.”

The slick shrugged, took a seat, and recalled something. “Did I give you too much? I just remembered what you ordered at Ed’s.”

“I’m pretty hungry.” The butterfly put a black napkin in her lap. “I sorta lost my appetite after you left.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s okay.”

Thunder rumbled as Task placed his napkin upon his lap. Overhead, the lights dimmed and brightened.

Erin gestured at the chandelier and the formal dining table. “Do you have guests over? Your family?”

A humorless laugh came from the slick as he cut into his frittata. “No.”

“Are your parents still around?”

“Fortunately not.”

“‘Fortunately’? You didn’t get along?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“My dad was a low-level guy in a big criminal group. Very low. But even though he was a nobody—actually, probably because he was a nobody—he was very, very strict with me and my brother. Yelled at us, hit us, made us shoplift to help with the bills. Forced us to call him ‘Boss’ instead of ‘Dad.’”

Erin frowned. “Sounds like a dick.”

“With warts. And his attitude didn’t improve when he figured out that our mother had been cheating on him for years—that my brother and I weren’t actually his.”

“They didn’t get a divorce?”

“She was dead by then—killed in a car wreck, drunk behind the wheel.” Task recalled his mother’s funeral, which had been a brief and poorly attended event. “Imbecile.”

“I’m sorry,” the butterfly said, “I didn’t mean to pry or upset you. And I sure don’t wanna talk about my fucking father.”

“It doesn’t upset me to talk about it,” replied the slick. “Growing up that way motivated me to push my own itinerary rather than get behind somebody else’s. So, there’s that.”

“I applaud your optimism.”

Rain crackled, and sequestered jazz bopped as Task placed a hunk of the frittata into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “This is excellent.”

“Thank you.” Erin ate a bite and wrinkled her face. “The potatoes are a little undercooked.”

“I like them crisp. The ingredients in a frittata—a good one—should be distinct, rather than all just blend together.”

“Compartmentalizer.”

The slick shrugged.

“I’m glad you like it,” the butterfly said through a smirk.

The conversation was replaced by the jazz band, the storm, and clinking silverware.

Task was not oblivious as to how the events of the past eight days had impacted his psyche and grown his fondness for Erin, but this knowledge did not at all impact how he felt. It had been a long time since he had discussed his childhood with a woman, and he looked forward to learning more about her whenever she felt comfortable sharing such information.

“More?”

“You bet.”

The butterfly gave the slick a very large second serving. As he ate, the woman drank her coffee and stared through the window at the rainfall.

“This tastes even better after it’s settled for a few minutes,” remarked Task.

Preoccupied, Erin nodded her head.

Rain crackled, and in the kitchen, a shrunken bassist took a solo that was inaudible except for a few violently plucked high notes.

The slick figured that the butterfly was remembering something from her past (such as a sexually abusive father), though perhaps she was dealing with some lingering misgivings about what had happened in the den.

A tiny jazz quintet emerged from the boombox, played the head, and traded solos while Task ate his frittata and Erin stared out at the storm.

Unable to feign obliviousness any longer, the slick set down his fork. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” said the butterfly, although her face displayed the exact opposite answer.

“Let me rephrase that. Is there something you’d like to talk about? I can see something’s bothering you, but I don’t wanna pry.”

A grave expression weighed down Erin’s face and darkened the atmosphere. “I have a question for you…but I’m not sure I wanna ask it.”

“I’m a virgin.”

This joke did not at all brighten the butterfly’s mood.

Task gestured. “You can ask.”

“I’m not sure that I want to. Because if you lie…” Erin shook her head. “If you lie…then that’s it. I won’t trust you ever, and two or three months from now, I won’t have anything to do with you. We’ll just be two people who used to work together. The end.”

Comprehension came to Task, and suddenly, he regretted pressing Erin to speak. This woman was not just smarter than the other butterflies, but smart by all standards (possibly his equal or superior in this regard), and now that her mind was clear, it was entirely possible that she had discovered some invisible wires.

Seeing no choice but to push the conversation forward, the slick nodded his head. “I’ll be honest.”

The butterfly looked doubtful. “Will you?”

“I will.”

“Okay…” Erin took a sip of coffee, swallowed, and set down the mug. “Did you send those black guys to Cherry Red to get me fired?”

Rain clattered against the window.

Upon hearing the anticipated question, Task felt his pulse quicken. “What’re you talking about?”

“If you come clean right now and tell me the truth, then maybe I can get past it. Maybe.” The butterfly clenched her jaw and balled up her fists. “But if you lie to me…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the slick. “Did these guys hurt you?”

Rain crackled as Erin scrutinized Task. “You didn’t send them?”

“No. What—”

“You fucking promise?”

Leaning forward, the slick looked directly into the butterfly’s bright green eyes. “Yes. I promise.”

Erin relaxed, and the tension left her face. “Okay. I believe you.”

Two horns harmonized as the jazz band restated the head.

Task wanted to be honest, but he knew that he could not reveal a business plot to an individual who might someday turn on him and get wrathful. The self-preserving and entrepreneurial facets of his personality outranked his conscience ever since he had been released from prison.

Picking up his silverware, the slick eyed the butterfly. “Now what happened with these black guys?”

“They came to the club—different guys on different nights—and told the manager I was saying racist shit and overcharging them. Like a fucking conspiracy. One of them stole my car too. And a little while after that, I called you for work.”

“You couldn’t go somewhere else?” Task asked while cutting the remainder of his frittata wedge into two pieces. “Another strip club?”

“Word got around in the industry—I was blackballed all over.”

Task and Nowski had each made some phone calls to ensure this end. “You thought I did this to you? To get you to work for me?”

“I thought you might’ve…though my first guess was that it was Karen—one of the other dancers whose business I was taking away.” The butterfly pointed a green glitter fingertip at the slick’s plate. “Eat.”

Task thrust his fork into the remaining piece of his frittata and filled his mouth.

“I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

The slick chewed and swallowed. “I thought you were gonna ask if I was seeing somebody.”

“Oh.”

“The answer to that question is ‘No.’”

The atmosphere in the dining room thickened.

Erin lowered her gaze and fingered the rim of her empty plate. “I’d better clean up in the kitchen.”

“You came over here and cooked. You’re not cleaning up anything.”

A tiny trumpeter explored exotic modes.

“Then I think I’d better go.”

Replenished by the meal, Task looked across the table at Erin, who was still eyeing her plate of nothing. Her creamy skin, her cleavage, her scent, her warmth, and the memory of what had occurred on the den couch sent warm blood to his phallus. “If you think so.”

Avoiding eye contact, the butterfly rose from her seat. “You gave me your word.”

The slick displayed two empty hands. “I’m honorable.”

“Not all of your anatomy is.”

XXX

Two Gangs of Five

Erin used the guest bathroom, washed her hands, and returned to the kitchen, where she reclaimed her big sloppy purse while expertly avoiding eye contact with Task.

Escaping from the sizable condominium, the butterfly flew into the second-floor hallway and hazarded a look over her shoulder. “Bye.”

“Bye,” replied the slick. “And thanks again.”

“See you.”

Erin turned away.

The door closed, and two bolts snapped.

Ignoring small blisters caused by the new wedge sandals, she took the elevator to the lobby, returned to the second floor of the parking garage, and thumbed her remote. Three chirps came from the purple hybrid, which was fifty feet away.

The butterfly climbed into the driver’s seat, shut the door, heaved her big sloppy purse, slotted a key, and ignited the engine. Headlights shone upon the concrete wall as she gripped the gear stick, but she did not shift into reverse. Instead, she took a moment to organize her thoughts.

The slick who was her boss looked a bit too much like a soap opera actor, but was undeniably very handsome, as well as successful, driven, witty, thoughtful, and tidy (both physically and domestically). His equipment was responsive, and he had respected her boundaries, even though she had made the delineations a bit blurry with what she had done in the den. Yet one concern that Erin had about Darren Tasking cast a shadow over all of his positive qualities.

“Did you lie to me?” the butterfly asked the illuminated concrete that stood between her and the slick.

The wall did not answer.

Shifting mental and physical gears, Erin drove down the ramp and into the storm, which was far gentler than it had been earlier that day. Lingering gazes and the event in the den crowded her thoughts until her cheeks flushed and her clitoris became a tingling button.

A dripping yellow light turned into a red one, and the butterfly stopped her car.

Suspicions reappeared in her mind and concluded her fond musings. “Did you lie to me?”

Erin wished that she believed Darren. His response to her question about the black conspiracy at Cherry Red had been very believable, but the way that he had continued eating so soon after his reply had seemed calculated…and artificial.

The traffic light turned green. A rubber scythe cleared emerald drops from the windshield, and the butterfly accelerated into the dwindling storm. Doubts chased happy thoughts down winding gutters for the remainder of the drive.

Erin slotted the purple hybrid inside the lot next to the four-story brick building in which she lived. Purse slung, she climbed outside, opened the umbrella, closed her door, triggered the locks, and strode across the asphalt. The purple dome was collapsed into a baton as the butterfly entered the mail area, where she then gathered some bills and proceeded to the stairwell.

Still wondering whether or not Darren had lied, Erin climbed toward her apartment. Her wedge sandals struck the third-floor landing, and an unseen dog barked.

“Spazzington! Behave.”

An assortment of yips and whimpers echoed as the butterfly neared her apartment. Keys jingled, and the gang went bananas.

Two of them howled like coyotes.

“Keep it down.”

Erin undid the locks and walked into an exposed brick living room, where she was greeted by a white Bichon Frisé named Wooferson, and Ty, a wide-eyed Yorkshire Terrier of below average intelligence. Nombre the Chihuahua shivered in the corner, afraid of everything, while the black French Bulldog Queen Evil sat on the couch, imperiously observing the human being who had entered her domain. Running back and forth between the bedroom and the bathroom (so that he could bark at a pillow and the toilet) was Spazzington, the simian-like Brussels Griffon.

“Hey, gang.”

Dogs responded.

Erin locked the door, set her things upon a table, and fetched the cowering Chihuahua.

“Don’t be scared,” the butterfly said while stroking the fearful, five-and-a-half pound canine. “You’re a gangster.”

Doubtful, Nombre whimpered.

Erin dumped the contents of her big sloppy purse onto a table, slung the strap over her shoulder, and installed into her emptied bag the terrified Chihuahua, who immediately stopped shaking. Queen Evil snorted, and Spazzington rejoined the gang, having sufficiently berated the pillow and toilet.

The butterfly played with the animals for fifteen minutes, but even this fun activity did not remove the insistent question about the slick from her mind. Feeding the gang, she decided that she had to uncover the truth.

Her mind sifted ideas until she had a plan.

Erin went into her bedroom, where a laptop computer lay atop an old wood desk that she had found in a flea market on the day that she had moved into this building. Sitting down in a rolling chair, she slapped the space bar.

The screen glowed, resolving into a grid that was the inside of her email account.

Concentrating, the butterfly thought of her final days as a dancer at Cherry Red. Although she had been drunk or high for most of that period, she could still vividly recall the black guy who had threatened to cut her up, the two scotch-drinkers who had told the manager that she raised her rates for people of color, and the duo who had gotten her fired by playing a recording of the word “nigger.” The physiognomy of the fellow who had stolen her car was an enigma, but the faces of the other five black guys were all very clear in her mind.

Erin opened a search engine. Her green glitter fingertips typed the words ‘Population,’ ‘Great,’ and ‘Crown’ and poked the enter key.

Upon the screen shone the number, “489,621.”

Her memory told her that about ten percent of the city was black, and she checked this statistic by adding the words “African” and “American” to the above search criteria.

The butterfly poked the enter key.

A highlight from a census website appeared on the screen:

“46,238 African American reside in Great Crown.”

Erin knew that about fifty percent of this figure would be male, and that one third of this subdivision would be aged twenty-five to forty-five. Thus, seven to eight thousand people in the city of Great Crown would match the general description of the five black guys for whom she was looking.

The Chihuahua walked into the room, and the butterfly set him on her lap, where he stared in terror at a pencil.

Erin did not recall seeing a wedding ring on any of the five black guys, and it seemed likely to her that some or most of them would be single.

Into the search engine, she shot the following words: “Dating,” “Website,” “African,” “American,” “Great,” and “Crown.” Her index finger poked the enter key.

Information filled the screen, including a tally that read “3,668,400 Matches,” though many of the listings on the very first page were redundant.

Chasing a feral sock, Spazzington bounded into the room.

The butterfly speared a link to the most popular dating website and clicked.

Hearts and smiling faces filled the screen.

Erin registered as a visitor on the website, which was called “Our Brightest Future.” She put “25 to 45” for the age range of her future Internet soul mate, and on a pull-down ethnicity menu, she highlighted the first choice, which was “African American.”

Pursuing an answer that she needed more than wanted, the butterfly speared a digital heart and clicked her touchpad.

Results filled the screen.

Leaning forward, she scrolled through pictures of unfamiliar black guys who liked to flex their pectoral muscles while acting nonchalant.

If Erin saw one of the five for whom she was looking (on this website or the next one or the one after that), she would make a full profile, using a fake name and a hot photograph of somebody else. All that she had to do then was get the guy on the phone, have a good conversation, and casually mention her pal Darren Tasking. If the dude happened to know the slick, he would almost certainly say something.

Erin pet Nombre, saw a reflection of her angry face in his giant eyes, and resumed her digital hunt for five of the six black guys who had turned her into a whore.

XXXI

Reheated Jazz

Task awakened in the darkness and noticed an absence. It took him a few moments to realize that this missing thing was the storm.

Although the slick did not feel any conscious guilt over the murder that he had earlier committed, his subconscious mind had continually restaged the event in his dreams. In these iterations, he had carried a nickel-plated revolver through the privacy fence, across the muddy construction site, and into the saffron trailer, but instead of finding the lowrider in the shower, he came upon Nowski or Andrea or Mrs. Bronowski or Mrs. Alder or his father or his mother (who had a steering wheel in her hands) or his brother Garret (who wore prison clothes) or Daniela (who had been scalped) or Erin (who was black) or a blond teenager who looked a lot like Darren Tasking, but was deaf and mute.

The slick shuddered. His dreams were still vivid memories, but soon, light bulbs and his conscious mind would turn them into mush.

A glance at the alarm clock told him that it was now just after three o’clock, and the little dot to the left of this number clarified that it was the one of those that occurred after midnight.

Reoriented, Task switched on the lamp. Light poked his eyes like children’s fingers, and he squinted.

Something squeaked in another room.

Concerned, Task opened a nightstand drawer and reached for his snub-nosed revolver.

The weapon was missing.

A chill crawled up his nape, but soon, he remembered that he had stashed the weapon under his pillow earlier that night after a particularly vivid nightmare had roused him.

Gripping the gun, the slick stepped out of bed and padded across the brown carpet toward the closed door.

Another squeak sounded in the hallway and was followed by the muted crash of a cymbal.

Relieved, Task lowered his gun and cracked the door. Miniaturized jazz from the boombox in the kitchen brightened his mind with thoughts of Erin. (His decision to leave the music on had been for this exact purpose.)

The slick replaced the snub-nosed revolver and walked into the bathroom, where urine lanced the water, crackling, until his bladder was empty. He washed his hands at the sink in which he was soaking his murder clothes, brushed his teeth, and spat the foam into the toilet, which he then flushed.

A puppy dog noise sounded in his stomach.

Wearing only black boxer shorts, Task returned to the kitchen, dialed the oven to 400, and claimed the remaining half of the frittata, which he had earlier wrapped in aluminum foil. This he set upon the marble island as he brewed some coffee.

Ten minutes later, music and the aromas of food and pep filled the kitchen. These emanations conjured thoughts of Erin and plucked a delicate string inside of Task.

Walking toward the oven, he glanced at the adjacent room, where the chandelier that he had forgotten to turn off still glowed above the dining table. His fond musings were derailed when he recalled the question that the butterfly had asked during their meal.

“Did you send those black guys to Cherry Red to get me fired?”

Considering the situation again, the slick knew that he had made the right decision—there was no way that he could have risked the possible consequences of telling her the truth. The only thing that mattered now was whether or not she had believed him. Obviously, the woman harbored suspicions and was far smarter than he had originally assumed.

It was then that Task recalled Erin Hope Green’s driver’s license.

Her identification was the kind that the state had stopped issuing five years earlier, but the woman (who was probably oblivious of this fact) had said that she had moved to Great Crown three years earlier. In addition to this (perhaps meaningless) discrepancy, there was her fondness for the color green and her last name. This overlap was either happenstance or evidence of a pseudonym.

Task opened the oven and withdrew the foil-wrapped bundle, which he then emptied onto a clear glass plate. At present, he carried the dish, utensils, and his coffee across the tan shag carpet of his study. His meal landed on the desk right next to his computer, and his buttocks hit the wooden chair.

The slick switched on the central processing unit, which whirred, awakening after a month of slumber. Cold blue light glowed upon the monitor.

Two bites later, Task put the cursor in the empty box of a search engine, typed “Erin Green” and “California,” and fingered the enter key.

Curved arrows turned.

In slanted blue writing, the computer stated, “Approximately 28,400 search results.”

The slick sipped coffee and selected the word “Images.”

Curved arrows turned.

Hundreds of unfamiliar faces filled the screen.

Task scrolled through this armada of inferior Erin Greens (and their spouses, boyfriends, associates, pets, and cars), doubtful that he would find anything of value, even if he took the time to look at every single image.

The slick deleted “California,“ typed “Great Crown” in its place, and fingered the enter key.

Curved arrows turned.

“Approximately 10,800 search results,” stated the computer.

Task eyeballed some photographs, which were of unfamiliar Erin Greens. He then added her middle name “Hope” and fingered the enter key.

Curved arrows turned.

“No results found,” admitted the failed machine.

Six irrelevant listings came up when he tried her full name in quotation marks with “California.”

Ruminating, the slick put another piece of the frittata in his mouth. Jazz tinkled in the kitchen as he processed food and thoughts.

Task knew that he could have Erin properly investigated by Strembicky’s group, but this idea made him uneasy. Giving all of her personal information to a vast (and ruthless) consortium just to satisfy his curiosity (one that stemmed from a driver’s license discrepancy and a fondness for the color green) seemed excessive…and potentially dangerous. Sex industry workers often changed identities, and the slick doubted that he would learn anything of value by further violating the butterfly’s trust and digging into her history.

Task decided not to involve the consortium.

A different idea occurred to him, and his manicured fingers rattled the keys. “California” was replaced by “Great Crown,” and the name “Erin Hope Green” turned into “Kristie Lynn,” which had been the brunette’s alias when she worked at Cherry Red.

The slick poked the enter key.

Curved arrows turned.

“Approximately 18,500 search results,” stated the computer.

Task requested the applicable images, and a crowd of unfamiliar faces filled the screen.

Erin was smart. It seemed unlikely that any grim secrets from her past would be found attached to the identity that she currently employed.

“This is a waste,” said the slick, who then shut off the central processing unit, finished his meal, shaved, showered, and climbed into an olive-colored suit.

Headlights illuminated concrete as the silver sedan corkscrewed up from the bottom level of the parking garage. Task had not slept three full cycles in a long time, and this badly needed rest had helped restore his flesh.

The car surfaced. Reaching out, the slick turned on the radio and found the jazz station that now inhabited his kitchen. A saxophonist stole a refrain from the head and turned it into a solo as the vehicle rolled through the sleeping city.

Task considered his incipient situation with Erin. A social interaction between them in a place where she was having sex with other men would be an uncomfortable experience for her and for him, and he decided to keep away from the Preston Avenue parlor as much as he could whenever she was working.

The slick drove under a blinking yellow light, withdrew his cellphone (which had five messages from Dingbang), and called the butterfly.

“Hi. This is Erin. Leave a message after the Chihuahua.”

A dog yipped.

“Hey. It’s Darren. I hope you were able to get some rest before work.

“I think it’s smart for us to keep our distance while you’re still at the parlor—like you said—but I want to thank you again for everything that you did yesterday. I really enjoyed spending time with you.

“A lot.

“And you’ll be pleased to know that I ate the rest of the frittata this morning—which still tasted very good. So, thanks for that too.

“Take care.”

Task killed the connection, approached the light-yellow apartment building, and sidled to the curb. Approaching the vehicle was Dublin, who held his lethal lunchbox in his right hand and wore jeans and a black t-shirt. His gelled red hair shimmered as he filled the passenger window, opened the door, and tossed his weight onto the upholstery.

Aftershave stole oxygen.

“You fuck Erin?”

“Karate John shouldn’t gossip,” said the slick, irked by both the bearded manager who had gossiped and the plump one who sat nearby.

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s yours.”

Dublin shut the door and scrutinized Task. “Why’re you being a cactus? She’s a whore.”

“Drop it.”

“Actually, a stripper that you turned into a whore, if I remember correctly.”

“Enough.”

“Cactus.”

The slick switched mental and automotive gears and pressed the accelerator. Pastel buildings and dark street lamps flew across the windows.

In the passenger seat, the manager opened his lunchbox, which contained at least four firearms.

Task gestured at the weapons. “You don’t need to bring an armory anymore.”

Surprised, Dublin elevated his eyebrows. “Somebody got sent to Alaska?”

“Two somebodies are eating salmon tacos.”

“They were definitely the guys?”

“They were.”

“I hope it was done ugly.”

“It was.”

“Good.” The manager holstered a weapon and shoved two semiautomatics into the passenger seat nook. “How’d they find out about the parlor?”

“A guy doing milk deliveries on Commerce saw us coming and going a few times and tipped somebody off.”

“And is this milkman now gathering plastic crates on the tundra?”

“Civilians don’t go to Alaska.”

“But he’s a milkman. If he’s not diddling some guy’s wife, he’s doing shit like this.”

“He’s a civilian.”

“Who—like the product he distributed two weeks ago—has reached his expiration date.”

“Machos get interested when a civilian becomes room temperature. This situation’s done.”

The pickups on Lewis and One Hundred and Eighty-ninth were untroubled operations, though the sun that had skipped the previous day had returned to remind Crowners that summer was not yet over. By the time Task pointed the snout of the silver sedan onto Preston Avenue, his air conditioner was on full blast, and everyone but Karate John had left the parlors. The net for Monday night turned out to be eight thousand two hundred, which was well above average and largely the result of one gambler getting a bad case of happy hands.

Fifteen minutes after the last pickup had been completed, the car slid to the curb in front of the light-yellow apartment building.

Task flashed a hand. “Bye.”

“Yeah.”

Dublin picked up his heavy lunchbox, hurled himself outside, and shut the door. As he walked toward his home, he spat.

Braced for an unpleasant (yet unavoidable) exchange, the slick shoved the gear stick into park and made a connection on his cellphone.

“Where the shit hell have you been?” demanded Dingbang.

“Busy. And one message would’ve been sufficient.”

“When you don’t call back, I keep calling. More and more messages each day.”

“That’s not gonna hasten my reply.”

“You need to be here.”

“Why?”

“The husbands are coming.”

Task was confused by this statement until he recalled Auntie’s deportation hearing and the search for her bipedal green card. “When?”

“Today. At eleven. Get you ass the shit hell over here.”

The line went dead.

Task examined (and dismissed) a potential new parlor location in the financial district and then drove over to Eight Dragons Chinese, where he followed Dingbang through a curtain of green beads into the private banquet room. Affixed to a poster board and standing on an easel was a four-foot tall, three-foot wide, black-and-white photograph of Auntie that showed her uneven eyes and thinning hair. It was unclear if her expression was a failed smile or a pained grimace.

“She’s not going to be present?” the slick asked while sitting at a giant round table that was covered by a red cloth.

“She’s making dumplings.”

“She’s not interested in being involved in this process?”

“She said she’d come out to see the winner.”

“Should we—”

A cellphone buzzed.

Task pulled the device from his pocket and saw that the caller was Erin. Images from the car ride, the diner, and the den came to his mind.

“A husband’s here,” the sleepy waiter announced through the beaded curtains.

The slick decided to let the butterfly leave a message, which was probably her intention.

“Send him in,” replied Dingbang.

A tall Asian man who had a goatee, a worn tuxedo, and at least seventy years walked into the room. His eyes found the photograph, and his body stiffened. For the better part of a minute, he stared.

“That’s her?” rasped the candidate.

“It is.”

A gentle chime indicated that Erin had left a voicemail message.

The sleepy waiter came into the room and poured tea that smelled like flowers and hay for Task, Dingbang, and the tall Asian man, who currently seemed unable to remove his gaze from the photograph.

“Can you do it?” inquired the slick.

Studying the image, the candidate drank some tea. “How long do you expect her to live?”

The slick frowned at the manager and eyed the tall Asian man. “We don’t like your attitude.”

“Get the shit hell out of here,” barked Dingbang.

The sleepy waiter drew the beaded curtain aside, and the candidate departed.

Task picked up his cellphone, entered the pass code, and dialed into his voicemail account.

An artificial female said, “One Message. Sunday, eleven thirteen p.m.”

“Hey. This is Erin. I got your message. I’m crashing right now, but I wanted to see if you could meet me at the parlor tonight at four thirty a.m. to talk about something. Let me know. Bye.”

The line clicked.

“End of message,” said the artificial female.

Ruminating, the slick killed the connection. The message that the butterfly had left was completely colorless. There was no indication if the requested conversation was to discuss something positive or negative.

Task replayed the voicemail.

Once it was over, the slick again killed the connection. The fact that the message was atonal seemed like a bad thing, though perhaps Erin was trying to create some suspense for a pleasant surprise (such as her deciding to return to nursing school at this time). Regardless, it was clear that she did not want to discuss the topic over the phone.

“Another husband’s here,” announced the sleepy waiter.

Through the curtain walked a fat, dark Asian fellow who wore a white crew shirt, jeans, and sandals. His lips looked like two purplish-red slugs, and his eyes were dim.

Task motioned to the photograph. “That’s what you’re dealing with.”

The candidate looked at the picture. His jaw tightened.

“Can you do it?” inquired the slick.

“Forty thousand.”

“It’s six thousand. Paid at intervals.”

“Fifteen thousand.”

“Dismissed.” Dingbang flashed his hand. “Auntie doesn’t like Fujianese anyways.”

The candidate snorted. “Do I get a free meal at least? For coming in?”

“Thirty percent off,” replied the manager.

“Fifty.”

“Thirty. And no specials with the discount.”

Beads rattled as the fat Asian fellow departed.

The slick highlighted the butterfly’s number, thumbed the connection, and put the receiver to his ear.

“Hi. This is Erin. Leave a message after the Chihuahua.”

A dog yipped.

“Hey. I hope I’m not waking you. I got your message and’ll be at the parlor at four thirty. See you then. Bye.”

Task killed the connection.

A third candidate walked into the banquet room, saw the photograph of Auntie, and exited through the beaded curtain, which was still swaying from his entrance.

Dingbang scratched his chin. “Do you think she’s better in person?”

“Three-dimensional?”

“Shit hell.”

Sipping tea, Task considered the situation. “I think we should get the number of that fifteen-thousand-dollar guy while he’s still here eating. Just in case.”

“Auntie won’t marry Fujianese.”

“Okay.” An idea came to the slick. “Get some steamers out here with dumplings for the candidates.”

The manager barked some Cantonese at the waiter.

“And this shouldn’t be here…” Task stood from his chair and relocated the easel to the farthest and darkest corner of the room. “Let them ease into it.”

“Another husband is here,” announced the sleepy waiter.

A decent-looking silver-haired Asian fellow of fifty who wore nice slacks, a collared shirt, and Italians walked into the room.

“Are you here as a marriage candidate?” asked the slick, doubtfully.

“I am.” The candidate motioned to the distant photograph. “Is that her?”

“It is.”

Intrepidly, the dapper fellow walked to the picture of Auntie, stopped, and folded his arms. “She has a quality.”

“Are you a homosexual?” inquired Task.

The candidate turned away from the photograph and walked toward the table. “Would it be a problem if I were?”

“Can you consummate sexual relations with a woman?”

The candidate removed a piece of lint from his slacks. “I can consummate sexual relations with anything.”

“Good attitude.”

Dingbang stopped frowning, which was a rare event.

“Do you have any STDs?” inquired the slick.

“You’re asking me this because I’m gay?”

“You just used the word ‘anything’ to describe your sexual partners.”

“I wear protection.”

“Another husband’s here,” the sleepy waiter announced through the curtain.

Dingbang shouted something in Cantonese, and the server vanished.

“What’s your name?” the slick asked the dapper fellow.

“David Gao.”

“What province are you from?”

“Wisconsin.”

“You were born in the States?”

“Yes. My parents were from Guangdong.”

Task looked at Dingbang. “Will Auntie be okay with that?”

“Auntie has relatives there.”

The slick rose from his chair and extended his hand. “Congratulations.”

Task stretched sunglasses across his face, departed Eight Dragons Chinese, and walked into a day halfway between ninety and one hundred degrees. His pores tingled, yielding moisture as he circumnavigated the restaurant and tossed himself into his silver sedan, where he promptly started the engine and the air conditioner. Concerns about the upcoming conversation with Erin continued to trouble him, and there was a separate uncomfortable duty that he still needed to perform…

The temperature inside the vehicle sank below eighty as the slick removed his cellphone, highlighted a number, and thumbed a connection.

After two rings, the line clicked.

“Hello?” said Andrea.

“Hey. It’s Darren. Can I swing by?”

“Um…I’d rather you didn’t.” The personal trainer sounded congested. “This morning’s been pretty rough.”

“What happened?”

“I found a file on my computer—a bunch of old pictures of me and Chris on our first trip to the Keys.” Andrea blew her nose and then sniffled. “It’s not a good day.”

“Is there some time when you’d like for me to come by?”

“I don’t know. There’s something you wanna tell me?”

“Yeah.”

The line was silent.

A blue kingfisher landed on the corner of a garbage bin, hopped once, and stared at a brick.

The trainer cleared her throat. “Is it something I want to hear?”

“It is.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Silence reclaimed the line.

“We can’t discuss this on a phone,” said Task.

“I know, I know.” Andrea sniffled. “Thanks for…letting me know.”

“Of course. Call me whenever you want to meet up.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Take care.”

The slick killed the connection, relieved that he did not have to visit the grieving woman.

Task drove down the garage ramp, pulled into his reserved space, and exited his car. His cellphone buzzed when he entered the second-floor hallway of his building, and he withdrew the device. The touchscreen told him that the call was from the slightly paranoid black manager of the Lewis Street parlor.

“Hold on a sec,” Task said to Watkins, “I’m letting myself in.”

“No sweat.”

The slick undid the bolts, turned the knob, and pushed. Freed from the jamb, the match clicked upon the tiles.

Task walked into the living room, locked the door, and returned his cellphone to his good ear. “Something’s up?”

“Jerome Buford just called me. He wants to talk to you, but didn’t have your new number. Not sure if you wanted me to give it out.”

“Jerome Buford?” The slick strode into the kitchen, where the miniaturized jazz band was doing a set for some cold appliances. “What’d he want?”

“A conversation. He didn’t get into it with me.”

Task opened the stainless-steel refrigerator door, trying to recall the last time he had been in contact with Jerome Buford. The memory appeared in the slick’s brainpan, and the word “Fuck” fell out of his mouth.

“What?”

“Text him my number.” Task pulled a water pitcher from the top shelf and elbowed the door. “Tell him to call me right now.”

“Got it. Later.”

“Bye.”

The line went dead.

Suddenly, the jazz coming out of the radio sounded like noise.

The slick set the water pitcher upon the black marble island. His neck was tight, and his pulse was racing.

“Fuck.”

Jerome Buford was the first of the six black guys whom Task had sent to Cherry Red.

“Goddammit.”

Dissonant jazz horns wailed like police sirens.

The cellphone buzzed.

Task picked up the device and accepted the call. “Hello?”

“It’s Jerome.”

“You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah, man. I just wanted to ask a favor—hope you don’t mind. It’ll just take a minute.”

“Okay.” The slick took a glass from the cupboard. “What’s the favor?”

“Y’see, I’m on this dating website, and a girl named Becky J. sends me a smooch—it’s a little cartoon smiley face, but with long hair and big red lips—and I go to her profile and check her out. She’s Korean—and I’m way into Asians—and we’ve got a lotta common interests. A surprising amount. So, we talk on the phone for a while and you come up.”

“She brought me up?” inquired Task, although he already knew the answer to this question.

“Yeah. We were talking about our favorite Ethiopian restaurants, and she tells me that her friend Tasking just recommended a new place called Adishiwot.”

The slick felt his heart thud. “What’d you say?”

“I ask her if the guy’s first name is Darren, and she says, ‘Yes,’ and I’m like, ‘I know him.’”

In less than a day, Erin Green had located one of her six black persecutors and confirmed that he knew Task. The subject matter of the four thirty meeting at the Preston Avenue parlor was no longer uncertain.

“So, we have a date on Friday,” Jerome resumed, “and I was wondering if you could take a look at her pictures and tell me if she really looks like this.”

“She doesn’t.”

“How do you know? She showed them to you?”

Task poured himself some water. “You remember that stripper you messed with in July? Kristie Lynn?”

“Dude. Of course. The look on her face when I said I wanted to cut her up was hysterical.”

“This Korean is her. She found you online and was trying to see if you knew me. Obliquely.”

A void sat on the line for a few seconds.

“This sounds like a lotta brain activity for a stripper,” remarked Jerome.

“She’s smart.”

“Well, I thought it was a little suspicious—a Korean who looks like that having so many common interests with me and making the first move…”

The slick swallowed some water and set his glass upon the island. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Okay. Sorry if I fucked anything up.”

“Bye.”

“Later.”

Task killed the connection and stared at his cellphone, thinking of Erin, who had moments ago changed from a romantic hope to a serious business risk.

“Goddammit.”

Suddenly, the slick was making another call. Two rings sounded in his ear and were followed by a click.

“Hello,” said Strembicky.

“Hey. I need your rotary to unearth some history.”

“Is there a situation?”

“There is. Maybe even an event.”

“Tell me what you have.”

Task felt some misgivings about what he was now doing, yet he knew that he had to protect his business…and himself. “Erin Green is the name that she goes by, and it’s on her driver’s license too. No ‘e’ at the end of Green. The middle name on the card is Hope.”

“You don’t believe that this is her real name?”

“There’s a good chance that she changed it.” The slick drank some ounces. “She went by Kristie Lynn when she was a stripper at Cherry Red, and now she works as Daniela.”

“This is the woman about whom I have heard so many wonderful things?”

“Her.”

The line was silent.

Task returned the glass to the island. “You want her ingredients?”

“Convey the essentials.”

“Twenty-five. Chestnut brunette. Green eyes. Five six. Fair skin. Around one fifteen. Has some education—probably nursing school. Been in Great Crown at least five years.”

“The rotary shall look into her.”

“Thank you.”

The line went dead.

A trumpeter blasted a strident melody, and Task shut off the radio.

Silence returned to the kitchen and spread throughout the apartment.

XXXII

The Hounds at Twilight

Suspicious dogs watched as Erin zipped up her jeans, pulled on a lavender t-shirt, and stepped into her green flip-flops. The moment her right hand touched the big sloppy purse, a riot broke out. Wooferson howled at the ceiling as did the simple-minded Yorkshire Terrier, Ty (who often imitated the Bichon Frisé), while nearby, Nombre yipped, and the black French Bulldog Queen Evil growled in two-second intervals like a car engine that would not start. Spazzington ran in circles around an empty roll of toilet paper.

“Sorry, guys—I’ve gotta go to work. One more night.”

The canine clamor increased as did the speed of the Brussels Griffon’s orbits. Frightened by others and himself, the Chihuahua sped to his bivouac, which was underneath the couch.

“I’ll take you to the park when I get home. I promise.”

Inconsolable, the animals renewed their protests at a higher volume.

Erin knew that the gang was about to earn another complaint from the tenants who lived next door.

“Hang tough.”

The butterfly exited, closed the door, and turned the locks.

Inside the apartment, the animals quieted. It was possible that they had already forgotten why they were barking.

Erin adjusted her purse and began her descent. Thoughts of the gang were replaced by bitter memories of Darren Tasking, the scumbag who had turned her into a whore, played upon her sympathies, and lied to her.

“Fucking asshole.”

By tomorrow morning, the situation would be resolved. The butterfly would be out of debt and done with this kind of life, and whatever happened to the soulless slick would be a direct result of his own actions.

“He fucking deserves it,” the woman muttered to herself as she reached the ground floor. “Asshole.”

Squinting, Erin strode through the front doorway.

The heat and golden glare of twilight pressed upon her as she turned right and entered the parking lot. Her flip-flops scuffed the pavement and slapped heels.

Erin had some doubts about what she had set in motion earlier that day (shortly after her talk with Jerome Buford), but when she recalled the numerous indignities she had suffered as a result of Darren Tasking, her doubts disappeared.

“He fucking deserves it.”

The butterfly dragged a long, thin shadow through the parking lot. Twilit grilles leered all around her.

Something boomed, startling Erin. She turned around, and a rumbling shadow engulfed her.

A semi truck sped past, blocking the sun as it rolled down the avenue. The vehicle crossed an intersection, and soon, the glaring orb reappeared.

Squinting, the butterfly continued through the lot. The fate that awaited the slick did not put her in any peril, and there was no reason for her to be anxious.

“Goddamn nerves.”

Erin pointed her remote at the purple hybrid, which was parked thirty feet away on the far side of a big white sports utility vehicle. Her four-wheeled pet chirped.

The falling sun glared as the butterfly pulled her long shadow over a green station wagon and a blue sports car. Flip-flops scuffed the asphalt and slapped heels.

Erin walked into the space between her car and the SUV. Pausing, she reached for the door handle.

Something clicked.

The butterfly looked over her shoulder.

A goateed man lunged through an open door, grabbed Erin’s ponytail, and slammed a fist into her stomach. Air burst from her lungs, and into her gaping mouth, the attacker crammed a ball of rubber spikes.

The butterfly twisted loose and lunged for freedom. Her head snapped back, yanked by the fist that gripped her ponytail.

Suddenly, Erin was off her feet and flying.

A steel buckle smacked her left eye, and rubber spikes stabbed her tongue and hard palate as she landed in the backseat of the SUV. Thick hands turned her onto her back, and a short man jammed the barrel of a gun into her larynx.

“Behave or you’re dead.”

Air whistled past rubber spikes as Erin tried to replenish her burning lungs.

The goateed fellow tossed the green flip-flops into the vehicle and put his palm to the tinted glass. Sunlight flashed as the door shut.

Erin reached for the spiky ball that clogged her mouth, but her hands were slapped away. A fist pounded her bladder.

Wetting herself, the butterfly curled up on the bench. The short fellow rolled her onto her stomach and pulled her arms behind her back.

Cold steel encircled her wrists. Ratchets rattled as the man tightened handcuffs.

The goateed fellow climbed into the front seat, shut the door, and scratched his cauliflower ear. “First time grabbing someone ever gave me a hard-on.”

Four automatic locks clicked.

Erin tried to ask, “What do you want from me?” through the rubber spikes that filled her mouth, but the sounds that came out were wholly unintelligible. If she could talk to these men, she could offer them money or sexual favors for freedom…

The butterfly sucked air through her nostrils and again tried to ask, “What do you want from me?”

“We’re not going to get conversational, Miss MacGrath.”

Erin paled upon hearing her old name. Pains throbbed in her mouth, stomach, and bladder, but all of these were minor sensations when compared to the icy fear that froze her insides.

The short fellow withdrew another set of handcuffs, leaned forward, and bound the butterfly’s ankles.

“Drive.”

Turning the wheel, the goateed man accelerated. The twilight sun departed from the back window, crept along the right side of the vehicle, and passed over the windshield.

Leather creaked as the short fellow rolled the butterfly. The enclosed world spun around and around until she passed the edge of the bench and fell. The floor pounded her face.

Hard Italian heels pressed into her back.

“If you make any noise, we’ll turn your pussy into jelly.”

Terrified, Erin did nothing but suck air past the rubber spikes that filled her mouth.

“We’re going direct?” asked the goateed driver.

“Yes. To the trailer.”

XXXIII

Shod Yourself

A musical chime rang, and Task opened his eyes. Some Eurasian guy who had superb hair was holding onto the underside of an airplane as it sped toward a burning clock tower filled with bombs. The glaring explosions that followed tossed red and yellow light about the den and upon the tan slacks, unbuttoned beige shirt, and dark brown socks that clothed the slick. Sprawled upon the white leather couch, the disoriented man began organizing his thoughts, though his efforts were somewhat impeded by the two inches of scotch he had earlier imbibed.

The grim situation soon crystallized.

Earlier that day, the wonderful distraction named Erin Green had become a grave business concern, and Task had been forced to give her information over to Strembicky. The slick had told himself that he did not have a choice.

Alone in his apartment with the consequences of his plots, he had sought unconsciousness. Scotch and television had helped him realize this ambition.

With a start, Task recalled his four thirty a.m. meeting with Erin. A glance at the clock on the wall told him that it was three minutes after two in the morning.

He had been looking at his eyelids for more than eight hours.

“Shit.”

Task shot to his feet, hurried through the dining room, and entered the kitchen, where he had left his cellphone upon the black marble island. Picking up the device, he saw that he had missed five calls. Two were from Karate John, and three were from Strembicky.

A musical chime rang, startling the slick. Earlier, he had dismissed this sound as a part of his dream, but what he had just heard was not imaginary.

An unexpected visitor was at the door.

Pressing the cellphone to his good ear, the slick crept from the kitchen toward his bedroom.

“First message,” stated an artificial female. “Monday. Seven ten p.m.”

“It’s Karate. Erin’s late. I called her, but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet. If I don’t hear from her soon, I’ll reach out to Laurie to fill her spot. Bye.”

Task opened his bedroom door and walked inside.

“Second message. Monday. Eight o four p.m.”

“It’s Karate. Laurie’s on. Let me know if you hear from Erin, and if she’s working tomorrow. Bye.”

Task retrieved his snub-nosed revolver from the nightstand. Once again, the doorbell rang.

“Third message,” stated the artificial female. “Monday. Ten nineteen p.m.”

“Call me back,” said Strembicky.

The line clicked.

Padding quietly, the slick returned to the hallway and proceeded toward the living room. The loaded revolver dangled from his right hand.

“Fourth message. Monday. Eleven forty-five p.m.”

“Call me back,” said the guarantor.

The line clicked.

Cold tiles chilled Task through his thin brown socks as he entered the living room. Thirty feet away from him was the closed front door.

Moisture collected on his forehead and in his armpits as he carried himself and the gun toward the unknown visitor.

“Fifth message. Tuesday. One fifteen a.m.”

“I’m sending two associates to your home,” stated Strembicky. “Go with them.”

“End of messages. If you would like to save—”

Task killed the connection, pocketed his cellphone, and quietly approached the front door. It was unclear if this visitation was prompted by the situation with the lowriders or the investigation of the butterfly, but this was the first time that consortium members had ever come to his home.

No positive extrapolations came to mind.

The slick put his eye to the peephole.

Standing directly outside the apartment were the goateed cog and Leo V. The latter man was fingering a luminous touchscreen.

Task’s cellphone buzzed.

The consortium men eyed the exact middle of the door.

Hastily, the slick killed the device.

“Was that a mosquito?” the underling asked the short fellow.

“I’m doubtful.”

“Bumblebee?”

“This building isn’t zoned for apiary.”

“So then he’s just standing on the other side of this door?”

“Yep.” Leo V. pocketed his cellphone. “Open up, Tasking. While we’re still asking.”

The consortium was not something that Task could or should try to resist. Resigned, he pocketed his revolver, unlocked the bolts, and opened the door.

“Show me how to count to ten,” said the short fellow.

The slick raised his hands as the late-night visitors entered the apartment.

Scanning the room, the goateed cog donned leather gloves, leaned his back against the door, and snapped a bolt.

Leo V. displayed a semiautomatic pistol that had a silencer.

“There’s one in my left pocket,” the slick informed his visitors.

“Obviously.”

The underling claimed the revolver, thumbed the release, and popped the cylinder. Bullets clattered upon the tiles. Thrown, the weapon arced through the air and skipped across the den carpet.

“Not very aerodynamic,” remarked the short fellow. “You’ve got anything else?”

“No other weapons.”

Leo V. gestured. “Then my associate will fondle you for the thrill of it.”

Gloved hands patted Task’s chest, sides, proof of gender, buttocks, arms, and legs. The goateed cog found nothing but a cellphone, which he then pocketed in his black sweatpants.

“Why’re you guys here?” the slick asked the short fellow.

“To take you on a field trip.”

“Where to?”

“A place.”

“What kind of place?”

“The kind with latitude. Some longitude.”

“You gonna get more specific?”

“It has air.”

“Can I get dressed?”

Leo V. gestured up and down with the barrel of his gun. “You are.”

Task wriggled his toes, stretching his thin brown socks. “May I put on some shoes?”

“Shod yourself.”

The visitors followed their host to his bedroom. There, the slick opened a closet door and stepped into two Italians. His bladder sent a pang up the turnpike.

“May I take a piss?”

“With admirers.”

Task walked into his bathroom, unzipped his pants, and shot a dark yellow stream into the bowl.

“You’re not getting enough water,” remarked Leo V.

“May I brush my teeth? I just woke—”

“Ten seconds. No floss.”

The slick retrieved a toothbrush and saw that his hands were shaking. Time elapsed as he tried to squirt white paste onto the jittering bristles.

“Five seconds.”

The slick brushed his teeth and gargled.

“Let’s go.”

Task spat into the sink, shut off the light, and entered the bedroom.

“Walk ahead of us,” said the short fellow.

The slick led the consortium men up the hallway. “You guys land outside or in guest parking?”

“The latter.”

Task cornered, entering the kitchen.

“Why’re you going there?” asked Leo V.

“Need to get my keys.”

“Don’t pick up anything sharp.”

The slick grabbed his keys from the black marble island, returned to the portal, and reached for the light switch.

A silencer pointed at his face.

“Turn off another light,” the short fellow said, “and I’ll shine some.”

Task lowered his hand and led Leo V. and the goateed cog through the living room and out into the second-floor hallway, where he shut the door and locked the bolts. The consortium trod upon the slick’s shadow as the trio progressed up the quiet passageway toward the elevator.

With an extended index finger, Task turned the call button into a luminous arrow. A red light shone on the wall, and the gold door slid from view.

“Slowly,” warned Leo V., who then pocketed his gun.

The slick led the consortium men into the elevator, which closed, flinched, fell, lurched, and opened. Silently, the trio entered the lobby, where lasers and explosions came from the cellphone of the Indian doorman who usually worked the late shift.

Pausing the game, the attendant looked up.

“Don’t get yourself hurt,” said the goateed cog, gesturing at the touchscreen, yet implying something else.

The Indian doorman returned his attention to the safe digital warfare with which he was familiar. Thumbs slew thousands.

Led by the slick, the consortium men crossed the lobby, entered the parking garage, and started up the steps. Heavy footfalls echoed.

“Security here isn’t exemplary,” remarked Leo V.

The trio reached the second level, where dim overhead lights shone upon a score of inert, four-wheeled guests. Scanning the enclosure, Task saw the familiar white sports utility vehicle.

“We’re riding in the back,” the short fellow informed the slick.

“Okay.”

“Get in on this side and slide over.”

“Okay.”

The goateed cog thumbed his remote, eliciting two beeps and some flirtatious winks.

Task opened the rear driver’s side door, climbed inside, and slid across the upholstery. His right foot caught upon an unseen object that lay beneath the front seat, and he withdrew his leg. Hooked to the pointed toe of his right shoe by a rubber strap was a green flip-flop.

His stomach sank.

Leo V. displayed his gun. “Keep going.”

The slick kicked the flip-flop from his Italian and slid behind the passenger’s seat.

“Buckle up.”

Shaking, Task dragged a triangulated seat belt across his torso and slotted the buckle, which clicked. Stainless steel handcuffs struck the bench, skipped, and landed in his lap.

“Now those,” ordered Leo V.

“I’m not gonna try anything.”

“Most guys say that. Especially the triers.”

Task hooked a handcuff onto his left wrist, swung the ratchet until it clicked three times, and then secured his right arm.

“Tighter.”

Metal rattled as the slick squeezed the bracelets.

The short fellow seated himself on the far side of the bench while the goateed cog circled around and got behind the steering wheel. Doors thumped, and the automatic locks clicked.

Task gestured at the green flip-flop. “Is she still alive?”

No response came from either of the consortium men.

The underling slotted a key, ignited the engine, and shifted into reverse. Luminous concrete fled from the front bumper, and the slick tipped forward.

The white SUV paused, changed directions, and corkscrewed down the parking garage ramps into the night.

Barrel Street was empty. A few faint and perhaps long-dead stars that Task could not name shone in the dark vastness above the sleeping city.

At exactly forty-five miles per hour, the vehicle rolled west.

It was obvious that the consortium had learned something very bad about the butterfly during their investigation of her, though the slick could not imagine what unearthed secret would have necessitated such swift action.

“Can I speak to Strembicky?”

Neither of the consortium men responded to this inquiry.

Rectangles of yellow light drifted across the bench as Task pondered silent questions. There were no good extrapolations to be made at this time, but he did not yet know the gravity of the situation.

The goateed cog braked, cornering onto Long Avenue. Charcoal skyscrapers filled the black horizon as the vehicle rolled toward the financial district.

Cold dread filled Task, and his neck tightened. “We’re going to the trailer?”

Neither of the consortium men responded to this inquiry.

A rectangle of yellow light slid across the stainless-steel handcuffs and the green flip-flop.

The slick felt hot and dizzy. His peripheral vision narrowed, and he fingered the window button to get some fresh air.

Wind whistled through the opening.

Task inhaled a deep breath. A fist pounded his jaw, and his face smacked the glass.

Stunned by the blow, the slick slumped back in his seat.

A silencer pressed into his larynx.

“Was he gonna yell?” the goateed fellow asked his associate. “Try to jump?”

“Never can tell.”

A button clicked, and the window closed.

The slick rubbed his jaw, which was throbbing. “Just needed some fresh air.”

“Enjoy the stale stuff.”

At a speed of exactly fifty miles per hour, the white SUV entered the financial district. Colossal buildings filled the windows.

Leo V. lowered his pistol, but kept the silencer trained upon Task.

The vehicle rolled north through the concrete valley.

Two miles into the district, the slick noticed an illuminated window on the tenth floor of a tall office building. Behind the glass, a gray-haired black janitor smoked a cigarette while reclining luxuriously in his absent employer’s chair.

The sight of the contented fellow taking a break gave Task a pang of envy. For a brief moment, he wondered if he had completely missed the point of everything.

A neighboring building got in the way, concealing the tranquil diorama.

The white SUV continued through the dark, concrete night.

Spaces grew between the buildings, and soon, the vehicle was in the developing area. Sweat gathered upon the slick’s forehead and in his armpits.

Leo V. tapped the touchscreen of his cellphone and placed the device to his ear.

Somebody said, “Yes?”

“Two minutes.”

The short fellow killed the connection and pocketed his cellphone.

Task’s veins filled with cold dark ink and sweat dripped down his face. It was unclear whether he or Erin would reach tomorrow.

Vacant lots and unfinished buildings filled the windows as the vehicle rolled north. Trapped between some iron girders were two dim stars that the slick could barely see.

Braking, the goateed cog dialed the steering wheel clockwise. Headlights illuminated the orange mesh of the privacy fence that surrounded the familiar construction site.

The underling stopped, shifted into park, exited, walked into the luminous dust, undid the oversized padlocks, pulled the chains, flung the gate, returned to his seat, changed gears, and accelerated. Tires snapped rocks as the white SUV rolled through the opening.

Task was shivering.

Far beyond the radiance of the headlights loomed a forty-story sketch that had been rendered in iron and steel upon a dark black canvas. The unknown stars were no longer visible.

Accelerating, the goateed cog spun the steering wheel.

Light shone upon the saffron trailer.

Task felt a tingling sensation all over his body.

The bumper of the SUV was fifty feet from the corrugated box and drawing closer. Floating grit turned the headlights into radiant cones.

In the trailer’s lone window, the curtain flinched.

The driver stopped the vehicle. Locks shot up, clicking.

The slick fought against the compulsion to flee, since he knew that he would be shot ten times before he even took five strides. This tableau was not something from which he could escape.

“Go inside,” ordered Leo V. “Walk in a straight line unless you want me to send some guidance.”

“You’re gonna remove my handcuffs?”

“They’re a gift.”

“No, thanks.”

The short fellow poked the silencer into the slick’s ribs. “Bye.”

Task jerked the handle, elbowed the door, swung his legs outside, and heaved himself forward. Hard Italian heels pounded the dirt.

The slick entered the cones of light and walked toward the saffron trailer he had revisited so many times in his nightmares. Floating grit stuck to his wet face as he closed the distance.

Task soon reached the steps. Spitting out dust and swallowing his fears, he climbed. Hard Italian soles clanked across the night.

The off-white door opened.

Standing within the trailer were the huge buzzcut cog, who was dressed in a black sweatsuit, and the agent, who wore a navy-blue windbreaker and matching shorts. Both men had rubber gloves and semiautomatics.

“Please come inside,” said the fat fellow.

The slick walked through the doorway, took a deep breath, and scanned the interior.

Resting upon the office desk was the black toolbox.

Task paled.

“We’re gonna get waffles,” Leo V. called out from the SUV. “I’ll text when we’re done.”

The underling waved outside, shut the door, and snapped the bolt.

Rocks crackled beneath truck tires.

Task looked around the bare saffron interior. It was then that he saw the unplugged silver extension cord that ran from underneath the closed bathroom door.

The slick cleared his throat and looked at the agent. “Is Erin in there…? The bathroom?”

“Nobody named Erin is in there.”

“But she’s in there? The woman who calls herself Erin Green?”

“Yes. Eva MacGrath is in there.”

Task was stunned. “MacGrath…?”

“Does that name sound familiar to you?” asked the fat fellow, whose voice had a mocking lilt.

“As in…Police Commissioner Terence MacGrath?”

“You do recognize it.”

“So…they’re related…?”

“Police Commissioner Terence MacGrath is Eva’s father.”

Nauseated, the slick leaned his right shoulder against a saffron panel. “She’s the fucking daughter of the police commissioner?”

“Correct.”

Hunched and askew, Task wheezed. The stars missing from the night sky reappeared upon his black leather shoes.

Thoughts of prison filled his mind.

“When she was thirteen,” the agent resumed, “her father kicked her out of his house—she had been pregnant at that time, though she later miscarried. Once she was of age, she changed her name.”

“So…they’re not in contact…? The two of them?”

“Not once in twelve years.”

A small hope flickered inside of Task, who soon righted himself and wiped his forehead with his beige sleeve. “So, then…she hasn’t said anything?”

“Correct. But that might change someday…”

The agent picked his wrinkled nose and snorted. “That’s the truly terrible thing about being related to somebody—a connection exists no matter what happens. Even though Police Commissioner Terence MacGrath and his daughter Eva are estranged, they might have a reconciliation at any time. And at that point, the entrepreneur who turned Miss MacGrath into a whore and the members of the unlucky consortium that backed that fellow would be shot on the street or taken to jail and beaten to death.

“MacGrath does not hold himself to any of the legal standards that he enforces.”

The slick gathered more sweat with his sleeve. “I’ve heard stories.”

The agent pointed his semiautomatic at the black toolbox. “Put on your gloves.”

“I can’t send her to Alaska. She hasn’t d—”

“This situation is your responsibility. Put on your gloves.”

Task shook his head. “I can’t kill her.”

Two guns pointed at his face.

Coolly, the agent eyed the slick. “You will execute her or we will execute you and her.”

Task lost his strength. His knees slammed against the floor, and his body convulsed. Bitter brown fluid shot through his mouth and slapped the linoleum.

“Was that a yes?” inquired the buzzcut cog.

A second paroxysm seized the slick. Vomit raced up his throat and splattered the first expulsion.

Dripping sweat and leaking bile, Task corralled his thoughts. The brunette would die in the immediate future whether or not he killed her, though if he refused to pull the trigger, he would forfeit his own life in a purposeless symbolic gesture. Only his conscience would benefit from this moment of righteousness, and that nagging tumor would die at the same exact time as the rest of his body.

Slowly, the slick nodded his head.

“Put on your gloves,” said the agent.

Task stood up, wiped his mouth, and walked toward the black toolbox. “It would be easier for me to do this without handcuffs on.”

“Your convenience isn’t a priority.”

“Surprisingly,” added the buzzcut cog.

The slick used an untucked part of his shirt to raise the lid of the black toolbox.

Lying inside of the container were a pair of blue rubber gloves and a nickel-plated revolver.

The consortium men raised their weapons.

Task took a breath and steadied himself. Focused on the immediate rather than imminent, he gloved his hands, raised the revolver, and opened the cylinder, which had five empty slots and one bullet. A lot of thoughts flooded through his mind as he stared at that lone cartridge. His legs weakened, and he sagged against the office desk.

The buzzcut cog scratched an armpit and looked at the agent. “Should I give him a nudge?”

“Please.”

The underling walked to the far side of the trailer and picked up the loose end of the silver extension cord that led beneath the closed bathroom door. Into a wall socket, he slotted the two-pronged plug.

The overheard lights dimmed and brightened.

Gesturing at the bathroom, the agent looked at the slick. “There is a cold curling iron in her pussy.”

Task felt empty.

“It is inserted all the way to her cervix and set on high,” added the fat fellow. “The metal will be hot in about two minutes.”

The slick heaved bilious syrup onto the office desk. Sweat rolled into his eyes.

The agent gestured with his semiautomatic. “You probably want to execute her before too much time passes.”

Task pushed everything from his mind, carried the revolver across the trailer, and flung the bathroom door.

Nude, prone, and unconcious on the shower floor lay Erin. Handcuffs held her arms behind her back and fettered her ankles, and her battered face was askew in a pool of chestnut hair. Nestled between her closed thighs was the curling iron handle, which had a glowing red light.

Dizzied by the sight, the slick leaned his right shoulder against the doorjamb. “Christ.”

“In sixty seconds,” the agent announced, “her vaginal walls will start to blister.”

The gun that Task held in his right hand had become impossibly heavy.

Footfalls thudded on the linoleum as the two consortium men walked toward the bathroom. The fat fellow stopped near the curtained window, and the goateed cog took a position ten feet behind the slick.

“Fifty seconds,” said the agent.

Nauseated, Task stared at Erin.

The red dot glared between her thighs.

“Scorched pussy doesn’t smell as good as you’d hope,” remarked the buzzcut cog.

“Forty seconds.”

The slick pointed the revolver at the battered brunette who was knocked out and prostrated upon the shower tiles. This woman was in the saffron trailer because of his actions, and now, he was going to take her life.

Repeatedly, he told himself that he did not have a choice.

“Thirty.”

Task stepped into the bathroom, pointed the revolver at Erin’s head, and curled his rubberized index finger around the trigger. Twelve inches, some chestnut hair, and seven millimeters of skull separated the waiting bullet and the targeted brain.

The slick could not breathe. His heart thudded.

“Twenty.”

The brunette twitched, shaking the curling iron, and her eyelids fluttered. It looked like she was starting to wake up.

Task steadied the revolver. A tingling sensation filled his entire body.

“Fifteen seconds,” announced the agent. “Do this now before the situation—”

“She’s already dead,” the slick announced while blocking the doorway with his body. “Looks like she had a seizure or heart attack or something. Her lips are fucking purple.”

“Shoot her anyways.”

“Why? There’s no point.”

“Lemme see this,” said the buzzcut cog.

Footfalls thudded.

Erin twitched.

Task remained in the doorway, obstructing the view of the semiconscious woman who lay upon the tile.

A shadow that belonged to the underling slid across the floor. “Move outta the way.”

“Sure.”

The slick turned around and fired into the stunned face of the buzzcut cog. Perforated, the underling’s head snapped back.

The agent stared in shock.

Task rushed directly at the other consortium man, who soon realized his predicament and lifted the semiautomatic in his right hand.

The slick dove across the remaining three yards and slammed headlong into the fat fellow.

Gunpowder boomed.

Pain erupted in Task’s left arm as the agent slammed into the wall. The semiautomatic whacked a saffron panel, ricocheting, and the fat fellow collapsed on top of the slick.

Nearby, the teetering cog collapsed upon linoleum.

Task shoved the agent onto his back, straddled him, and raised his right fist, which clenched his empty revolver. The barrel jutted out like the blade of a knife.

“Stop!” shouted the fat fellow. “Wait!”

Furious, the slick brought the weapon down. The nickel-plated barrel pierced the agent’s right eyeball, mashed nerves, and clicked against the back of the socket.

“Nie!” squealed the fat fellow.

Gripping the gun, Task pressed all of his weight forward. The barrel cracked through the bone and lanced brain matter.

Writhing upon the linoleum, the dying agent soiled himself. Blood and ocular fluid welled around the nickel-plated cylinder.

Shaking, the slick released the handle.

A scream came from the bathroom.

Task rose to his feet. Pain exploded in his gunshot left arm, and his knees slammed against the linoleum. “Fuck.”

“I can’t get it out!” yelled Erin.

“I’m coming.” The slick rose to his feet, stumbled toward the bathroom, and lunged over the dead underling.

“It’s burning!”

Task sped to the doorway, slipped, and caught his balance on the jamb.

In the shower, Erin pressed her face to the tiles and used her knees to lift her buttocks in the air. The handle of the curling iron jutted toward the slick.

“Get it out!”

Task clasped the black rubber grip and pulled. The heated rod resisted, sticking in place.

A scream filled the bathroom.

Horrified, the slick released the handle. “What do you—”

“Rip it out!” shouted the brunette. “Now!”

Task gripped the handle and jerked the curling iron loose.

Shrieking, Erin collapsed on the tiles.

The slick saw several brown clots upon the heated rod. Nauseated, he threw the device across the trailer.

Erin stomped upon the wall of the shower with her bare feet and yelled incoherently.

“Hey!” shouted Task. “Should I run cold water?”

“Yes!”

The slick turned the right handle, and cold water sprayed from the shower head.

Groaning, the brunette rolled onto her back and opened her thighs.

“We need to get out of here before the others come back,” stated Task. “I’m gonna look for keys.”

Blood pooled on the tiles underneath Erin. “Go.”

XXXIV

Injuries

Handcuffed and shot in the left arm, Task departed the trailer bathroom and strode to the body of the buzzcut cog. Bewilderment was frozen upon the dead man’s face, and clumps of partially digested food sat in his open mouth.

Kneeling, the slick reached into the left pocket of the underling’s black sweatpants, where he found nothing except for some lingering warmth. Italians cracked as he stepped to the other side of the body and resumed his search. The right pocket contained damp fabric, some wet money, and cold metal.

Task withdrew his bound hands and a jingling key ring.

“You found them?” asked Erin, whose hoarse voice echoed in the bathroom.

“Think so.”

The slick examined the ring from which depended a dozen variegated keys, isolated the simplest one, and unlocked his handcuffs. His injured left limb dropped to his side, and the gunshot wound burned anew.

Jaw clenched, Task pocketed the cog’s semiautomatic and walked into the bathroom.

Cold water sprayed from the showerhead onto Erin’s groin and inner thighs. The diluted blood around her buttocks was now the color of fruit punch.

“How’re you feeling down there?”

The brunette twisted her head back. “You’re kidding, right?”

Task turned off the water, rolled Erin onto her side, and unlocked the handcuffs that held her wrists behind her back. Steel clanked upon the tile.

Sighing, the brunette lay flat on her back and rubbed her sore arms. “Finally.”

The slick undid the handcuffs being used as fetters and tossed them aside. “Can you stand?”

“I’ll do whatever I have to.”

Task took Erin’s left arm and helped her stand upright.

Wincing in pain, the brunette leaned against the shower wall.

The slick motioned to the tiles. “Maybe you should sit down while I—”

“See if there’re bandages.”

Task turned to the sink and opened the mirror cabinet.

Nothing sat upon the three plastic shelves.

“No bandages.”

“Then get me some toilet paper.”

The slick pulled a long strip from the roll. “Enough?”

Erin took the toilet paper, which she then rolled into a small white cigar. Widening her stance, she touched her labia with her free hand.

“Erin. Are you sure you—”

“Get me something to wear.”

Grimacing, the brunette brought the ersatz tampon toward her vagina. A drop of blood slid down her right thigh.

Task averted his gaze and proceeded into the body of the trailer. “I’ll get you s—”

“Fuck!” shouted Erin.

This exclamation was followed by a yell.

“Be careful.”

Task rolled the agent onto his belly, grabbed the collar of his navy-blue windbreaker, and pulled. Fat arms fell out of the sleeves and smacked the linoleum. Dangling from the slick’s gloved right hand was a jacket that could encompass at least two Erins.

A guttural animal noise came from the bathroom.

“Be careful,” Task said as he proceeded toward the doorway.

Something rustled outside of the trailer. This slight sound may or may not have been caused by the wind.

Concerned, the slick set the windbreaker upon the bathroom sink, whispered, “Be quiet,” and crept to the wall next to the curtained window. His heart sped up as he listened to the night.

There was no recurrence of the rustling sound.

Task moved the floral curtain one inch to the right and peered outside.

The construction site was empty, excepting the skeletal high rise and a plastic bag turning in the wind. Nobody had unlocked the gate, which was still closed.

“Is everything okay?” whispered Erin.

“Looks clear.”

The brunette ambled out of the bathroom and zipped up the navy-blue windbreaker, which reached down to the middle of her thighs.

Relieved that the woman could walk, the slick motioned to the off-white door. “We need to go before the others get back.”

Erin gestured at the corpses. “I thought you hired these guys.”

“No.”

“What did they—”

“Let’s get into this later.”

“So you’ll have time to make up some more fucking bullshit?”

Ignoring the remark, Task unbuttoned his shirt and peeled the sticky, blood-soaked fabric from his upper left arm. Pain flared as he uncovered the bullet hole in the front of the limb and the corresponding exit wound in the back. The shot had punctured his deltoid, scraped across bone, and exited.

Nothing vital had been hit, but the slick knew that he had to stop the bleeding. Kneeling on the linoleum, he wiped gore from his gloved right hand, removed the agent’s left sneaker, and pulled a long white tube sock from a foot that had plump toes and yellow nails.

Erin limped over. “Give me that.”

Task yielded the purloined apparel.

“Stay on your knees.”

The brunette raised the slick’s hurt arm, wrapped the long tube sock around the matching wounds, and tied a loose knot, which she then pulled tight.

Fire exploded across Task’s left side, and he hunched forward.

“You okay?” asked Erin.

“Mmph.”

Breathing through clenched teeth, the slick staggered to his feet, proceeded to the window, and looked outside.

The vast construction site was dark and quiet, and in the distance, the gate of the privacy fence remained unopened.

Task felt confident that the area was uninhabited. “It’s time to go.”

A pained grunt came from Erin.

Concerned, the slick looked over his shoulder.

The brunette was rising to her feet in the corner of the trailer. Held in her right hand was the agent’s loaded semiautomatic.

Task froze.

Wincing, Erin shoved the weapon into the right side of her windbreaker.

The slick relaxed, relieved that he was not going to be shot by the woman whom he had earlier refused to shoot.

“Looks safe out there?” asked the brunette.

“Yeah.”

Erin ambled toward the doorway.

“Wait,” said Task. “Get their cellphones while I bring the car around.”

“Fine. Hurry.”

Task undid the locks, flung the door, withdrew his semiautomatic, descended the steel steps, and landed on the dirt. Eyeing the environs, he cautiously circumnavigated the saffron trailer.

Parked directly behind the structure was the white town car.

The slick hastened forward, jarring his wounded arm. Fresh pain lanced his entire left side, and he relaxed his pace. Nine strides later, he was at the driver’s side, where he pocketed his gun and slotted a key. Four locks shot up.

Task climbed inside, placed the gun between his legs, shut the door, ignited the engine, stepped on the brake, switched gears, accelerated, and spun the steering wheel counterclockwise. Purring, the white town car floated in a semicircle to the front of the trailer.

The slick stopped the vehicle near the bottom of the stairwell, threw the gear stick into park, and rolled down his window. “Come on.”

Erin emerged from the off-white door. Her bare feet slapped steel as she descended the steps, and the right pocket of her windbreaker had a perpendicular bulge.

Task clasped the firearm that lay hidden between his legs. “You got their phones?”

“Yeah.”

The brunette ambled around the front of the white town car, pulled open the passenger door, and climbed inside. Sitting down, she winced, flinched, and settled.

Task aimed his semiautomatic at Erin’s face. “Give me that gun.”

Incredulous, the brunette stared. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Give me that gun.”

“I wanna be able to protect myself. After wh—”

“I don’t trust you.”

Hatred blazed in Erin’s eyes. “How dare you say that after all the shit you did to me!”

Task did not lower his weapon. “We’re not going anywhere until you hand over that gun, Miss MacGrath.”

“Fine!”

The brunette reached into her jacket, and the slick jammed the nose of his semiautomatic into her neck.

“Slowly,” cautioned Task. “And put it on the dashboard.”

Erin withdrew the weapon, which she then slammed upon the leather console. “Asshole.”

The slick pocketed the agent’s firearm and toggled the gear stick. “Close that door.”

The brunette grabbed the handle, shut her door, and winced at the impact. “You’re beyond unbelievable.”

Task kept the headlights off as he drove across the dark terrain toward the privacy fence. Black, charcoal, and gray waves undulated outside the windows.

The tires struck a bump.

Erin yelped and then shifted in her seat. “Why didn’t you just shoot me like they wanted you to?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t.”

“But why?”

Task steered clear of a charcoal lump. “I don’t like people telling me what to do. Especially, when it’s the wrong thing.”

Twenty feet from the front of the white town car was the barbwire privacy fence.

Erin shook her head. “You didn’t seem to have a moral issue with turning me into a whore.”

The slick braked and flung the gear stick. “Hold on while I get this.”

No response came from the brunette.

Task took the keys from the ignition, walked to the fence, and undid the three padlocks. The heel of an Italian clanked against the gate. Hinges squeaked as the barrier swung wide.

The slick returned to the town car, drove through the opening, and stopped. Leaning over, he reached into the glove compartment, which contained protein bars, a wrapped pastry, and a lingerie catalog.

“What’re you looking for?” asked Erin.

“This.”

Task took the magazine, tore out a picture of an angular European, and stepped outside. Returning to the privacy fence, he ripped the paper into tiny pieces. His left arm throbbed, but was ignored.

The slick shut the gate, rewrapped the chains, and closed the padlocks. With a key, he stuffed the shredded bits of paper into the keyholes, clogging the tumblers. Leo V. and his goateed cog would have to get bolt cutters or scale a barbwire fence if they wanted to see what had happened to their associates inside the saffron trailer.

Once more behind the steering wheel of the white town car, Task shifted into drive and accelerated.

Tires thudded against the curb, and Erin gasped, pressing her hands between her legs.

“Sorry.”

Pained, the brunette lowered her seat all the way back and lay upon her side.

The slick slid his semiautomatic under his left leg, turned on the headlights, and drove east on Wells Street. His fear of being murdered in the immediate future was changing into the grim realization that he would need to go into hiding for the rest of his life. There could be no reconciliation between him and the consortium after what had just occurred in the saffron trailer.

Tires thudded in a pothole, and Erin groaned.

Spinning the wheel, Task cornered onto Tallman Avenue and continued south. “I’m gonna drop you off at Great Crown North.”

“I’m not going to a hospital.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then you need to go to the machos for protection or go into hiding. Leave the state, if not the country. Those two in the trailer are part of a consortium—a very large and dangerous group that considers you a risk.”

A glance at the clock on the dashboard told Task that it was twelve minutes after four in the morning.

“But why do they care about me?” Erin pressed her elbows into the upholstery of the horizontal seat and leaned forward. “I’m a nobody.”

“Your father isn’t.”

“I haven’t talked to that abusive fuck since I was a kid. Not once. There’s nothing between us.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Well fuck this group.”

“Profanity won’t make you bulletproof.”

Rolling south, the white town car floated through an intersection. The slick looked at the speedometer, which exactly matched the number on a nearby sign.

Brooding, the brunette shook her head. “I’m not going into hiding for the rest of my life.”

“Then talk to the machos. That’s the only other option that’ll keep you alive.”

“What would I tell them?”

“The truth. Tell them you’ll testify in court, but need witness protection.”

“Your name would come up,” said Erin

Task shrugged, and a blinking yellow light sailed overhead.

“You’re going into hiding?” asked the brunette.

The slick thought of the money, the house, and the new identity that awaited him in Mexico City. “I am.”

“I can’t believe that this is actually—”

A quiet ding sounded.

Erin reached into the right pocket of her windbreaker and withdrew one of the purloined cellphones.

“It’s a text?” asked Task.

“Yes.”

“Saying?”

Squinting, the brunette eyed the display. “Says, ‘Been delayed. Be there in 45. L.’”

The slick surmised that ‘L’ was Leo V. “Sounds like the guys that brought me. Is the phone locked?”

A green glitter fingertip tapped the screen. “Yeah.”

“So now we have an idea,” stated Task. “In forty-five minutes they’ll be at the gate. Depending on whether or not they have bolt cutters or are willing to climb a barbwire fence, they’ll waste another five to thirty.

“So that’s fifty to seventy-five minutes before the group knows what happened.”

Erin was pale. “That’s not a lot of time.”

“It isn’t. Where do you want me to drop you off?”

“I need to get my dogs.”

“Where do you live?”

“Near Kingfisher Park.”

The slick estimated that it would take a total of thirty minutes to drop off the brunette, cut west, and retrieve what he needed from his condominium. “Okay. You’re gonna be able to get inside without keys?”

“One of my neighbors has a set. The super too.”

“Good.”

A light shone in the window of a dark office building that stood on the west side of Tallman Avenue. Inside, a plump bearded janitor who looked like the host of a children’s show pushed a mop while bobbing his head to an uptempo song. A smile sat on the menial’s untroubled face.

Task felt a pang of envy.

Tires thudded in a pothole.

Erin gasped, turned onto her left side, and pressed her hands between her legs. Upon the white upholstery of her seat lay three dark drops of blood.

“You sure you don’t wanna go to the hospital?” asked the slick.

“I can take care of myself.”

Phalanxes of dark skyscrapers retreated as the white town car floated into the next district. Unlighted storefronts lined either side of the avenue.

The brunette winced, rolled onto her back, and looked at the ceiling. “Did you ask this group to investigate me?”

“After I spoke to Jerome Buford, I got worried.”

“Because you turned me into a whore?”

Polka music emerged from the windbreaker.

“See who it is.”

Erin withdrew the cellphone.

Upon the luminous touchscreen was a picture of a petite blonde who had a big smile, a crooked nose, and an opalescent bridal dress.

“I bet it was her curling iron,” remarked the brunette.

“Don’t answer.”

Polka music played as the white town car passed an all-night doughnut shop that was the color of gel toothpaste.

Upon the touchscreen appeared the word, ‘Voicemail…”

Erin pocketed the cellphone.

Streetlamps glared, and rectangles of yellow light swam throughout the interior of the moving vehicle. One of these luminous objects landed upon the brunette’s right ankle, which was circumscribed by a dark purple bruise.

“Do you feel bad about turning me into a whore?” inquired Erin.

“Let’s not get into this.”

“I’d rather we did—since we’re never gonna see each other again and might get killed. I think I deserve some fucking honesty from you at this point.”

“I didn’t turn you into anything.”

Incredulous, the brunette sat upright in her seat. “I was a goddamn dancer in a goddamn club before I met you.”

“You never gave head to a client in a private suite? Or slept with somebody for money outside of the club?”

“Three times—that’s it. Only three! After Chester beat the shit out of me for coming up short. But that didn’t make me a whore.”

“The number’s irrelevant. You were open to the idea, and I could tell.”

A fist pounded Task’s right ear. His skull smacked the window, and pain crowded into his eyes. Tires squealed as the white town car veered to the left.

The concrete base of a street lamp appeared beyond the emblem.

Alarmed, the slick jerked the steering wheel.

The skidding vehicle swerved into the middle of the road, weaved, and settled.

“You judgmental asshole,” hissed Erin.

“Don’t berate me into a street lamp.”

“I can’t believe I was nice to you—that I thought I could like you.” The brunette shook her head. “You’re soulless. A fucking iguana.”

Task enviously recalled the two contented janitors whom he had seen in the financial district.

“A selfish, hateful, misogynistic sociopath,” elaborated Erin.

An uncomfortable silence filled the vehicle.

With a rubberized index finger, the slick pressed the power button on the radio. Spilling from the speakers was the end of a blues standard in which a guitarist played a solo over a shuffling six-eight meter. This tune was abruptly replaced by a loud southern rock song in which three guys sang in harmony about infidelity and revenge.

Keeping the white town car at the speed limit, Task drove down Tallman Avenue. His mind sorted through the various things that he needed to do before he left for Great Crown International Airport. Dying his hair black would be the most time-consuming chore, though he would do the rinse in a public restroom along the way (or at the gate if things looked passable).

The automobile floated into a residential area. Tires grumbled, rolling upon the rougher road.

Three miles later, Task saw the sign for Sixty-fourth Street. Rather than turn right, go home, and get his things, he continued toward Kingfisher Park. The clock told him that the tableau in the trailer would be discovered in a minimum of thirty-one minutes.

Yellow rectangles slid across the upholstery as the vehicle entered a well-lighted school district. A luminous parallelogram landed on the slick’s right fist, slid across the leather, and brightened the brunette’s bloodstained thighs.

Task realized that he had not heard Erin make a single noise since her last diatribe. Concerned, he turned his head.

Upon the passenger seat lay the brunette. Her wide-open eyes stared at the ceiling, and her body was perfectly still.

Apprehensive, the slick found his voice. “Erin…?”

The brunette blinked. “What?”

“Just checking if you were okay.”

“Like it matters to you.”

Irritated, Task tightened his rubberized grip upon the wheel. “I know you want to blame me for everything, Miss MacGrath, but please remember that I made a decision in that trailer to save your life at the expense of my entire goddamn future.”

“Don’t hold out for a ‘thank you.’”

“Silence would suffice.”

“You’re getting neither. It’s your fault I was there in the first place.”

The slick said nothing.

“And that decision you made,” Erin resumed, “you did that for yourself. Because you don’t like being told what to do by anyone—which has to do with your ego, nothing else—and because your conscience finally put some kind of limit on your exploitations of women. A tiny piece of your diseased soul woke up and yelled, ‘Enough!’”

Task did not offer any reply. Going against the consortium to save the life of this hostile woman was starting to feel like a mistake.

At forty miles an hour, the white town car passed by the high school that had expelled the slick’s older brother during the late eighties. The vehicle rolled through three intersections, and a sign for Kingfisher Park soon appeared on the west side of the avenue.

“Where do you want me to drop you?”

“Here’s fine.”

Task braked and veered toward the park entrance. Atop the front gate were six cast iron kingfishers and a hopping pair made out of flesh and feathers.

Erin sat up in her seat, winced, and cleared her throat. “Let me have one of the guns.”

“Which way’re you walking?”

“South.”

“I’ll drop one on the street corner for you.”

The brunette pulled the handle and flung the door. “You deserve every bad thing that ever happens to you.”

“Probably.”

Erin slammed the door.

Task accelerated south, rolled down the windows, and tossed the agent’s gun outside. Metal clattered against concrete.

The slick drove toward the next intersection and looked in his rearview mirror. Upon the sidewalk, a big windbreaker that had slim legs and chestnut hair limped toward the discarded firearm.

Task cornered, reached the adjacent avenue, turned again, and drove north. The clock informed him that Leo V. and his cog would reach the construction site in a minimum of twenty-four minutes. This lag would give the slick enough time to contact his managers (whom he would tell to go into hiding), put dye in his hair, and gather his essentials, which included money, clean clothes, and two sets of fake identification.

Passing the park, a high school, an outdoor basketball court, a football field, and some apartment buildings, Task drove north. A live version of the song, “Thinking About Your Lips When I’m Kissing Her” accompanied the white town car to Sixty-fourth and Barrel.

The vehicle corkscrewed up the parking garage ramps into the guest lot. Gun in his right pocket, the slick left the stolen car, removed his rubber gloves, and proceeded to the stairs. Every jarring step pounded a spike of pain into his left arm, but he did not slacken his pace.

Task entered the lobby and eyed the Indian doorman. “Don’t let any strangers in. No matter what they say. Anybody forces himself inside, buzz me right away.”

“Okay…” said the anxious attendant, whose eyes did not leave the slick’s bloodstained left sleeve.

Task elbowed an arrow while gripping his pocketed semiautomatic.

The golden door slid open, revealing an unkempt, bloody, and frightened blond fellow whom the slick soon recognized as himself.

Inside the mirrored enclosure, he fingered the button for the second floor, leaned into a corner, and withdrew his semiautomatic. The elevator closed, flinched, rose, shuddered, and opened.

Task tilted his head and peered outside.

The brown and gold hallway was empty.

Relieved, the slick proceeded across the carpet to apartment 208, where he stopped and turned his ear to the door. Through the wood he heard the sound of the television that he had left on, but nothing else.

Task tucked the semiautomatic into his waistband, undid the bolts, pocketed his keys, reclaimed the weapon, and listened.

Only television noises sounded within the apartment.

Gun raised, the slick stepped to the side, turned the doorknob, and pushed the panel forward.

No match fell from the jamb.

Fear filled the slick, but died when he recalled that he had not put his safety measure in place when the consortium men had earlier escorted him from his condominium. His uptempo heart slowed.

Task knew that he was being paranoid. Leo V. and the goateed cog would not reach the construction site for another sixteen minutes, and even if they had bolt cutters (which seemed unlikely) and decided to come directly over (which was also unlikely), they had nearly twenty miles to cover.

Calmed by logic, the slick opened the door and walked inside.

A huge hand grabbed his throat, raised him into the air, and threw him down. Tiles smacked his skull, and air burst from his lungs.

Task lifted the semiautomatic. A heavy boot stomped his wrist, and the gun smacked the floor and flew out of his hand.

Door hinges squeaked, and a bolt snapped.

“Wrestlers call that a chokeslam,” said a familiar voice that had a southern twang. “Always wanted to do that to somebody.”

Gasping for air, Task looked up.

His entire body went cold.

Looming over him and dressed in black was the six-foot-eight-inch, three hundred-plus pound corporation of blubber and muscle named Chester Fredericks.

The redneck loan shark was grinning like a kid.

XXXV

The Gutter

Sprawled upon the living room tiles and unable to breathe, Task suddenly understood why Erin had asked to meet him at four thirty that morning: Chester needed time to break into the condominium and set up an ambush. By giving the slick’s identity and address to the loan shark, the brunette had probably paid off her debt.

“Help!” yelled Task. “I’m—”

A huge boot pounded his skull. Shimmering black fog covered up the ceiling and Chester.

Something slammed.

The slick woke up in darkness, unable to move his body. For a moment, he wondered if he had been paralyzed by the kick to the head or if he had died and been reincarnated as a worm. His mouth was sealed by duct tape, and he was forced to snort hunks of air through his nostrils. Eventually, his lungs stopped burning.

The world tilted, and gravity pulled blood to the top of his head. Fibers rubbed against his face and hands.

Task realized that he was trapped inside of a rolled-up carpet. At the end of his tubular prison he saw a luminous gray circle that looked like asphalt.

The carpet shook, accompanied by the sounds of heavy footfalls.

Pain stabbed the slick in the left arm as he tried to shout through the duct tape gag. This act produced nothing but a dim gurgle.

“Just hang in there, amigo,” remarked the unseen redneck who carried the carpet over his shoulder.

Gravity switched from Task’s head to his feet, and a sodium lamp appeared beyond the opening. At present, he felt the handcuffs that bound his wrists behind his back and the steel upon his ankles.

A latch clicked and metal groaned. Again, the carpet spun.

Through the opening, Task saw the corrugated bed of Chester’s baby blue, four-door, off-road truck.

“Hey, amigo—remember this? Putting a brick on the windshield? Taking the tires? All that fun we had?”

The carpet tilted, and through the opening, Task saw the back of his tan building and the broken rear window of his second-floor apartment.

Suddenly, he was weightless.

Corrugated metal slammed against his wrapped body, and air burst through his nostrils. The tailgate clanked.

“Might get a little bumpy back there.”

The slick yanked oxygen through his nostrils, trying to refill his burning, oxygen-deprived lungs.

Footfalls sounded. Upon receiving three hundred-plus pounds of blubber and muscle, the off-road automobile sank. A door shut, and the engine chittered, roared, and rumbled.

Everything moved.

Metal ridges poked Task as he rolled across the truck bed. The wheel well on the passenger’s side slammed into his back and ended his dizzying journey.

Tugging air through his nose, the slick tried to relax. A struggle against stainless steel was pointless, and he needed to save his energy so that he could act swiftly should an opportunity for escape present itself.

The truck lurched, vaulting a curb. Tires ground grit, and the carpet rolled across the corrugated metal. The opposite wheel well slammed into Task’s stomach. Pained and breathless, he yanked air through his nostrils.

The sound of the engine rose in pitch. Streetlights flashed upon the truck bed at a quickening rate until the vehicle reached a speed that the slick surmised was forty miles an hour (which was the legal limit in this area). Like all moderately intelligent guys who were south, the redneck knew not to commit a misdemeanor while in the middle of a felony.

Task suddenly recalled the final proclamation that Erin had made outside of Kingfisher Park—

“You deserve every bad thing that ever happens to you.”

The brunette was obviously getting more than just a financial reward from her act of treachery, and the slick’s misgivings over saving her life in the trailer were now absolute.

A siren sounded.

Hope burgeoned within Task.

The wailing grew louder as the police vehicle neared the back of the truck. Through the opening at the end of the carpet, the slick saw red and blue lights flash upon the corrugated metal.

The truck shrugged, slowing down, and the volume of the siren increased.

Task tried sit upright, but was unable to bend the many layers of carpeting that wrapped his body.

Brightening red and blue shards flashed upon the metal. The siren shrieked.

A gurgle that was a muffled shout emerged from the slick.

The police car whooshed past the truck, and the red and blue lights disappeared.

Inside of Task, hope died.

The siren faded, and the truck lurched, returning to its previous speed.

Breathing through his nose, exhausted, and in pain, Task stared through the opening. Streetlamp reflections crept across the metal like brilliant yellow insects. A mile passed, and during the next one, his eyelids grew very heavy and fell.

Something clicked, awakening the slick, who was still inside the carpet and in the back of the moving truck. An unknown amount of time had passed since he had fallen asleep, and he chastised himself for allowing a portion of his journey to occur unobserved. All he could do right now was acquire information, and he might have missed something critical while he was unconscious.

Again, something clicked.

Tilting his head back, the slick examined the small area visible to him through the opening at the end of the carpet.

Lying between two metal ridges and illuminated by a dim artificial light was a leaf. This piece of vegetation and the slower speed of the vehicle indicated that he was currently in Cicada, the vast suburban area that comprised the northernmost part of Great Crown.

A bicycle zoomed past, gears sizzling, before Task could thump or gurgle at the rider.

The vehicle shrugged, and the carpet slid forward. Tires popped rocks and crushed dry vegetation.

Task knew that his journey was about to end. Cold apprehension filled his guts.

Weeds or very tall grass rustled. Rolling across an unpaved terrain, the truck shook.

The vehicle lurched, stopping, and the carpet slid forward.

Task felt his heart rate climb.

The engine died, and in the quietude that followed, the driver’s door opened and shut. Keys jingled as crunching footfalls approached the truck bed.

“How you doing back there?” inquired Chester. “Shitty?”

A tailgate groaned and clanked.

The carpet that contained Task was yanked from the truck bed. For a moment, the bundle was airborne. Vegetation rustled, and hard earth pounded the slick.

The tailgate clanked shut.

“Ready for some fun?” asked the redneck.

The slick did not offer an affirmative response.

Thick limbs encircled the middle of the carpet, and a moment later, Chester’s shoulder slammed into Task’s stomach.

“My girlfriend weighs more than you.”

Duct tape kept back one hundred replies.

Through the opening, the slick saw tall weeds that the nascent dawn had painted blue. Footfalls crushed this vegetation as the redneck bore his captive forward.

“I’ll take it easy on you at first—since you’re already injured.”

Boots thudded upon a hard, hollow surface and stopped. Through the opening, Task saw planks of old, warped wood.

A lock snapped, and the footfalls resumed.

Everything went dark.

The slick’s pulse quickened, and through his nose, he yanked a hunk of air. Mildew and charcoal smells filled his head.

“This place’s been abandoned since Hurricane Lawrence, but I fixed up a room for you.”

Footfalls thudded, and wood creaked. Hinges groaned like an oldster. Something clicked.

Bluish-white light shone upon a rough concrete floor.

“Your suite, amigo.”

Task fell. Concrete slammed into his bad arm, and pain filled his entire body. Gurgling, he writhed.

“I hope it’s up to your standards. Have a look—”

A boot slammed into the carpet. Task rolled sideways, again and again and again until he was out of the rug and on the floor. Prostrated and dizzy, he opened his eyes.

A hurricane lantern radiated brilliant bluish-white light around a thirty-foot wide square room that had blackened concrete walls. Protruding from a bright patch of cement in the exact middle of the floor and standing on end were two one-inch thick stainless-steel rings.

Task stared at these terrifying metal objects.

“Don’t worry about those just yet,” advised Chester. “There’s this other wrestling move I wanted to show you—the Ricochet Spinebuster.”

The slick tried to roll away, but the redneck scooped him off of the ground.

“Keep in mind, I’m not a professional.”

Task lurched, and Chester dropped.

An upraised knee slammed into the slick’s spine.

Grunting, the redneck leaned backward and heaved his handcuffed opponent.

The ceiling rushed at Task, who quickly shut his eyes. Plaster pounded his face, and his nose cracked.

Suddenly, he was falling. Concrete smacked his back, and his skull bounced.

The room wavered.

Agonized, the slick lifted his head. An elbow that had more than three hundred pounds of ballast slammed into his neck. Fire exploded at the point of impact.

Chester belly-flopped onto the concrete.

Choking, Task writhed.

“That was the Guided Missile Elbow.”

The slick tried to suck air through duct tape and his broken nose. His flattened nostrils sputtered.

“Looks like these moves can really do some damage,” the redneck remarked while rising to his feet. “’Specially on concrete, when neither guy knows what he’s doing.”

Task snorted gore. Needles danced upon his fingertips as he struggled to send oxygen down to his burning lungs.

The redneck rubbed his right knee (which had been scuffed in the maneuver) and eyed the slick. “You’re getting blue.”

Suffocating, the slick saw stars. The edges of his vision turned into fuzz, and his chilled extremities went numb.

“Let me help you…”

The redneck reached behind his back.

A metallic scrape echoed throughout the room.

Chester grabbed Task by the hair and jerked him into a sitting position. Light from the hurricane lantern glared upon the ten-inch blade of a survival knife.

“Hold still or you’ll lose an eye.”

Trembling, the slick braced his burning, oxygen-starved body.

The redneck set the tip of the knife to the duct tape.

Sharp metal poked through the adhesive and pricked Task’s lower lip, which he then curled out of the way. Chester gently slid the blade forward, slicing scrim fibers and lamination. The point clicked against an incisor, tilted down, and poked a tongue.

Chester withdrew the knife and shoved Task.

Concrete slammed into the slick, who then sucked gobs of oxygen through the horizontal slit in the middle of his duct tape gag.

The redneck sheathed the survival knife behind his back. “Better?”

Lying on his right shoulder, Task sucked air. His lungs cooled, and his numb extremities began to tingle.

“Let me show you the accommodations.”

Chester seized Task’s left ankle and dragged him toward the stainless-steel rings that stood on end in the middle of the room.

“These anchors are for dogs—big, two-hundred pounders. Three feet of steel is connected to each ring and buried in that quick-dry cement.”

The rough floor scraped the slick as the redneck pulled him forward.

“I installed this right after my talk with our common acquaintance, Miss Green. I was feeling pretty inspired.”

Chester kneeled, pulled a small key from his pocket, and unfastened the cuff on Task’s right ankle. The slick jerked his leg free and kicked at the redneck’s face, but the foot was knocked aside.

A heavy fist pounded Task’s stomach. Gasping, he curled up on the floor.

“Glad to see you’ve got some fight left.”

The loose ankle bracelet clanked against one of the steel rings. Metal rattled as the redneck tightened the cuff, fettering the slick’s left leg to a dog anchor.

From the slit in the duct tape came the words, “I can give you money.”

Chuckling, Chester produced another set of ankle cuffs and secured Task’s right leg to the second dog anchor, which was two feet away from the first. Stainless steel rattled as the redneck tightened the restraints.

“Now let’s see this wound of yours.”

Chester pulled Task into a sitting position, grabbed the middle of the beige dress shirt, and jerked his hand sideways. Threads snapped, and plastic buttons shot into the air. The redneck peeled the sticky fabric down the slick’s upper left arm, revealing red skin and the sock tourniquet, which was now dark with blood.

“Let’s see what’s under here.”

“Wait. Please. Just talk to me for a—”

Chester tugged the knot.

A knife of fire stabbed Task. “Christ!”

Chuckling, the redneck discarded the sock. Sitting on the red skin was a dark, crusted hole that had swollen edges.

“Walked into a bullet?”

The slick nodded.

“I’ve got something for that.”

Task lacked confidence in his doctor’s abilities.

Chester stood up, retrieved a baby blue gym bag from somewhere, and sat down. “Hold still or I’ll put a knife in your scrotum.”

The slick did not move.

Focused, the redneck reached into his bag, removed a little tube of Ultra Mega Glue, unscrewed the nozzle, aimed the tip at the wound, and pinched his fingers. Clear ejaculate shot into the bullet hole and around its edges.

A sharp stinging sensation shot up Task’s arm, joining the symphony of pain, but he did not move.

Chester put down the glue, produced a roll of duct tape, and tore off a six-inch piece. This he carefully laid in the palm of his right hand with the adhesive side facing up. Turning, the redneck slapped the wound.

Task shouted.

“Be strong, amigo.”

The doctor circled his patient, squirted glue at the exit wound, and tore off another hunk of tape, which he then slapped to the skin.

Grunting, the slick ground his teeth.

“Looks like you’ll be in shape for another match by tomorrow.”

Task located the part of his brain connected to his larynx. “I know you hate me, but I can make you rich.”

“You already are—my buddies are cleaning you out right now.”

“But that’s only a fraction of what I’ve got. A sliver of a fraction. I’ve got a bank account with—”

“Some things are more important than money.”

“True,” said the slick. “But few things are more important than a lot of money.”

“Remember our last conversation?” The redneck tossed the glue and duct tape into his gym bag. “What you said to me? That you and your associates—your powerful consortium associates—would fuck with me, turn my life upside down unless I did what you wanted?”

Reluctantly, Task nodded his head.

“That’s the kind of thing that the Union said.”

Chester pointed behind Task, who then looked over his shoulder.

Covering the major part of the wall that the slick had not yet seen was a gigantic Confederate flag.

“Revisionist liberals like to say that the Civil War was fought over slavery,” the redneck stated, “but it wasn’t. The War of Northern Aggression was started because the Confederacy wouldn’t pay taxes to the Union. Niggers were an afterthought. Mr. Lincoln wasn’t even an abolitionist in the beginning—those dudes were considered radicals—and he didn’t ever believe blacks and whites were equal.

“If they have computers in Hell, you can look it up.

“But never mind that shit.”

Chester kneeled on the concrete and stared directly at Task. “You told me you were gonna fuck with me until I killed myself, and now that’s what I’m gonna do to you.

“Make you kill yourself.

“It seems fair—and entertaining—and believe it or not, I’ve never killed anybody and don’t want the possibility of getting a lethal injection over some faggoty asshole like you.

“So I’ll do just what you did to me—break you down psychologically, make you totally paranoid and crazy.

“Make you cry.

“And I’ll keep going until you ask me for this—”

Six inches away from the slick’s eyes, the redneck displayed a new razor blade.

Task felt his mouth go dry.

Chester pocketed the bright steel. “And you’ll ask.”

Dread filled the slick as he sucked air through the opening. Awful images sat in the dark corners of the room.

“Hold still.” Chester leaned forward and unfastened Task’s belt and slacks. “I’ve got something for you…”

The redneck stood up, walked to a dark corner, and kicked a bright orange object into the middle of the room.

Reluctantly, the slick looked over.

Several inches from the dog anchors lay a plastic bedpan.

“You can use that if you want,” Chester said while scratching his crotch, “though in a few days, you won’t really care where you go.”

No reply came from Task.

The redneck slung his gym bag, took the hurricane lantern from the hook on the wall, and exited the room.

Darkness fell as the door closed.

“See you whenever the fuck I feel like it.”

A metal latch scraped across the opaque world.

Imprisoned for the second time in his life, Task sucked air through the slit and lay back upon his bound arms. Terrible, realistic fears filled his mind, and he knew that he needed to come up with an escape plan if he wanted to maintain his sanity. Any attempt to free himself would be better than lying around in the dark with horrible hypotheses.

The slick raised his left leg. A steel cuff clanked against a ring, and metal pressed through his sock into his ankle. Using all of his strength, he strained his thigh muscles against the fetter. His pounding heart shoved spikes into his broken nose, gunshot arm, and bruised stomach, and the bracelet dug into his sinews, but his exertion did not move the anchor one millimeter.

Grimacing, Task relaxed his left leg and kicked out the other. Stainless steel clanked against a ring and dug into his bare right ankle. Hip and thigh muscles tightened as he tried to move the second dog anchor, which proved to be as unyielding as the first.

The slick ended his pointless and painful struggle. It was clear that he could not uproot the dog anchors, each of which could restrain a healthy and massive animal that had access to all four of its limbs.

Staring up into the black void, Task tried to extract worthwhile thoughts from the riot of fears that filled his brainpan. Air whistled through the slit as he considered how to proceed.

The slick rolled onto his good side and felt his left handcuff with his right index finger until he found the keyhole. This little aperture was where he should focus his attention. If he could free himself before his next wrestling match, perhaps he could stage an ambush of his own…

Rolling onto either hip, Task confirmed that Chester had already removed everything from his pockets. This was disappointing, though not surprising.

Although he did not know too much about handcuffs, he knew that their locks were simple and could be picked with bobby pins.

Lying in the darkness, Task took a mental inventory of what he was wearing. His Italians were still on his feet, and perhaps the plastic aglets at the ends of his shoelaces could be employed as lock picks. He filed this idea away and then considered his socks, slacks, and boxer shorts, none of which offered anything of value. Hope flickered in his chest when he thought of his belt. The leather strap was useless, and the buckle was too thick to manipulate, but the prong might be small enough to fit inside of a handcuff keyhole.

Task sat up.

Pain surged to his wounds and radiated throughout his system. Sweat stung his unseeing eyes.

Dizzy, the slick fell backward onto his bound arms. His body convulsed, and the dark world spun in circles.

Lurching sideways, Task flung his head into the middle of the bedpan. Ankle cuffs clanked as bile raced up his throat, filled his mouth, and squirted through the slit into the receptacle. Spikes stabbed his broken nose and shot arm.

The sickness passed.

Shuddering, the slick withdrew and lay upon his back. Air whistled through the wet opening in his duct tape gag, and sweat covered his face. His injuries pulsed in time with his exerted heart.

Task closed his stinging eyes and fixed the image of the belt prong in his mind. “Don’t forget.”

He relinquished consciousness.

The slick awakened in absolute darkness. Haunting his mind were images from a series of dreams in which he had been serving time in a state prison with his father, the lowrider, and the bodybuilder. Nobody was allowed to talk or wear clothes in this penitentiary and breathing was only permitted once every ten minutes.

Task sucked air through the slit, exhaled, and a felt a throbbing chunk of magma in the left side of his brain. There was something important that he was supposed to remember, but because of this new pain (which was probably a fever and not volcanic matter), he had a hard time focusing his thoughts.

The slick coughed. Spears poked his brain, nose, and left arm.

“Fuck.”

A minute later, the pains dulled, and their wheezing abode resumed thinking.

“What was it?”

Bad memories and nasty prophecies filled Task’s brainpan, but he could not recall the thing that he was supposed to remember. A mild stinging sensation directed his attention to his bladder.

The slick turned onto his right shoulder. His numb arms started to tingle, and slowly, sensation returned to his hands, which were both gripping the back of his belt.

It seemed like they were trying to tell him something.

Suddenly, Task remembered.

“The prong.”

His bladder sent a warning up the turnpike.

“Okay.”

Ankle cuffs clanked as the slick slid his pants down his buttocks, twisted his body onto the bedpan, and centered his dangling phallus. Urine hissed inside of the receptacle for a lengthy duration. Apparently, he had been unconscious for many, many hours.

Task rolled off of the bedpan and lay upon his back. His heart was pounding from the exertion, and the chunk of magma in the left side of his brain throbbed anew.

Fatigue pulled the slick underwater, and once again, he fixed the image of the belt prong in his mind. Puppy dog noises came from his empty stomach as he unwillingly relinquished consciousness.

“Flying Altar Boy!”

Task started awake.

Illuminated by the hurricane lamp, Chester pressed his palms together in front of his face (as if in prayer) and fell from a stepladder.

Two knees slammed three hundred-plus pounds into the slick’s stomach. Blood shot from his nostrils, and air whistled through the slit. Pain was everywhere.

Chester maintained an attitude of prayer atop Task’s stomach. “Don’t know how Thunder Preacher can do this move without really hurting his opponent.”

Writhing and unable to breathe, the slick offered no answer.

The redneck rose to his feet and regarded his supine opponent. “Looks painful.”

Task sucked air into his burning lungs.

“But I’m not a professional,” Chester added while walking away. “Yet.”

Something clanked upon the concrete.

The slick turned his head.

In front of the Confederate flag, the redneck erected a folding chair, seated himself, and picked up a big yellow paper bag adorned with the logo for Pudgy Boys. “I took out the bedpan for while I’m eating. Hope you don’t have to go.”

Wincing, the slick sat up, sucked oxygen, and spat blood through the slit. “Is hurting me like this really worth more to you than a million dollars?”

“Yep.”

“You’re sure?”

Chester slid a submarine sandwich from the bag and removed the wrapper. “Smells good, huh?”

Task cleared his throat. “Is there anything I can do so you’ll let me go?”

The redneck ruminated for a moment and then nodded his head. “There is.”

“What is it?”

Chester bit into the crisp submarine sandwich, which radiated the smells of Swiss cheese, turkey, and bacon. Slow crunching sounds echoed throughout the prison.

Silently, Task waited.

The redneck swallowed. “You can kill yourself.”

“Anything else?”

“Lemme think.” Chester pulled a can of orange soda out of the Pudgy Boys bag and fingered the tab. “Have you got a space ship that can travel faster than the speed of light?”

“I bought one last week.”

“Liar.” The redneck drank some orange soda and shook his head. “Nothing can go faster than the speed of light.”

The smells of Swiss cheese, turkey, and bacon filled the room as Chester ate his submarine sandwich.

Task’s stomach growled.

“Starving?”

The slick did not respond.

“You should be.” The redneck cracked open another can of orange soda. “You puked everything that was in you two days ago.”

Task had lost track of time, but he doubted the veracity of this statement. It seemed highly unlikely that he had been in this place for forty-eight hours.

“I can see that you don’t believe me.” Chester reached into the takeout bag, withdrew a receipt, and eyed the small print. “Says it here—Thursday. Nine slash five. Even tells you about the coupon I used in case you’re interested. I’ll show you.”

The slick tensed as the redneck stood and dragged his chair toward the middle of the room. Violence might occur at any time.

Chester set the receipt upon the floor. “Read for yourself…”

Warily, Task looked down.

A metal chair smacked the back of his skull, and concrete pounded his forehead. Ankle cuffs clanked as he rebounded and rolled onto his back. Dazed, the slick looked up at the redneck.

For some reason, he could not see out of his right eye.

An awful fear that the recent head trauma had partially blinded him was soon replaced by the realization that the receipt was sticking to his forehead.

“My Egg Breaker needs some work.” Chester set down the chair and snatched the paper, which he then set on the floor next to Task. “Look.”

The slick read the small blue type.

“Thurs 9/5 2:42 p.m.” was printed at the top of the receipt.

Two days had passed.

“I’m not a liar like you are,” spat the redneck. “Using a fake fucking name on the phone and pretending to be a consortium guy.”

The slick saw an opening. “I am part of a consortium, and when they find out what—”

“That’s not what Miss Green told me—and her word’s better than yours. She said you give a group a percentage of your take for protection from other groups, but that you aren’t actually part of any big organization.”

Task quickly figured out how Erin had learned this information: Two of her regular clients had been Strembicky guys. It seemed as if the brunette had inherited the genes for detective work from her father.

Chester slid the folding chair across the room, seated himself, and took another submarine sandwich out of the greasy yellow bag. “In any case, you’re here now, and it wouldn’t matter if you were the Grand Emperor of Israel.”

The redneck unwrapped the foot-long comestible and began to eat. Crunching sounds echoed.

Tomato sauce, beef, and cheese smells filled the prison. The slick sat upright, and saliva gathered in his mouth.

“You like meatball subs?” asked Chester.

“They’re pretty unhealthy.”

The redneck chuckled. “Would you like some?”

Sensing that an affirmation would somehow lead to another act of poetically named violence, Task remained silent.

“It ain’t a trick question,” Chester declared while chewing. “I’m gonna make you kill yourself—like I said—not starve you to death.”

“I’d like some.”

“Then I’ll give you some. Once I’ve had my fill.”

Sporadically pausing to drink cans of orange soda and belch, the redneck ate the meatball submarine for fifteen slow minutes. A three-inch hunk of the foot long remained in his right hand when he rose from his chair.

The slick eyed the odiferous remainder, which was loaded with meat and cheese. Moisture filled his mouth.

Tomato sauce dripped on the concrete as Chester walked toward the middle of the room. “You don’t mind eating my leftovers do you?”

“No,” responded Task, whose eyes did not see anything but the remainder of the sandwich. A rabid dog growl emerged from the empty sack that lay in the middle of his guts.

“Not worried about germs?”

“No.”

The redneck opened his mouth, which he then filled with the dripping leftover. “Good.”

The slick was annoyed with himself for believing his puerile and mendacious captor.

Chester chewed thrice, tilted his head forward, and opened his mouth.

A lump of food plopped upon the concrete.

The redneck gestured. “Just like I promised…”

Task stared at the bolus, which radiated the delicious smells of cheese, meat, and tomato sauce.

Chester removed an index finger from his nose and poked the tip into the mouth of a plastic water bottle. A small, greenish-black thing that had come from his left nasal passage sank to the bottom of the clear fluid.

Disgusted, the slick grimaced.

The redneck leaned over and set the drink beside the masticated red, brown, and white lump. “Bon appétit.”

Task said nothing in reply.

Chester grabbed the stepladder, the folding chair, and the hurricane lantern and carried them toward the exit.

The slick returned his attention to the tainted water and the masticated lump of food. Darkness fell on this repugnant meal as the door closed.

A latch scraped across the quietude.

“See you whenever the fuck I feel like it.”

This seemed to be the redneck’s catchphrase.

A growl emerged from the slick’s empty stomach, but he turned away from the water and the bolus.

Sitting upright, alone, and lucid (though still feverish), Task gripped the back of his belt with his right hand and slid the band counterclockwise through the loops. The brass buckle touched his thigh, traveled down, and clinked upon the concrete. Soon afterwards, the remainder of the leather strap slithered between his legs.

The slick bent his knees and scooted forward until the belt was behind his buttocks, where he could reach it with his bound hands. Pinching the prong between his right thumb and index finger, he poked the bracelet that encircled his left wrist. Brass scraped steel as he strained to find the keyhole, and sweat stung his eyes, which he closed, realizing that they were useless. Pained by the exertion and shaking badly, he jabbed the prong at the left handcuff.

Brass scraped his wrist.

“Fuck.”

The slick paused in order to steady his hands. Air whistled through the slit, and nonexistent lights flashed in sync with the spikes that stabbed his brain, nose, and left arm.

Calmly, he resumed his activity. The prong scraped, clicked, and caught upon the keyhole.

Task inflated his lungs and steadied himself. Carefully, he tightened his grip upon the little brass bar, repositioned his right hand, and pushed forward.

The prong resisted.

It was too big to fit inside of the keyhole.

“Shit.”

Disappointed though not surprised, Task repositioned his hands and inserted the brass piece into the groove where the ratchet met the base. The prong was far too thick to be used as a shim.

Twice rebuffed, the slick considered the situation. He could try to whittle the prong by using the rough concrete as sandpaper, though he knew that this enterprise might require a lot more time and energy than he currently possessed. The smarter next step would be for him to see if a plastic aglet from one of his shoelaces was small enough to fit inside of the keyhole.

Ankle cuffs clanked as the slick hooked the collar of his right shoe upon a dog anchor. Applying downward pressure, he jerked his knee toward his chest. The Italian popped loose. A hard heel hit the concrete on the far side of the steel ring.

Task rose to his feet to retrieve the shoe. Lights exploded in his mind, and he knew instantly that he should not have stood up.

The slick lost his legs. His kneecaps smacked the concrete, and he tipped over.

Darkness fell.

In this black oblivion was the smell of smoke.

“Darren. Darren!”

Task opened his eyes and saw Erin, who was dressed in the agent’s navy-blue windbreaker and kneeling upon bloodstained upholstery. The slick’s face throbbed, and his right ear rang from the punch that the brunette had just landed. On the far side of the cracked windshield, flickering yellow smoke rose from the crumpled hood of the white town car, which had struck the concrete base of a street lamp.

XXXVI

Darren Tasking Awakens

“Sorry I hit you,” Erin said, “but we need to get out of here before the machos come.”

Dazed by the accident, Task reached across himself with his good hand (which was still covered by a blue rubber glove), pulled the silver handle, and shoved the door. He staggered out into the flickering yellow light and patted his right pocket, which contained a hunk of perpendicular metal that was a semiautomatic.

Something warm dripped down his chin.

The slick touched his nose, and a spike of pain shot into his brain.

“Shit.”

“Don’t touch that,” the brunette said while limping around the car on her bare feet. “It’s broken.”

“In the accident?”

“Yeah.” Erin pocketed the other semiautomatic inside of her windbreaker. “You slammed it against the wheel.”

Task recalled breaking his nose against the prison ceiling in the awful nightmare from which he had just awakened. “We should go to the next avenue, get a cab, and get out of this area.”

“Can you make it?”

“Think so. Can you?”

The brunette took the slick’s right arm and led him from the wrecked vehicle toward the corner. Headlights glared as a speeding cargo van thundered past.

The unsteady pair crossed the street, turned onto a dark road, and continued east toward the adjacent avenue.

Task noticed flecks of dried blood upon Erin’s thighs, and he shuddered when he recalled the smoking curling iron that he had earlier removed from her vaginal canal.

Dismissing the image, the slick returned his gaze to the distant avenue, which did not seem to be getting any closer. His breath sounded unnaturally loud, and his hands felt like ice.

“Can you keep going?” asked Erin, who was looking at Task.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you—about what I did to you. I never sh—”

Dizzy, the slick lost his legs. His knees smacked the concrete.

“Darren. Stay awake.”

A constellation appeared, covering the brunette and the night sky.

“Darren! Try to—”

Things went dark.

Task awakened, lying upon his back atop a piece of cardboard in a dark alleyway. The sky above lacked stars, and a quick survey of the narrow area in which he now found himself told him that he was completely alone. Although he understood that he had passed out because of blood loss, shock, and a possible concussion, he did not know how he had arrived at his current location.

The slick sat up and leaned forward. His beige shirt was soaked with sweat, excepting the left sleeve, which contained a darker and redder part of his being.

Scuffing footfalls approached the mouth of the alleyway.

Task assumed that the person was Erin, but then recalled that the brunette had been barefoot during their flight from the wrecked town car.

The slick reached into his right pocket—but found nothing.

His gun was missing.

The scuffing footfalls grew louder.

Task looked around the alley for a usable weapon. Only milk crates and garbage bins lay nearby.

Into the yellow pool of light limped Erin, wearing a white monogrammed bathrobe and two turquoise slippers. “I got us a motel room. Tried to pay cash, but they made me put down your credit card.”

“We can’t go to a motel,” stated Task. “We’ve gotta grab what we need from our apartments before the consortium—”

“You’ve been out for forty minutes,” said the approaching brunette, whose robe contained a heavy right angle. “They’re probably already at our places. Can you stand?”

“Think so.”

Erin helped Task to his feet. “If you think you’re gonna pass out again, say something. Dragging you wasn’t easy, especially before I found that piece of cardboard.”

“I’ll be careful.”

The slick and the brunette ambled to the end of the alleyway, where they circumvented the radiance of a street lamp and continued north along the sidewalk. Other than the two tiny red dots of a distant car, the avenue was empty.

Erin withdrew a bottle of cranberry juice from her left pocket. “Drink this.”

“Thanks.”

Task opened the beverage, put the rim to his lips, and drank. His agonies, fears, and burdened conscience were momentarily dissolved by the sweet, almost impossibly rich flavor of the juice. Walking north, the slick tilted the bottle until gravity had excavated all of its insides.

Ahead of the pair was a glowing sign that read, “Deluxe Continental Motel.”

Erin fished keys from her bathrobe and motioned to the sprawling establishment, which was a turquoise, two-story edifice. “Second floor.”

The pair proceeded across the parking lot, up the stairwell, and along the outer hallway. Into a teal trash basket, Task tossed the empty bottle.

The brunette stopped in front of room 243, slotted the key, and opened the door.

Light and air conditioning spilled into the night from the bright, clean room. Task walked inside, followed by Erin, who then closed the door, snapped a bolt, and notched the safety chain.

The slick saw that the turquoise curtains had already been pulled across the windows.

“Go to the bathroom and take off your shirt,” ordered the brunette.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Task circumvented the king-sized bed and entered the bathroom, which illuminated by itself. There, he removed his rubber gloves, slid buttons through eyelets, and peeled his beige shirt off of his sticky left arm. The sock tourniquet was dark with blood.

Erin limped through the doorway and lowered the furry toilet lid. “Sit.”

The slick obeyed.

Focused, the brunette set the semiautomatic and a first aid kit upon a stainless-steel towel rack, turned to the sink, and ran the hot water. Her green glitter fingertips found the tourniquet and gently loosened the knot.

Wincing, Task bore the pain in silence.

“Probably better if you don’t watch.”

The slick turned his gaze to the white, gray, and turquoise tiles that comprised the bathroom floor.

“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry too,” Erin said while peeling the dried, bloody sock from the wound. “You did some horrible things to get me to work for you, but it certainly would’ve been easier—and a whole lot smarter—for you to just listen to those guys in the trailer and pull the trigger.”

Task exhaled through his nose while staring at the floor. “I’m not so smart sometimes.”

“We certainly have that in common.”

Steam wafted as the brunette dipped a washcloth in the sink, wrung out the excess water, and applied the hot fabric to the gunshot arm.

Pain lanced the slick, jarring his heart and shutting his eyes, but it soon became tolerable.

Gently moving the washcloth in small circles, Erin cleaned the entrance and exit wounds. A tiny tingling pleasure gilded the burning sensations that Task felt.

“Doesn’t look infected.”

The brunette wrung fruit punch into the sink, shut off the water, and reached for the first aid box. Her belt loosened, and the neckline of her robe opened, revealing the shaded swells of her half-covered breasts.

Erin noticed where Task was looking. “You’d think a bullet would make tits less fascinating.”

“A woman might think that.”

The brunette tightened her belt, applied butterfly stitches to the wounds, and wrapped the slick’s entire upper arm with gauze. “Go lie down.”

“I need to call Karate John and have him shut down th—”

“The parlors are all closed by now. Go lie down.”

Task stood, and the bathroom wavered.

A palm landed upon his bare back.

“Lie down before you fall down,” ordered Erin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shirtless, the slick lifted his heavy feet and stumbled into the main room, where he flopped on the turquoise and gray bedding. Mattress springs chirped as he rolled onto his back, kicked off his Italians, and shed his slacks and socks.

The bathroom door shut. Metal squeaked, and a shower hissed.

Task rested his head upon an obese white pillow and shut his eyes. Filling his mind were images of Chester Fredericks, stainless steel handcuffs, dog anchors, a bedpan, haphazard wrestling moves, snot-flavored water, and a ball of chewed-up food. After twenty-five years of suppression, the slick’s conscience was finally lashing out.

A quiet moan issued from the bathroom.

Task eyed the closed door and listened.

The only sound that emerged was that of the shower hissing.

Thoughts of water running down the upturned face, long neck, and rounded surfaces of the brunette appeared in the slick’s mind, and tingling blood began to circulate inside of his phallus.

Another quiet moan issued from the bathroom.

Task sat upright and adjusted his boxer shorts. “Erin?”

The brunette cleared her throat. “Yes?”

“Just making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

The slick discarded the obese white pillow, found a slim one that was turquoise and gray, and rested his heavy skull.

Metal squeaked, and the shower stopped hissing. Bare feet splashed water.

Thinking of green glitter toenails, Task felt his phallus grow across his thigh.

A low groan issued from the bathroom.

“Are you okay?” asked the slick.

Erin cleared her throat. “Turn off the light out there.”

“Okay.”

Pulse quickening, Task reached out and switched off the turquoise lamp.

Darkness filled the room, excepting the dim yellow light that limned the curtains and the white glow at the bottom of the bathroom door.

“Close your eyes,” said the brunette.

“Okay.”

Task shut his eyes.

A latch clicked, and door hinges squeaked. Gentle footfalls padded across the carpet. The mattress shook as Erin climbed into bed behind Task and pressed her bare breasts into his back. Soft hands slid across his sides and gripped his chest.

The woman was trembling.

“Hey. What’s—”

“I’m scared,” said Erin.

“I have a house in Mexico City and some money. If you want…you could come with me until you figure things out.”

The brunette sniffled and tightened her embrace. “Okay.”

“There’s probably a way to get the gang down there too.”

“Thank you.”

A warm kiss landed on Task’s nape, and Erin’s smooth calf glided along his right leg. Her thigh rubbed his hip, and she flinched.

“Ow.”

“Don’t push yourself,” said the slick, despite his arousal. “You need to heal.”

“The inside hurts a lot…but the outside still feels okay…”

Task opened his eyes, turned around, and kissed Erin.

Her mouth opened, and she received him fully. His bare chest pressed into hers.

The slick broke the connection, shifted his weight onto his good arm, and kissed the brunette on her neck, between her breasts, on her navel, and atop the small swell that was her shaved pubic mound.

A long deep moan escaped Erin as Task ran the tip of his tongue to the space between her legs and gently circled her clitoris. Her thighs began to tremble.

“Wait…”

The brunette pushed the slick’s face away from her button, rolled him onto his back, and pulled down his boxer shorts. Mattress springs chirped, and something clanked.

Erin straddled Task’s legs, dipped her head, and took his erection into her mouth. Waves of chestnut hair covered everything.

The slick groaned.

Slowly, the brunette raised her head.

Metal clanked.

“He’s loving it,” said a male voice from somewhere.

Erin bobbed her head down.

Facial hair chafed the shaft of Task’s phallus.

Metal clanked.

The slick woke up, fettered to dog anchors and lying upon the floor of the concrete room in the abandoned house. Light from the hurricane lantern glared in his eyes, and his stiff phallus was in the mouth of a bald and goateed black man who was performing an enthusiastic act of fellatio.

Horrified, Task yelled.

Chester chuckled.

XXXVII

Sucked Back into the Gutter

Ankle cuffs clanked against metal rings as Task twisted to his right, yanking his erection from the mouth of the bald and goateed black man.

“Faggot,” said Chester.

The slick shut his eyes tightly and tried to will himself back into the reality that contained a motel bed and a beautiful woman.

“I’m paying you for a completed job,” said the redneck.

A rough hand grabbed Task’s softening phallus.

“Stop!” shouted the slick, who then opened his eyes and jerked his member free.

The black fellow looked at the redneck. “He won’t let me suck it.”

“Make him squirt or you only get forty.”

Horrified, the slick shook his head. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

The rent boy tugged the limp phallus, frowned, and stood up. “It ain’t gonna happen.”

Chester shrugged and pulled two twenty-dollar bills out of the wallet that he had stolen from Task. “He told me to put up this flag, so maybe he’s got something against African Americans.”

“Racist.”

“Go wait for me in the truck. Here—”

The black fellow took the upheld payment and walked toward the doorway.

“Help!” shouted the slick. “This crazy fuck’s gonna kill me.”

“Hush up, darling,” said the redneck. “Tyrone knows all about our fun little games.”

Footfalls sounded on the floorboards as the rent boy proceeded through the adjacent room.

“Help!” shouted Task. “He’s gonna kill me!”

The front door slammed shut.

A smirk lighted Chester’s face. “How does it feel to be a faggot? Officially?”

A violent convulsion wrenched the slick, trying to expel food and water that his system did not contain. “Please stop this…”

“You didn’t appreciate the homage?” The redneck frowned, feigning disappointment. “That guy sucking you off was kinda inspired by how you sent that stud to junior college to steal Dora away from me.”

Disgusted by everything, the abused captive turned his face to the ground. Revulsion was a fungus that clogged up his throat and mouth.

Chester picked up the bolus (which had dried out) and the snot-tainted water bottle and set them next to Task’s face. “You’ve been here three days without eating.”

The slick stared at the awful meal that lay six inches from his nose.

“A razor is a whole lot better than starving to death,” stated the redneck. “And it’s the all-time classic.”

Task eyed the lump of food and the bottled water. His entire body burned with hunger and dehydration.

Grunting, Chester stood upright. “I recommend eating while the light’s still on so you don’t knock things out of reach—which could result in your death—but I don’t wanna pressure you or anything.”

The slick stared at the meal.

“Or are you thinking about the razor?”

Task rolled onto his right shoulder, jammed the neck of the plastic water bottle into the slit, and closed his teeth around the opening. Thinking of the cranberry juice that he had savored in his dream, he tilted his head and drank.

“I like your spirit, amigo.”

The slick swallowed, again and again and again, until the plastic container was empty. Fluid raced into his desiccated system, cooling the fires in his throat and head, and the bottle clattered on the concrete.

Task looked at the chewed lump of food. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head.

“That was tastier yesterday,” remarked Chester.

The slick put his duct-taped mouth to the bolus and pressed matter through the slit. Trying to block out all thought, he chewed and swallowed and continued to do so until his chin scraped the floor.

The slick stuck out his tongue and tasted concrete.

His hideous meal was over.

Task rolled onto his back, convulsed, and gagged. Keeping his mouth shut, he swallowed down the twice-chewed food.

“Let me give you something to look forward to,” remarked Chester.

Footfalls sounded, and the slick turned his head.

The redneck was walking toward the hurricane lantern, which had turned him into a huge silhouette. “I saw this guy on the street with the other fag prostitutes. Skinny white kid, looked about seventeen, eighteen—might even be younger. At first when I saw him, I thought he’d gotten beat up or something, but then I realized what I was looking at—what was all over his skin.

“Lesions.”

Task was terrified.

“Thanks to the Democrats,” Chester said, “you can live a lot of years with AIDS. So technically, I wouldn’t be killing you if I gave you some.”

The redneck faced the slick, reached his right hand into the back pocket of his blue jeans, and withdrew a narrow white box.

Behind the plastic lay a brand-new syringe.

Tears filled Task’s eyes.

“Want the razor?” inquired the redneck. “Or a dose of gay man’s cancer?”

No reply came from the slick.

“It’s a dilemma, right? A real tough decision you’ve gotta make.”

Chester took the hurricane lantern from the wall, exited the room, and slammed the door. A latch scraped across the darkness.

“See you whenever the fuck I feel like it.”

Task broke.

An uninhibited release of despair poured from his burning eyes. Vivid recollections of the recent fellatio, the tainted meal, violence, murder, and the syringe filled the brainpan of the wretched being that blindly writhed upon the concrete.

A lot of time passed before the slick was able to reclaim his mind from the abyss.

Lying on his back, he arched his spine, grabbed the waistband of his underwear, and covered his sticky phallus.

Task relaxed his muscles. Air whistled through the slit, and pains throbbed in the usual places.

Something moved in a far corner.

“Take the razor,” whispered a very familiar voice.

The speaker was Nowski.

Task awakened in darkness, unaware whether ten minutes or ten hours had passed since he had fallen asleep. His phallus was uncovered, and when he moved to the right, his shoulder struck an empty water bottle. These things seemed to confirm that the fellatio and the meal were events that had actually occurred and that the threat of the AIDS injection was real.

Queasy and weak, the slick slid to the bedpan, tilted onto his side, and squirted a small amount of urine. Ankle cuffs clanked upon the dog anchors as he withdrew and lay upon his back.

A hunk of magma throbbed in Task’s skull, and his stomach burned, stimulated but in no way satisfied by the tiny, odious meal that he had eaten. Even if he could somehow undo all three sets of cuffs and set up an ambush, he doubted that he could overpower anybody, much less the redneck, who was a hale giant.

Hopelessness pressed down upon the slick.

Shining in his dark mind was the mental image of the syringe.

“I’ve gotta try,” muttered Task, who did not think that he sounded especially convincing.

Air whistled as he sucked air through the slit.

Thinking of the shoe that lay on the far side of the dog anchors, the slick gathered his strength and sat up. His heart quickened as he scooted to the metal rings, paused, and flung himself forward. Ankle cuffs clanked as he fell.

His body smacked the concrete, and a shoe struck his left knee.

Internal fires erupted throughout Task.

Minutes passed, and eventually, he regained control of his body.

The slick rolled onto his back (a position that crossed his legs on this side of the dog anchors) and scooted forward until the errant Italian was in his right hand. With trembling fingers, he loosened and withdrew its shoelace.

Task rolled onto his right shoulder. Pinching the aglet between his thumb and index finger, he poked at his left handcuff. Plastic clicked on stainless steel, again and again and again, as he searched for the keyhole. His heart sent spikes to his wounds, and imaginary lights started to appear.

The aglet caught upon the edge of the opening.

An exhalation of relief whistled through the slit.

Firmly pinching the narrow plastic cylinder, Task pressed forward.

The aglet did not fit into the keyhole.

“No.”

Despair overwhelmed the slick for an unknown period of time.

A minor part of the plotting entrepreneur remained inside of the broken creature that lay imprisoned in the abandoned house, but eventually, this weak and degraded fraction was able to think. There seemed to be only two remaining options from which Task could choose: Whittle the brass prong to fit the handcuff keyhole (a plan that he knew was far-fetched) or ask for the razor.

Air whistled through the slit as he tried to recall where he had last seen the belt. No memory came to him, and thus, he decided to start a systematic search on the far side of the dog anchors, where he had lain until recently.

Ankle cuffs clanked as the slick rolled onto his stomach. His legs untwisted, and slowly, he rose to his knees. The strain of this endeavor set off a few imaginary flash bulbs.

Jaw clenched, Task extended his bound arms, tipped backward, and fell. His fists and elbows struck the concrete, followed by his head and the rest of his upper body.

The slick straightened his legs. Rough concrete scraped his crusty shirt and bare buttocks as he lengthened his body.

Task inflated his lungs and commenced his search for the missing belt. Wriggling like a worm, he inched to his right. His forward knee struck the empty water bottle, which rolled away, and he continued his journey (pushing the bedpan with his shoulder) until he had traversed more than a yard. It seemed unlikely that the belt was farther off in this direction.

He stopped, and pain surged.

Thoughts of the syringe helped the slick withstand the subcutaneous knives that twisted into his brain, nose, and arm. Eventually, he regained control of his body and wormed to his left.

Nothing lay upon the ground that he had previously covered, and soon, he was moving over unfamiliar concrete, which was coarse and empty. The idea that the puerile redneck had stolen the belt was starting to seem like more than just a pessimistic notion.

The microscopic hope that Task held began to shrink. His energy faded, and his movements slowed.

A metal buckle touched his left elbow.

Hope survived.

“Thank God.”

Something groaned, and a distant door slammed.

The slick went cold.

Heavy footfalls boomed across the floorboards in the adjacent room.

Sick with fear, the captive rolled onto his right shoulder and looked toward the entrance.

A bluish-white light shone under the door. The latch scraped, and old hinges groaned.

A glaring orb that was the hurricane lantern blinded Task.

“You’re awake this time,” remarked Chester.

Footfalls sounded upon the concrete.

Adjusting to the presence of light, the slick squinted.

Shadows moved as the redneck walked past the Confederate flag and hung the hurricane lantern upon the wall. Jutting from his right hand and filled with dark red fluid was the syringe.

“No!” shouted every single part of Darren Tasking.

“Yep.”

Light glinted upon the upraised needle as Chester walked forward.

Terrified, Task lurched to the side. Ankle cuffs clanked and bit into his flesh. Uselessly, he strained against concrete, steel, and logic. His mind was on fire.

A black shadow covered him, and two big legs straddled his torso.

“Please don’t do this! Pl—”

Chester sat on Task’s stomach. Hundreds of pounds compressed tissues, guts, and nerves into a homogeneous substance of agony.

The slick writhed underneath the ponderous redneck.

“Wanna meet Perry?” asked Chester. “He’s in the truck. Had to bring him out here so I could keep his AIDS fresh.”

“Please don’t!” Task struggled to no avail. “Please!”

“Well, I’ll give him your thanks anyways.”

Chester raised his right fist, which gripped the syringe like a dagger.

“Stop!”

The redneck slammed the needle into the bullet wound.

Task shrieked.

A big thumb pressed the plunger.

The slick felt a sizzling sensation in his left arm as the jet of infected blood entered his body. His throat-rending shriek suddenly ended, and he knew for certain that it would be the last cry that ever came out of him.

Chester let go of the syringe and rose to his feet. “Enjoy your AIDS.”

Task lay still upon the concrete. He was all the way empty.

Footfalls sounded as the redneck walked toward the hurricane lantern. “You wanna hear about the next awesome thing I’m gonna do to you?”

No response came from the defeated captive.

“I thought you might be getting a little lonely in here,” Chester resumed, “so I caught some roommates for you.

“Opossums.

“They’re pretty cranky—hissing all the time—though you can’t really blame them, since I’ve been starving them, poking them with sticks, and shaking their cage whenever they try to sleep.”

The redneck took the hurricane lantern from the wall and eyed the slick. “You like animals, right?”

Task said nothing.

“Let me know if you want the razor instead. It wouldn’t be real fair to the opossums—getting starved and abused for nothing—but it’s up to you.

“No pressure.”

Chester left the room and slammed the door. A latch scraped across the darkness.

“See you whenever the fuck I feel like it.”

The slick lay upon the concrete and did nothing but breathe for very a long time.

At some later point in time, Task was capable of cogitation. Air whistled through the slit, and he ruminated.

Coming to his scorched mind was the idea of getting the syringe out of his left arm and using its needle in the handcuff keyhole, but this plan seemed like yet another stupid and pointless way for him to hurt himself in the dark. Even if he could undo his bonds (which was doubtful), the idea of him in his current condition overpowering the redneck was risible.

The slick changed the focus of his thoughts and tried to think of a reason to stay alive.

Revenge, the vintage guitars upon the wall of his guest room, and life as an ugly, violated, and paranoid HIV-positive fugitive in Mexico held some value, but not enough to compel him to haul his wrecked body and raped spirit through all of the terrible torments that lay ahead.

Resolved, he closed his eyes.

It was over.

When Chester next appeared, Task would ask him for the razor.

Calm respirations filled the darkness, and soon, the slick relinquished consciousness. His dreams were of the void toward which he was drifting.

XXXVIII

The Decision

A thud roused Task, and his breath whistled through the slit as he looked around the room. The darkness that surrounded him was absolute.

Something snapped. This sound was dulled by intervening walls and originated in another part of the house.

Creaking and cracking echoed. It sounded like somebody was breaking old wood.

Perhaps this individual was a stranger.

Inside of Task’s mind, the image of the razor disappeared.

Something snapped in the distance.

“Help,” croaked the slick, whose ragged voice was almost inaudible.

Wood creaked and snapped.

Task sucked air through the slit. “I’m in h—”

A coughing fit interrupted his plea. His throat burned, and in his mouth, he tasted his own infected blood.

A scraping noise echoed in the adjacent room. Floorboards creaked, and soon, a light filled the space at the bottom of the prison door. Between the shuffling footfalls were faint slapping sounds that might have been made by flip-flops.

Comprehension came to Task. “Erin! Help! I’m—”

Coughing interrupted his hoarse vocalizations.

“Darren?” Erin inquired from the far side of the door. “You’re in there?”

“Yes! Ple—”

Choking shortened this response.

“I’m here to help you,” the brunette announced, “but I’ve got a gun ready just in case.”

The latch scraped, and hinges creaked.

A beam of light panned across the room and glared in the squinting red eyes of the smashed, filthy, and skeletal captive. His shriveled phallus was coated with dirt, and an empty syringe jutted out of his grossly swollen left arm.

“Holy fuck,” muttered Erin, who stood in the doorway with a flashlight and the agent’s semiautomatic. “Holy fuck.”

Task squinted his red eyes and cleared his throat. “I’m handcuffed. Arms and legs.”

The brunette pointed the flashlight beam at the dog anchors and put her gun into her big sloppy purse. “Let me get a hairpin.”

“Just shoot the cuffs.”

“I know how to do this. Used to play with my dad’s all the time.”

“Hurry.”

Erin hesitated, stunned by the destroyed thing that had been Darren Tasking, and then turned around. Her purple flip-flops scuffed floorboards and slapped heels as she hurried through the next room, which currently glowed with golden twilight.

Eyes adjusting to the semidarkness, the slick looked at the dog anchors, the fallen water bottle, the bedpan, the Confederate flag, his shoeless right foot, and the syringe that jutted from his left arm. It seemed like he was awake, though he knew that dreams could be very convincing.

From far away came the familiar chirp of the purple hybrid.

Task gave up trying to figure out whether or not he was truly awake. Accepting the world in which he now found himself, he started to think about his future.

Some little dogs yipped. The brunette said something, and the canine clamor quietened.

A car door slammed. Floorboards creaked, and flip-flops scuffed wood and slapped heels.

The slick looked toward the doorway.

Preceded by the flashlight beam, Erin returned to the prison and strode across the concrete to the dog anchors, where she kneeled and withdrew a bottle of water from her big sloppy purse.

Task swallowed blood and grit and opened his slit.

Carefully, the brunette poured water into the opening.

Cool relief soothed the slick’s dried out pipes, and he drank until there was only one sparkling drop remaining. This reluctant gem, he stole from the rim with the tip of his tongue.

Erin tossed the bottle away and eyed the syringe sticking out of Task’s swollen left arm. “Should I—”

“Just get the cuffs.”

Guilt shone upon the face of the brunette as she nodded her head. At present, she laid the flashlight on the floor and aimed its beam so that it illuminated the ankle cuffs.

Leaning forward, Erin inspected the glaring stainless steel.

“Can you get them?” inquired Task.

“Yeah. Though they’re double locked, and’ll take a few minutes.”

“Any chance Chester’ll be back before you’re done?”

“He’s at some wrestling thing that just started—that’s why I came now.”

From the big sloppy purse, the brunette withdrew a bobby pin, which she turned into a square that lacked its fourth side. Green glitter fingernails scraped the plastic off of one end, and this bare tip was inserted into the keyhole of the right ankle cuff. The woman toggled the wire up and down, installing kinks, and then withdrew the tool. A small and perfect hook sat at the end of the bobby pin.

The sight of this precise operation instilled confidence in Task.

“Keep still if you can.”

“Moving’s the hard part.”

Erin slotted the modified bobby pin into the keyhole of the right ankle cuff. Gently, she twisted her hand in a small clockwise circuit. Metals clicked, but the ersatz key did not catch. Biting her lip, the brunette repeated this small and careful gesture a second, third, and fourth time without any success.

“Crap.”

Apprehensions came to Task, but he said nothing.

Erin adjusted her grip upon the bobby pin and twisted her hand.

Something snapped within the ankle cuff.

“You got it?” asked the slick.

“Yeah—the double lock. The other’s easier.”

Erin fished around inside the keyhole.

Something snapped, and the ratchet rattled.

The unlocked ankle cuff clanked upon the concrete, and Task raised his right leg. Stretching the unfettered limb for the first time in four or five days, he felt bright burning sensations that were almost pleasurable.

The brunette leaned over the slick’s left ankle and inserted the bobby pin. Metals clicked as she searched the keyhole.

“Did you talk to the machos?” inquired Task.

“No. I’ve been out of state till I came back to do this.”

The slick set his freed foot upon the concrete. “Are you here because you didn’t want to be an accessory to murder?”

Metals clicked, and for a ponderous minute, the question simply hung in the air.

Something snapped inside the left ankle cuff.

“No.” Erin shook her head. “Chester swore that he wouldn’t kill you. I hate the guy, but in all the time I dealt with him, he never lied about anything.”

“So, why’re you here?”

The brunette glanced at the slick and then resumed picking the lock. “I made my deal with Chester before that shit happened in the trailer—before you fucked up your life to save mine. I was gonna tell you about it in the car, but what you said pissed me off so much that I told myself you deserved whatever evil shit Chester had planned for you. But…a couple days later…I started to feel different.”

Something snapped in the keyhole.

Erin adjusted the angle of the bobby pin and resumed her small circuits. “And I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t just allow him to do this—especially after what you did for me.”

Searching the keyhole, the brunette cleared her throat. “So that’s why.”

“Thanks for changing your mind.”

Erin sniffled once and nodded her head. “I needed to make things even between us.”

No response came from Task.

Air whistled through the slit as he waited.

The brunette twisted the bobby pin. Something snapped, and the second ankle cuff clanked upon the concrete.

Sighing, the slick raised his freed left leg. Burning pains shot across his thigh and calf muscles.

“My wrists, please.”

“Okay.”

Task sat upright and turned his back and bound arms toward Erin. Into the keyhole of the slick’s right handcuff, the brunette inserted the bobby pin.

Metals clicked, and air whistled through the slit.

The double lock snapped.

“Just one more,” said Erin.

The bobby pin scratched stainless steel.

“Almost.”

The lock snapped.

Task relaxed his burning arms for the first time in four or five days. Sighing through the slit, he brought his tingling, almost weightless hands forward. A purplish-black mark circumscribed his right wrist, and a steel bracelet dangled from the other.

“Can you help me stand up?” the slick inquired while glancing at the syringe that jutted from his swollen left arm.

Erin grunted as she stood. “Sure.”

“Thanks.”

Flip-flops scuffed concrete and slapped heels as the brunette walked in front of the slick and reached out her hands.

Task launched his right fist at Erin’s throat. The needle of the syringe that he held pierced the bottom of her chin and came up through her tongue.

She shrieked.

The slick seized the big sloppy purse, flung the flap, and found the semiautomatic handgun that had once belonged to the agent.

Screaming, the brunette pulled the syringe from the bottom of her head.

Task slammed into Erin’s knees, knocking her backward. Her spine smacked the concrete, and the syringe skipped across the floor.

The slick pressed the semiautomatic into the brunette’s left breast.

“I can’t believe you!” Erin croaked while rubbing her throat. “After I came back t—”

“What’s your cellphone passcode?” (Task needed to call his associates and make arrangements to get out of Great Crown—and the United States—as soon as possible.)

“Fuck you!”

Outside of the house, supportive dogs barked.

The slick shoved the firearm deep into the glandular tissue. “Tell me the—”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this! You ungrateful fucking—”

“Tell me the—”

Erin punched Task’s swollen arm. A yell exploded from the slit, and pain engulfed the slick’s entire body.

The brunette rolled sideways, got to her knees, and crawled toward her purse.

Barely able to see, Task pressed the semiautomatic into Erin’s calf.

Gunpowder boomed. Creamy skin blackened, and blood splattered the concrete.

The brunette shrieked.

Distant dogs yipped and howled.

Moaning, Erin collapsed on her back and gripped her bloody calf.

The slick pressed the nose of the gun into the brunette’s left cheek. “Tell me the passcode.”

“Fuck you.” Erin spat blood into Task’s face. “You’re gonna kill me no matter what.”

“Tell me that code or those dogs go with you.”

The brunette was stunned. Tears filled her eyes and dripped down the sides of her face as blood pooled around her blasted calf.

“I’ll kill all five,” threatened the slick. “With rocks.”

“Seems like…I really underestimated your personality disorder.”

“Tell me the code or—”

“It’s Spaz.”

“S-P-A-Z?”

“Yes.”

“Those dogs’ll get stoned to death if you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

Task squeezed the trigger.

White fire boomed. Erin’s perforated head snapped sideways, flinging chestnut hair and ribbons of gore.

The unseen canine gang yipped and howled.

Gun in hand, Task rose to his knees and upended the big sloppy purse.

A disarrayed mass of stuff clattered upon the concrete. The slick searched this collection, pushing aside protein bars, a paperback novel, pepper spray, a switchblade, lipstick, a compact, sanitary wipes, and dog treats, until he located a cellphone and the keys to the purple hybrid.

A floorboard creaked.

Task turned his head.

White fire boomed.

A bullet smacked the slick’s lower back and threw him forward. His face mashed dog treats, and his chest thudded against the concrete. Reflexively, he fired the gun in his right hand.

A pierced flip-flop and two green glitter toes flew into the air.

Somebody yelled, “¡Hijo de puta!”

Gunfire boomed.

The package of sanitary wipes exploded as Task rolled onto his back and raised his semiautomatic.

Standing in the doorway and adjusting the aim of a revolver was a skinny bearded Hispanic man with red eyes.

Both guns fired.

One shot whistled past the slick’s ear, and the other punched the assailant, whose skull then smacked the doorframe.

“¡Puta!”

Sitting upright, Task aimed his semiautomatic at the face of a person who could only be Erin’s ex-boyfriend Diego and squeezed the trigger.

Gunpowder exploded. A bullet hole replaced the deadbeat’s nose, and his head snapped back. The gun fell from his hand, and he staggered one step, groaned, and fell on his buttocks. Blood poured out of his open mouth.

The slick pulled the trigger.

Gunpowder exploded again, and a bullet scraped a line across Diego’s throat.

Shocked, the deadbeat pitched forward and impacted the concrete.

Pain seared Task’s lower back like a blowtorch. Teeth gritted, he dropped the semiautomatic, reached under his shirt, and felt where the bullet had struck him from behind. A hole sat in the middle of his lower back.

Gritting his teeth, Task pressed his hands to the concrete, leaned forward, and tried to stand up.

His legs did not move.

Sitting back, he attempted to wriggle the toes of his unshod right foot.

The digits did not at all respond to his commands.

Air whistled through the slit as the slick looked at his legs, which the bullet in his spinal column had rendered useless. At present, he slapped an insensate thigh and wiped the gore from his hand.

Task snorted.

“So then that’s it.”

XXXIX

A Short Flight to Alaska

Task tore the duct tape gag from his jaw. Facial hair and dried blood stuck to the adhesive, which he then pressed against the hole in his lower back.

Tilting his head to the ceiling, the slick filled his lungs. The clear and dark fluids that pooled underneath the corpses made the prison smell like a sewer.

He shook his head.

“Not here.”

Task pocketed the semiautomatic, a protein bar, and the purple cellphone and dragged his half-paralyzed body forward. From the inert deadbeat, he claimed a revolver, which he gripped in his bad hand.

One Italian shoe scraped the concrete as he pulled himself toward the doorway. This abrasion was something that he heard rather than felt.

His right hand and elbow dragged his body forward. Something checked his progress, jerking him in the other direction, and he looked over his shoulder.

The toe of his right sock had caught upon the deadbeat’s incisors.

“Asshole.”

Task gripped his leg with his right hand and pulled. His foot came loose, and Diego kept the dirty brown sock.

Facing forward, the slick pulled his body from the concrete onto the wooden floorboards, against which his remaining shoe thudded like a badly made wheel. Panels creaked as he dragged his failing anatomy across the living room.

At present, Task passed a rotten couch and a blackened cabinet. Light struck his face, and he squinted.

Ahead of him stood an open doorway. A gold and magenta sky, some tall weeds, and a porch railing were framed by this portal.

The sight of the outside world momentarily overpowered his pains. Looking at the exit, the slick pulled himself forward.

The short distance was soon traversed.

For the second time in his life, Darren Tasking left prison.

His heart thudded as he dragged himself onto the porch and examined his environs.

Beyond the warped railing lay a full acre of tall weeds and beyond that was a narrow residential road. Dogs yipped in the purple hybrid, which was parked one hundred feet from the house.

Nobody was anywhere.

Task pushed himself into a sitting position, leaned his back against the house, took a deep breath of clean air, set the semiautomatic upon the railing, and arranged his insensate legs. It was then that he saw his bare right foot, which was covered with scrapes, cuts, and splinters that he could not feel.

The slick withdrew and activated the purple cellphone.

Into the digital keypad, he typed, ‘S-P-A-Z.’

The device revealed the main menu.

A rattling car engine sounded in the distance.

Task set down the cellphone, took the semiautomatic from the railing, and looked in the direction of the noise.

Near the southern end of the block and rolling at a speed of thirty miles an hour was a big yellow station wagon.

The slick pointed the gun at the street. A cool wind stirred the stalks and kissed his face.

The rattling vehicle drove in front of the house. A heavyset black woman was behind the wheel.

Task squeezed the trigger.

Gunpowder cracked. A hissing bullet clipped tall weeds and clanked into the side of the car.

Again, the slick fired.

Severed stalks leapt into the air, and a taillight shattered.

Screaming, the terrified driver stomped the gas. Tires screeched, and the yellow station wagon shot off.

Satisfied that the machos would soon be en route, Task returned the semiautomatic to the railing, reclaimed the cellphone, and dialed Karate John’s number. His right hand pressed the device to his bad ear, which currently felt better than did the rest of his body.

The line beeped once and clicked.

“The number you have called is no longer in service,” said an artificial female.

The slick killed the connection and considered what this might mean. Karate John might have changed phones and gone into hiding during the last five days…though it was also possible that Strembicky had sent him to Alaska.

Concerned, Task called Watkins, the manager of the Lewis Street parlor, whose number he had also committed to memory.

The line beeped once and clicked.

“The number that you have called is no longer in service,” said a sibling of the artificial female.

Anxious, the slick killed the connection and keyed the digits for the plump and grumpy redhead. “Please be alive…”

Waves of white light rolled across the weeds as the line beeped.

“This is Dublin. I’m on vacation right now. Leave a message if you wanna. Adios.”

This outgoing message seemed to indicate that the fellow was both alive and in hiding.

Task cleared his throat.

“Hey.

“Things went septic with me and the consortium. I’m guessing you know this already and’re in hiding, but if not, go into hiding right now and let the other guys know.

“I’m on my way to Alaska. Once I’m there, things’ll be safe for you and the others. Until then, stay hidden.”

The slick spat. His red expectoration snatched a golden weed and dragged it to the earth.

“I have money in my apartment—fifty in a hollow television in the guest room closet—unless it got stolen. In my bedroom, you’ll see a pair of tacky light brown Italians I’d never wear. There’s a key in the heel for a safe deposit box that’s in the GCB on Long Avenue and Orchid.

“The security at that bank is regular, so get a photo ID with my name and your picture for when you go there. Unless they hear about my death, you shouldn’t have a problem.”

Five hundred thousand dollars in diamonds and the deed for a house in Mexico City lay inside this safe deposit box.

“That’s your payment for three plots I want you to execute.

“Strembicky is the first protagonist. He was professional and gets it clean—his only mistake was trying to tell me what to do.

“The top floor of The Spire has a fancy lounge that serves drinks and shellfish to a wealthy clientele. Get somebody to work there as a waiter—a south guy with fake papers who’s okay with sending somebody to Alaska.

“The waiter should keep an eye out for Strembicky, who goes there, favoring the southeast corner table at sunset. When the big shot turns up, the waiter should bring out a martini and say it’s on the house.

“Strembicky likes them dry. Stirred with gin and cyanide.

“That’s it for him.”

Task saw a thin line of blood creep across the floorboards from his left side. His fingers were made of ice.

“On to the second plot.

“Find the video that we made of Detective Alder’s wife getting fucked by that black stud. The full version that never got uploaded anywhere.

“Make five hundred and seven copies of that on DVD and put them in plastic retail containers. Make some appealing cover art that shows Mrs. Alder and says, ‘The Policeman’s Wife.’

“Put price tags on them. Eight ninety-nine.

“No—four ninety-nine.

“You’ve seen her.

“Put five hundred of these DVDs in a cardboard box. A new one. Then put the extra seven copies in an old, used box that is the same size as the other. Distress it if you need to. The idea’s to make it look like four hundred and ninety-three DVDs of ‘The Policeman’s Wife’ have already been sold.”

Task moved his fingers, but could no longer feel them.

“There’s a Strembicky construction site in the financial district on Wells. Had a saffron trailer, though that’s probably gone since the night I killed some people in it. A white SUV goes to this site. The driver’s a cog who’s got a goatee and a bad cauliflower ear. His boss is a short guy named Leo V. who wears suits.

“Leave three blank, empty DVD cases on the windshield of their SUV. Let them toss these things away.

“Retrieve these cases—which now have their fingerprints. Make three more covers and three more DVDs of the ‘The Policeman’s Wife’ and put them in those cases.

“Steal the white SUV.

“Wait.

“Give Leo V. and his cog some time to report the missing truck to the machos.”

A tingling sensation spread throughout the slick’s body.

“Place both of the big cardboard boxes in the back of the SUV. Collect some errant hairs from the upholstery and put them in those boxes. Put one of the three fingerprinted DVD cases in the glove compartment, one under the front seat, and shove the third in an armrest. Park all this pornography somewhere that the machos will look, though you may need to give them a hint.

“They’re machos.

“When they discover the stolen vehicle and see what’s inside—decorated with fingerprints and DNA—life suddenly isn’t so good for Leo V. and his cog.

“That’s it for them.”

The yard darkened as the sinking sun touched the weeds.

“So now the third plot. This one’s byzantine and where you really earn your big payday.

“The protagonist is Chester Fredericks.”

Task inflated his lungs, cleared his throat, and began to detail the specifics of what would be his final plot. Sentimental recollections and physical pains were shoved from his mind as he recited the itinerary.

“I’m sorry,” the artificial female said, “but you have exceeded the time limit.”

Task wiped perspiration off of his right hand and redialed the number.

“This is Dublin. I’m on vacation right now. Leave a message if you wanna. Adios.”

A beep followed.

“This is the next part…” said the slick, who then resumed detailing his plot. The sun and his body dwindled as he spoke, but eventually, he described the very last step.

“So that’s it for Chester Fredericks.

“When there’s a corresponding headline, put the newspaper on my grave.”

A cool wind stirred the weeds.

Task filled his lungs and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

“Try to do it the way I described, but I’ll understand if—”

Howls came from the darting shapes locked inside the purple hybrid.

The slick turned his left ear to the road and heard a far-off police siren. For the first time in thirty-seven years, this ugly noise put a grin on his face.

“Try to do it the way I described,” Task said into the cellphone, “but I’ll understand if you need to make some omissions.”

The sun disappeared below the weeds, and the clouds that remained in the magenta sky looked like lacerations.

“Give something to Andrea and the Bronowskis if they’ll accept it.

“Bye.”

Task killed the connection. The cellphone fell out of his numb fingers, and the back of his skull smacked the wood façade. Dizzy and cold, he listened to the sirens.

A thought that may not have been entirely logical appeared inside of his brainpan.

“I should call him…”

The slick picked up the cellphone, typed a familiar number, and put the receiver to his ear.

Two sirens wailed while the line rang. A click followed.

“This is Nowski. I’m away right now, so please leave a message. Later.”

Task smiled, pleased that Nowski’s voice mail account had not yet been deleted. A beep sounded as red and blue lights appeared at the southern end of the block.

The slick fingered the speaker icon and set the cellphone upon the porch.

“What’s the weather like in Alaska?”

No response came from the luminous device.

Sirens wailed. Flashing red and blue lights brightened.

Task took the semiautomatic from the railing.

The grip thudded against a floorboard. It felt like the gun had gained a lot of weight during the last ten minutes.

With his bad hand, the slick raised the revolver that had belonged to the deadbeat. The pain in his left arm was fading, as were the ones everywhere else.

Sirens wailed. Tires screeched, and three sets of headlights shot across the weeds.

Task leaned his body to the right. His good shoulder smacked the wood, and he rolled onto his stomach. Hiding the guns under his chest, he looked out at the overgrown front yard.

Red and blue lights slid across the vegetation. Weeds crackled and snapped beneath the approaching cruisers.

The sirens cut out.

“This is the police!” a macho shouted through a loudspeaker.

“They didn’t think that was apparent,” the slick muttered to the cellphone, which was still connected to the dead bodybuilder’s voicemail account.

A spotlight appeared on the side of the foremost police cruiser. The bright beam panned toward the house.

Task closed his eyes and held his breath. The spotlight glared on his face, and he tried not to squint.

“Sir!” barked the amplified macho. “Are you okay?”

The prone slick did not move.

Weeds crackled as the cruisers rolled toward the house.

“Sir! Can you hear me?”

Playing dead, Task lay still and silent. His illuminated eyelids were bright red.

The spotlight moved away. Darkness returned, and weeds crackled. The slick continued to feign death.

“Anybody who’s inside that house,” the amplified macho shouted, “come out right now!”

The vehicles stopped. Dogs yipped and howled inside the purple hybrid.

Slowly and subtly, the slick refilled his lungs.

“Come out of that house right now!” the amplified macho barked at the empty building.

With as little movement as possible, Task curled his fingers around the triggers of the concealed weapons.

Automatic locks clacked inside of the cruisers. Latches snapped, and hinges squeaked.

Crunching footfalls told the slick that machos were now approaching the porch. It sounded like two had gotten out of the foremost vehicle.

A flashlight beam glared upon Task’s closed eyelids.

“Holy Jesus,” said a wheezing macho who sounded obese. “Guy looks like a horror movie.”

“Think he’s the shooter that lady reported?” asked his partner, who sounded like a dumb cracker.

“Probably.”

Crunching footfalls continued as the pair neared the porch.

Playing dead, Task waited for more targets to emerge from their cruisers.

Something thumped against the wood.

This sound recurred a moment later.

“Is his leg moving?” asked the cracker.

Unable to feel or control the muscle spasm, the slick opened his eyes, swept his arms forward, and aimed at two stunned macho faces. Curled index fingers squeezed steel.

Muzzles boomed.

The cracker’s head snapped back on his shoulders, and the obese macho dove safely into the weeds.

Aiming at an occupied cruiser, Task fired both guns. Shots clipped the overgrowth, shattered the windshield, and tore open the face of the female officer who was behind the wheel. Shouting incoherently, the slain woman’s partner launched himself through the passenger door and into the weeds.

The prone slick adjusted his aim.

Gunpowder exploded on his right.

A bullet cracked Task’s ribs and shoved him across the floorboards. His left shoulder smacked the banister at the southern edge, where he lay prone. Blood filled his lungs and mouth as he looked north.

Beyond the railing was a collection of trampled weeds.

The slick aimed his shaking guns at either side of this opening. His muzzles cracked again and again and again as he sent bullets.

An unseen macho screamed.

The revolver hammer clanked upon the spent cartridge that had earlier launched a bullet into his spine. Released, the empty weapon clattered upon the floorboards.

Guns crackled above the open doors of the third cruiser.

A bullet stole the slick’s right eye. The semiautomatic fell from his hand, and floorboards smacked his face.

“I got three of them,” Task croaked at the cellphone. “Hope that’s enough to get me to Heaven.”

A shotgun boomed. Burning pellets pierced the slick’s hard skull.

No further remarks came from Darren Tasking as he plummeted toward oblivion. His heart stopped, and his thoughts turned into mud.

“He’s done,” said a macho.

A boot pressed against the dead man’s deactivated face, and somebody spat.

“I bet this fucking lowlife thought he was slick.”

XL

A Very Big Pay-Per-View Event

Chester Fredericks saw the flashing police lights through the windshield of his baby blue off-road truck. Applying the brakes, he spun the steering wheel until he was driving in the opposite direction. His tires struck a bump, and a caged opossum hissed.

“Quiet.”

The redneck parked his truck alongside his girlfriend’s ultramarine two-seater, walked across the gravel driveway, and opened the front door, which triggered the alarm.

“Didja get takeout?” Dora shouted from another room. “I’m hungry.”

Chester silenced the alarm. “We need to pack some shit and go.”

Footfalls sounded as the chubby, twenty-two-year-old redhead walked into the room. “What’d you say?”

“We’re leaving. We need to pack up and go. Right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

The redneck led his girlfriend through the den, up the hallway, and into the bedroom. There, he opened the closet door.

“How long’re we gonna be away?”

“Don’t know yet.” Chester pulled two canvas suitcases from the top shelf. “But pack for a week. Bring your phone—don’t forget the charger this time—and that credit card I got you.”

“What’s happening? Why’ve we got—”

“Shut your goddamn cock polisher and get packing.”

Hunched behind the steering wheel of the ultramarine two-seater and adhering to the speed limit, the redneck drove his girlfriend, two suitcases, and a gym bag through the dark, sleeping suburbs. A loaded revolver was tucked under the waistband of his black sweatpants, and his wary eyes regularly checked the mirrors.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” asked Dora.

Chester slowed, cornered, and drove north toward the interstate ramp. “One of my business situations went bad, and I need to make sure the police ain’t looking for me.”

“We’re hiding out?”

“Yep. Don’t call or talk to anyone till I say you can. And we’ll need to pay cash for everything or put it on your card.”

The girl seemed ambivalent about the entire situation (which was probably because her classes had not yet started). “How far are we going?”

“Georgia.”

“What about the opossums?”

Chester had forgotten about the animals, which were still locked inside of a cage in the backseat of his truck. “Whenever we go back home, we’ll see which one’s the toughest.”

Dora’s eyes widened. “Are they cannibals?”

“With the right motivation.”

Three and a half hours later, the little automobile entered Georgia, where the redneck drove north, northeast, and northwest for more than two hundred miles. The sign for a place called the Sweet Tea Motor Hotel appeared, and the yawning driver braked and dialed the steering wheel clockwise. Tires struck the curb, jarring the car and awakening his girlfriend.

Dora looked through the windshield. “This is where we’re staying?”

“Go check us in.” Chester veered toward the main building. “Get a room away from other people if you can—say you’re a light sleeper and need as much privacy as possible. Don’t give them my name no matter what.”

The redneck followed his girlfriend into the pink and teal motel room, set down all of the luggage, locked the door, pulled the chain, closed the curtains, and turned on a television. A black anchorman looked up at the camera.

Chester fingered the remote, changing channels until he found a blonde newscaster who had a low neckline, sculpted hair, and a bronze tan.

“Wish I had skin like that,” remarked Dora. “Gonna think about her when we screw?”

“We ain’t doing that now.”

“Well, I don’t wanna watch the news.”

The redneck sat on the edge of the bed, withdrew his cellphone, and pulled up a search engine.

Curved arrows spun as the page loaded.

On the far side of the room, Dora waggled a brochure. “They’ve got a hot tub.”

Chester typed, “Murder,” “Great Crown,” and “September 8” into the slot and pressed the “Search” icon.

Curved arrows turned.

The cellphone declared, “Approximately 985,800 search results.” Below this impressive figure was the first listing—

“Three Great Crown Police Officers Killed in Shootout with Crazed Ex-Con Outside Abandoned…”

“Wanna go to the hot tub?” inquired the girl.

“Go boil.”

Dora huffed. “Don’t get onery.”

“Ornery. There’s an ‘r.’”

“Well, you say ‘ain’t’ all the time and that’s wrong.”

“But I use that word knowingly—with Southern attitude—which makes it legit. Now shut your bitch flap.”

Indignant, the girl walked over to her suitcase.

Chester thumbed the link to the news item.

Curved arrows turned.

The article appeared upon the touchscreen, and the redneck eyeballed the headline.

“Three Great Crown Police Officers Killed in Shootout with Crazed Ex-Con Outside Abandoned House, Two More Dead Inside.”

“The fuck…?”

Perplexed, Chester scrolled down and continued reading.

“Officer Tamara Johnson, Officer James Porter, and Corporal Derek Sally were mortally wounded by ex-convict Darren Tasking during a gunfight that occurred at dusk in front of an abandoned house in the Cicada area of Great Crown. The thirty-seven-year-old shooter was killed by other members of the police force during the heated exchange. This shocking tragedy was precipitated by a hysterical caller informing the police that somebody had shot two bullets into her car from this address.

“Discovered inside of the abandoned house were the bodies of two other homicide victims: Erin Green and Diego Acosta. Green had changed her name from Eva MacGrath when she was of age and is the runaway daughter of Police Commissioner Terence MacGrath.”

Chester read this shocking sentence five times. For two and a half years, he had been terrorizing and abusing the daughter of the highest-ranking macho in the entire city.

The redneck thanked a higher power and continued reading.

“Many details are currently unclear, but authorities are speculating that Green (MacGrath) and Acosta were also killed by the shooter, Tasking, whom they had been holding prisoner, starving, and torturing for reasons unknown.”

For the first time in eight hours, Chester felt his body relax. His jaw loosened, and his shoulders changed from iron into clay.

Filling his lungs with scented air conditioning, the redneck continued reading.

The remainder of the article was about the dead machos and some posthumous awards that each of them would receive for getting shot.

“Good news?” Dora inquired while tucking her breasts into a black bathing suit that had pink stripes.

“Maybe.”

For the next four days, Chester perused hundreds of articles, listened to talk radio, and watched the tan anchorwoman. There was no mention of his name anywhere, nor any suggestion that the machos were even looking for another person in relation to what had occurred at the abandoned house. Authorities seemed to believe that Erin and Diego were responsible for Darren Tasking’s condition (and psychotic episode), and it was obvious that Police Commissioner Terence MacGrath wanted to get his dead daughter out of the headlines as quickly as possible.

Five days after the event, Chester and Dora returned to the suburbs of Great Crown. Their house and property looked normal, and the baby blue off-road truck was exactly where it should be.

“Wait here.”

Gripping a revolver, the redneck launched himself from the two-seater, walked across the gravel, crossed the porch, unlocked the bolts, and opened the door.

The alarm beeped.

Comforted by the intact security system, Chester keyed the code and returned to the car. “Everything seems to be okay.”

Dora stepped outside, picked her shorts out of her crack, and looked at the truck. “You gonna go see…?”

“Yep.”

Gravel crunched as the redneck walked to his off-road vehicle and looked through the rear window.

Inside of the steel cage that lay within were two dead opossums whose rib cages lacked flesh and innards. The third creature was also deceased, yet whole and grossly swollen by its cannibalistic meal.

“Guess I named the right one Little Chester.”

Autumn began, though in Great Crown, Florida, the discrepancies between this green season and the previous two were mostly theoretical.

Chester resumed his debt-collecting business. A week passed, and then another.

The national news moved on from the events at the abandoned house, and not long afterward, the local media focused their attention on fresher stories, such as the demise of construction magnate Grigory Strembicky, who had died while enjoying a martini at The Spire.

By the middle of October, the case was no more alive than Darren Tasking.

Chester took Dora out for a fancy birthday meal on the third Wednesday of that month. She was excelling in junior college, and her new black dress showed that she had been doing a lot more at the gym than just drinking neon-colored water.

“That’s it!” the girl cried out while experiencing her third orgasm in bed that night.

The redneck slammed his hips forward, shot lava into his trembling partner, and collapsed onto his back. He felt like saying “I love you” for the very first time in their four-year relationship, but he was not able to get those exact words all the way to his mouth.

“You looked foxy as hell in that dress tonight.”

Dora grinned, wiped sweat from her forehead, and gave Chester a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, too.”

The dolorous Cuban debtor handed the redneck three inches of money. “It’s nine thousand four hundred.”

Surprised, Chester accepted the green fruit. Two minutes passed as he thumbed through the bills and made a tally. There was an extra twenty in the pile, which he withdrew and returned to his client.

“Yours.”

Miguel pocketed the bill. “Thanks.”

“So, you’re paid off.”

“Finally.”

“How’d you get all this?”

The skinny Cuban shook his head. “My cousin died.”

“The one you sent all those faggot-ass records to?”

“Yeah.”

“My condolences.” Chester pocketed the payment and patted Miguel’s back. “Sorry for being so rough on you over the years.”

“I understand, man. It’s business.”

“You got a good attitude, señor. Call me whenever you need to borrow some more.”

“I’m not gonna get into trouble again—I stopped gambling. For good this time.”

“Sure you did. And hey—good luck with those night terrors.”

That evening in the sunken den, Chester removed his shirt, dropped himself onto his baby blue recliner chair, and turned on a wrestling pay-per-view event that he had preordered. Music and cheers blasted from the speakers but did not disturb Dora, who was out with Lisa Gordon and would not be back until the program was over.

The redneck lifted a slice of sausage-and-onion pizza as the ring announcer raised his microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen. The first competition this evening is a tag-team event.”

“Awesome,” muttered Chester, who felt that good tag-team matches were underappreciated by most wrestling fans today. The synergy of a good ring partnership exceeded what could be found in most bands and all marriages.

A familiar heavy metal song boomed from the den speakers.

Chester grinned. “Midwest Headbreakers.”

“From St. Paul, Minnesota,” the ring announcer shouted, “at a combined weight of five hundred and ten pounds—The Midwest Headbreakers!”

Pyrotechnics erupted.

Something snapped, and the house alarm beeped.

Annoyed, the redneck heaved his mass out of the recliner and looked around.

A white mark sat in the middle of the den window.

“The fuck…?”

Theme music boomed as Chester walked across the room and inspected the anomaly.

The glass was cracked. It looked like some kind of thrown object had impacted the window.

“Fuck.”

The redneck hastened to the living room, typed his code into the alarm panel, turned around, retrieved his revolver, unlocked both bolts, and opened the front door. Wearing only socks and Bermuda shorts, he walked onto his concrete porch and made a survey of the area.

The yard and street were empty. Parked in the driveway was his baby blue truck, which appeared to be unmolested.

Chester traversed the porch and stepped off the edge. Three-hundred and twenty-four pounds pressed gravel into his feet as he strode across the driveway toward the den.

Something bright lay in the grass directly below the cracked window. Continuing forward, the redneck saw the glimmer of stainless steel.

His stomach tightened.

“Fuck.”

Chester grabbed the pair of handcuffs, which he then held out and inspected. The restraints were generic, but the insinuation that they made was very specific. An extortionist might have discovered what had happened in the abandoned house, and it was also possible that one of the dead slick’s associates had some intentions.

There was no way for the redneck to figure out the situation from a set of handcuffs that had been thrown against his den window, and he tried not to think too much about the perfect timing of this little assault. All he could do right now was be vigilant…and wait.

Chester returned to his house, reset the alarm, and dropped onto his recliner. The entire pay-per-view event happened in front of his eyes, but none of the images entered the percolating protein that filled his brainpan.

Preoccupied by the incident, the redneck pretended that he was asleep when his girlfriend finally climbed into bed later that night.

The lights went out, and twice in his dreams, he saw the slick.

No words came from the mouth of the dead man.

Insurance covered half the cost of the new den window. Three untroubled weeks passed, and Chester was again able to enjoy time with Dora and sleep comfortably through the night.

On the morning of the third Saturday in November, the redneck began work early so that he could finish his day and pick up pizza long before the start of the pay-per-view wrestling event that he had preordered. The scheduled matches had a lot of potential, but he was unable to look forward to them, since he felt that there was an increased likelihood of a second prank during this program. This concern made him anxious and (more) ornery.

At present, Chester slapped the pregnant woman across the face, and her oldest son began to cry.

“There’s supposed to be four hundred here.” The redneck shook the seven twenty-dollar bills that he had just received. “Ain’t even half.”

“It’s all I have. Por favor…”

“Have more next time.” Chester placed his palm upon the debtor’s inhabited stomach. “For the sake of your unborn cockroach.”

The redneck looked through the new den window at the front yard of his house. Night had fallen, and the outdoor lights he had installed during the previous week shot bright daggers all over the grass, trees, and bushes. His truck was parked in the back of the house, and the two-seater was at the gym with Dora, whom he had told to stay away until after the pay-per-view event had ended.

The redneck set a loaded shotgun beside his recliner, dropped himself onto the cushions, and opened the uppermost pizza box. Sausage, onion, and cheese smells filled the room.

The program began with a novelty match that focused on one of the wrestler’s slutty girlfriends, and the second and third events were singles bouts in which nobody looked especially convincing.

Nothing but a circle of grease remained in the uppermost pizza box when choir music issued from the speakers. Chester felt chills as he listened to the powerful entrance theme of Thunder Preacher, who was his ninth favorite wrestler of all time. Pyrotechnics exploded, and applause burst from the standing crowd.

Grinning, the redneck clapped.

“From Houston, Texas,” the announcer shouted, “and weighing in at two hundred and ninety-five pounds…Thunder Preacher!”

A huge, muscular man wearing a black robe and a white collar entered the arena. Something cracked, and a bullet hole pierced the wrestler’s face.

The television went dark.

“Fuck!”

The house alarm beeped.

Furious, Chester grabbed his shotgun.

Tires screeched on the street outside.

The redneck raced to the living room, jerked the door, and bounded onto his porch.

All that remained on the road was a yellow puff of smoke that was either gunpowder or the result of skidding wheels.

Chester scanned his property.

The yard was empty, and the night was quiet.

“Chickenshit faggot.”

Shotgun in hand, the redneck returned to his living room, shut off the house alarm, and walked back outside. Gravel crackled beneath his sneakers as he treaded along the driveway

“Goddamn chickenshit.”

The redneck reached the west side of his house, rounded the corner, and proceeded to where he had parked his truck. Grass squeaked as he reached the back yard.

“No.”

Upon the windshield of the baby blue automobile lay a reddish-orange brick.

Chester wondered if he had been wrong to make fun of Dora for believing in ghosts. Dismissing the idea, he shook his head.

“Don’t fucking spook yourself.”

Grass squeaked as the redneck proceeded to the truck. There, he stopped, reached out, and picked up the brick (which was indeed a solid object).

“So, you wanna fuck with me some more, amigo?”

No response came from the block of clay.

Brooding, the redneck returned to the front yard and hurled the brick. Yellow streetlight flashed upon its spinning surfaces as it arced into the air.

“I’ll be ready for you next pay-per-view.”

The brick plummeted, struck the road, and burst into a welter of shards.

“And you’ll still be a starving faggot in Hell with the AIDS I gave you.”

Chester returned to his house, locked the door, and switched on the bedroom television, but he was far too distracted by the evening’s events to appreciate the sight of skilled combatants hurting each other in increasingly elaborate ways.

Uncomfortable days followed this second act of terrorism.

The redneck spent hours talking to insurance company agents who clearly believed that he had shot his own television in a fit of anger (even though this theory could not account for the bullet hole in the den window). After seventeen tedious phone calls, the organization wrote a small check and canceled his policy.

November passed without another incident that Chester could attribute to the proxy of Darren Tasking.

During the first week of December, the redneck fell asleep behind the wheel of his truck and almost crashed into a school bus full of children. The overtired man decided to end his day early, go home, and get some rest.

Walking up the gravel driveway, Chester saw Dora through the den window. The woman was not wearing any clothes.

Suspicions of infidelity reappeared inside of the redneck’s brainpan, and he crept across the lawn to the west side of the house. There, he peered through the bedroom window.

The enclosure was dark and uninhabited.

Relieved, Chester went through the front door, shut off the alarm, and turned the bolts.

Dora appeared, cinching the belt of her kimono. “You’re home early.”

“I saw you walking around in the den before I came in.”

“And?”

Frowning, the redneck advanced toward his girlfriend. “I know you’re feeling good about yourself—and you’re looking real good these days—but don’t flap your pussy at the neighbors. A nigger moved in last month.”

“Why do you care what anyone sees? You haven’t touched me in weeks.”

Chester slapped Dora.

Defiant blue eyes stared out from the girl’s marked face. “Don’t hit me.”

“Then mind your cock polisher.”

“Well, it’s a fact, isn’t it? What I said? When was the last time we screwed? When was the last time you even got hard?

The redneck slammed a fist into the girl’s stomach.

Groaning, she doubled over and gripped herself.

Remorse filled Chester, who had never before used a closed fist on Dora. “Shit, honey, I didn’t mean to—”

The girl held up her hands, shook her head, and sucked air. “You’re— You’re losing it again.”

“Honey, I didn’t—”

“I’m— I’m— I’m gonna stay at my dad’s…till you calm down.”

“Dora. Wait. I’m—”

“It hasn’t been easy living with you since the prankster came back—you’re sour all the time, and I got bags under my eyes ’cause you’re talking so much in your sleep and fidgeting the whole damn night.”

“Hey. I’m sorry. It’s just—”

The girl turned away, and the redneck grabbed her right arm.

“Let go of me or I’ll never come back.”

Chester released Dora.

Half an hour later, the girl carried two heavy suitcases out of the house.

December continued, and the twice-divorced redneck once again adjusted to life alone (which contained a lot more chores, facial hair, and time in front of his television). His girlfriend called him almost every day, but she would not come back home or even agree to see him until this situation with the prankster was over.

Chilly days of debt collecting passed, and eventually, Chester reached the morning of the third Saturday in December. A big wrestling pay-per-view event was scheduled to go on the air that evening.

“Tonight’s our big rematch,” the redneck announced while sitting up in bed.

His feet hit the floor, and he started his day.

Chester got dressed, drove south, picked up some food from Pudgy Boys, returned home, went to the bathroom, pissed, brushed his teeth, attacked his wiry beard with a pair of scissors, shaved off the remaining sprouts, showered, pulled on camouflage clothing, tied his boots, affixed a sheathed survival knife to his belt, holstered a loaded semiautomatic, and darkened his face with green and black greasepaints.

Examining himself in the bedroom mirror, he nodded in approval.

“Yep.”

The redneck walked into the den, set the digital video recorder for the pay-per-view wrestling event, and turned on the television. On the opposite side of the room, he lowered the venetian blinds.

A glance at the wall clock told him that it was two minutes after five.

Chester went into the bedroom and sat on a chair that faced the window. For eighty-five minutes, he did nothing but watch the sky change from blue to gold as the sun sank behind the trees.

Cicadas buzzed, and frogs croaked.

Dusk had begun.

“It’s time for the main event,” announced the redneck.

A dog barked in the distance.

Chester slung a backpack over his right shoulder, grabbed his baby blue gym bag, and clasped the handle of a rifle case. Laden with equipment, he walked down the hallway to the back of his house, where he paused to disarm and reset the alarm.

The redneck entered the thickening dusk, shut the door, and turned the top lock, which snapped.

Twenty paces brought him to the tall pipestem hedges that separated his property from that of his western neighbor. Inside this stand, he sat below the camouflage tarp he had set up the previous day.

Chester unzipped his gym bag and removed his shotgun, which was rolled up in a towel. This firearm he uncovered and set beside his left leg.

Cicadas buzzed as he withdrew his long-range weapon from the rifle case, brought the telescopic sight to his right eye, and surveyed his property.

The front yard, the house (which was sixty feet off), and the patio were devoid of trespassers, and ten steps away in the driveway sat his baby blue truck, which was already facing the street in case he needed to jump behind the wheel and pursue somebody.

Everything looked normal.

“Okay.”

The redneck returned the rifle to its black felt groove and withdrew a submarine sandwich from his backpack. Like the bolus that had been the slick’s final meal, this foot-long had meatballs, tomato sauce, and cheese.

Chester bit off a huge hunk.

“Delicious.”

Dusk thickened into night as he ate the sandwich, drank a ginger ale, and tossed the refuse into his neighbor’s yard.

At present, the redneck faced forward and eyed his house.

The venetian blinds pulsated with light as the television broadcasted the pay-per-view event to an empty recliner chair.

An engine rumbled in the east.

Chester raised the rifle and looked through the telescopic sight.

Headlights glared in the lenses as a red sports car shot up the road. In the middle of the crosshairs was a petite girl who did not look old enough to be in junior high, much less own a valid driver’s license.

The vehicle rushed past the property and was gone.

Through the scope, the redneck scanned his patio and the rest of the back yard. Nothing seemed out of place.

A survey of the front lawn and opposing hedges followed, but revealed no anomalies, bipedal or otherwise.

Chester set the rifle into the black felt groove and scratched his rear end. The venetian blinds throbbed, illuminated by the unseen wrestling event.

“I should be watching that.”

The redneck pulled a foot-long consolation prize out of his backpack.

An engine sounded from the other direction (behind him in the west), and he set down the food and raised his rifle.

A speeding car shot down the street to the east. All that Chester saw of this vehicle were its blurry taillights.

Setting down the rifle, he reclaimed the submarine sandwich, which (like its predecessor) was stuffed with meatballs, cheese, and tomato sauce.

The redneck stared at the glowing venetian blinds as he ate the first six inches of his second meal.

“Delicious.”

A very loud motor crackled in the east.

Sandwich in one hand and rifle in the other, the redneck peered through the scope.

A black motorcycle zoomed into the crosshairs. The driver was leaning forward like a racer as he whooshed past the property.

Chester lowered the rifle, resumed eating, and tossed the crumpled wrapper into his neighbor’s yard.

Thirty minutes later, a dog woofed, and another howled musically in response.

The redneck raised the rifle and surveyed his property for trespassers.

Nobody was there.

A glance at his watch told him that the time was now three minutes after nine o’clock. The pay-per-view event was halfway over.

“You’d better show.”

Chester desperately wanted to end this feud tonight. Another month of staring at shadows and having nightmares while his girlfriend stayed at her father’s place sounded terrible.

Something clicked upon the tarp.

Startled, the redneck jerked his semiautomatic from his shoulder holster. A bush flinched, and he swung his gun at vegetation.

Two more clicks sounded above his head.

Upon realizing that the predicted rainfall had begun, Chester relaxed and lowered his weapon. Another piece of precipitation smacked the tarp (which he had erected for this purpose), and the suspicious bush shrugged.

The redneck grabbed a bottle of orange soda, unscrewed the cap, and drank one and a half liters in two efforts. A telltale pang poked his bladder.

“Crap.”

Listening to the environs and hearing only frogs, sporadic rainfall, and a distant airplane, the redneck clambered out from under the tarp and pulled out his phallus, which he then directed at his neighbor’s yard.

Urine trespassed.

A rattling car engine sounded in the west.

Chester forced the remainder of fluid from his bladder, shoved his phallus into his underwear, and scrambled back under the tarp.

Raindrops clicked as the vehicle approached.

The redneck claimed his rifle from the case.

A rattling brown car that resembled the one Erin Green had once owned passed the driveway and rolled alongside the property.

Chester looked through the scope.

The rear windshield of the departing automobile was opaque.

Tires screeched as the car stopped at the far corner of the front yard.

A back door opened, and a bald black man in dark clothing lunged out of the vehicle and ran toward the house. Held in the fellow’s hands was an assault rifle.

Chester put the trespasser’s bobbing head in the crosshairs, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

Gunpowder cracked. The armed black man jerked sideways and spilled onto the lawn. Tires screeched.

The redneck aimed at the rear windshield of the brown car and fired.

Glass shattered, and the bullet clanked against some metal barrier within the vehicle.

“Fuck.”

Gripping the rifle and the shotgun, Chester bolted toward his baby blue truck, which was nearby and unlocked. His boots flung gravel, and his heart pounded as he crossed the distance. The redneck arrived, heaved himself behind the steering wheel, put the weapons on the passenger seat, slammed the door, ignited the engine, shifted gears, and stomped the accelerator.

Stones rumbled as the automobile lurched forward.

Steering to the left, the redneck switched on his high beams. Tires struck the pavement, screeching, and the truck fishtailed into the middle of the road.

At the far end of the next block were two small taillights.

Chester rolled down his windows as he drove east. From his shoulder holster, he withdrew his semiautomatic.

A stop sign appeared, but it was ignored by the redneck. At a speed of sixty miles an hour (and rising), the truck bisected the cross street.

The distance between the vehicles diminished, and the pursuer’s high beams struck the leading vehicle.

It was the brown car.

“You’re dead,” muttered Chester.

The truck roared toward the other automobile, which had stopped at the far end of the block.

Thrusting the semiautomatic through the window, Chester aimed and fired. Bullets clanked against the bumper, the trunk, and the metal barrier that stood inside of the rear windshield.

No response to this attack was issued.

Sixty feet lay between the speeding truck and the back of the stopped car.

Braking, the redneck cut the wheel to the left. The truck skidded off of the road, tore up the front yard of the corner house, and stopped.

Chester picked up his shotgun and pointed it through the passenger window.

The brown car was empty.

“Fuck!”

Suddenly, the redneck understood that he was looking at a four-wheeled decoy.

A chill descended his spine.

“My house…”

Chester spun the steering wheel and threw his boot upon the accelerator. Tires rended grass and soil as the truck spun one hundred and eighty degrees.

“I’m gonna call the police!” shouted a homeowner.

The vehicle roared through hedges. Branches snapped. Wheels struck the pavement and shrieked.

The redneck righted the truck and drove west toward his home. Upon the dashboard, the digital speedometer went from thirty to forty and kept on rising. The engine growled.

Headlights struck a red octagon, and Chester scanned the crossroad.

A black car that had the right of way was speeding toward the intersection.

“Watch it!”

The redneck punched his horn.

At a speed of over sixty miles an hour, the honking truck shot past the stop sign. Headlights glared on the passenger windows, and the black car skidded.

Chester tensed.

Tires shrieked.

The interior filled with light.

“Sh—”

The car pounded the back of the truck. Metal buckled, and the redneck lurched.

“—it.”

A copse of trees appeared in the headlights.

Chester stomped the brakes and jerked the wheel.

Skidding, the truck veered.

A branch smacked the windshield and snapped. The front bumper killed a sapling. Headlights illuminated two thick pines.

“Crud.”

The truck toppled the nearer tree and slammed into the other. Chester ate an airbag, and cracks raced across the windshield. The shotgun and rifle flew into the foot well.

Wood creaked.

Everything stopped.

Dazed and winded, the redneck sat up.

A pinecone struck the cracked windshield, which then burst. Scintillating shards covered the dashboard.

Blood dripped from Chester’s nose as he sat up, withdrew his survival knife, and stabbed the airbag. Popped, the inflatable withered.

Somebody shouted something.

“Shut the fuck up,” the redneck replied to whomever had said whatever.

A pinecone that might have been a projectile caromed off of the dashboard.

Chester sheathed his blade, jammed the gear into reverse, and stomped the accelerator. Tires churned soil as the wrinkled, baby blue truck withdrew from the copse. Tenacious flaps of safety glass waggled like loose teeth.

The redneck glanced at his side-view mirror, which a branch then smacked.

Spinning tires touched the road and squealed. Adjusting the wheel, Chester braked, flung the gear stick, and stomped the gas.

The truck lurched west. Something rattled beneath the compressed hood, and the smells of rubber and oil were everywhere.

The redneck wiped blood from his nose, reached into the passenger foot well, and grabbed his shotgun, which he then laid across his lap. On the right side of the street lay the wooded area east of his property.

It was then that Chester first heard the sound of his house alarm.

His neck tensed, and his hands tightened upon the wheel. The truck passed the trees, and the redneck saw his house.

Smoke was pouring out of the front door, which was wide open.

“Fuck.”

Chester cut the wheel, sped up his driveway, stopped, killed the engine, and flung the door. Holding the shotgun with both hands, he jumped outside. Gravel crackled underneath his boots.

A quick survey of the property revealed no trespassers other than the bald black man, who was still prone and motionless.

Ready for an ambush, the redneck raised his shotgun and stalked toward the open doorway. Gravel crackled as he proceeded, and his eyes started to sting.

Continuously, the alarm wailed.

The redneck stepped onto his porch and proceeded toward the clouded entrance. His vision blurred, and his eyes started to burn. At present, he realized that the homogeneous vapor ahead of him was not smoke, but tear gas.

Chester paused.

A cellphone buzzed in his pocket.

The caller would either be the dead slick’s proxy or the company that monitored the house alarm.

Again, the device vibrated.

Keeping the shotgun trained upon the misty doorway, the redneck backed onto the gravel, pulled the cellphone from his pocket, and placed the receiver to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“I’m calling from the monitoring station,” said a woman who had an Indian accent. “We received a signal from—”

“Yeah. I broke a window and am about to go shut it off. Just ignore the signal.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Chester Fredericks.”

“What is your mother’s maiden name?”

“Hillman.”

“And what is your password?”

“Confederacy.”

“Thank you. Have a good night.”

The redneck killed the connection, gripped his shotgun with both hands, and monitored the doorway. From the house came the unintelligible voice of a ring announcer and the serpentine hisses of two or three gas grenades.

“Gonna try to make me cry again, huh?” asked Chester.

No reply came from the thinning vapors.

Waiting for the air to clear, the redneck rubbed his stinging eyes and scanned the front yard. Nobody was there other than the prostrated corpse of the armed trespasser whose execution would be completely legal according to Florida State’s superb stand-your-ground law.

The hissing grenades sputtered and stopped.

Gas dissipated and vanished.

Aiming the shotgun forward, Chester walked onto the porch, rushed through the doorway, and scanned the area.

Nobody was in the living room. The only anomaly he noticed was the expended gas grenade that lay upon the baby blue rug.

His eyes started to sting, and he instantly knew that he should have waited a few more minutes before entering the house.

“Shit.”

Tears poured down his cheeks. Closing one eye and squinting the other, he silenced the alarm, raised his shotgun, sniffled, and crept toward the adjacent room.

The theme music for “Strangler” Fitzwilliams boomed from the speakers as Chester leapt into the den and swept the barrel of his weapon in a complete circle.

Nobody was there.

The redneck walked across the carpet and shut off the television.

Quiet spread throughout the house.

Closing both burning eyes, he listened for anomalous sounds.

His home was mute.

Squinting, the redneck aimed his shotgun at the mouth of the rear hallway, which led to the bedroom, the laundry area, and the back door. Tears blurred his vision as he strode forward, and his left boot kicked an empty canister, which then clanked against a table leg.

Pausing, Chester listened for intruders.

The house was silent.

Tears poured from his eyes, which felt like they were on fire, and he knew that he had to get some relief before he could continue his hunt.

The redneck rushed down the hallway, cornered into his bedroom, elbowed the light switch, and swept his gun in a full circle.

Nobody was there. Everything looked normal, except for some tangles of hair that lay upon the bed.

Chester hastened to the bathroom and pounded the light switch with the stock of the shotgun. A bulb glared, and in the mirror, he saw himself.

Tears had drawn pink lines through the greasepaint that covered his face.

Sniffling, the redneck shut the door, opened the cabinet, and found the eye drops that he took whenever his allergies were giving him problems. Metal clanked against porcelain as he set down his shotgun.

Chester unscrewed the little white cap, tilted his head back, and brought the nozzle to his right eye. With his thumb and index finger, he squeezed the plastic bottle.

The cool solution dripped onto his cornea.

Quickly, he brought the tip to his left eye.

Fluid dripped on the surface and soothed the irritation.

Blinking rapidly, the redneck put the bottle on the shelf and sighed.

The pain got worse.

Suddenly, Chester was screaming. His knees smacked the tile, and he slammed a fist into the wall, jarring the entire house.

Red and violet lights flashed behind his closed eyelids as the boiling pain worsened. Yelling, he kicked the bathtub with his right boot.

“Motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker!”

Violet and purple lights flashed behind his eyelids.

Police sirens sounded.

Chester reached for the sink, knocked the shotgun to the floor, and twisted a knob. Cold water hissed.

Agonized, the redneck gripped the towel rack, pulled himself upright, and opened his eyes.

Black, charcoal, and gray shapes were all that he saw.

“No! No! No!”

Hysterical, Chester splashed water into his dying eyes. The dim shapes that he saw blurred together and became a mass of grayish-black.

“No.”

Shocked, the redneck dropped to his knees. His body convulsed, and he vomited meatball submarine sandwiches and orange soda all over himself.

A feeling of complete helplessness filled Chester.

Sirens wailed. Gravel crackled as police cruisers rolled up the driveway.

The redneck lunged for his shotgun, and his skull slammed into the sink.

Chester fell.

Morning sunlight shone through the den window. The redneck parted the freckled knees of his girlfriend and performed cunnilingus while glancing at his sixty-inch television. His flickering tongue summoned moans, and nearby, Thunder Preacher extended his arms, leaped from the top rope, and spun in the air.

Something poked Chester’s right shoulder.

Dora, Thunder Preacher, and the den turned into nothing.

“Mr. Fredericks.”

Chester awakened, lying on his back atop a mattress in some place that smelled like ammonia and boiled vegetables. The disoriented man opened his eyes.

Darkness was everywhere, except for a charcoal gray spot that lay to his right.

The redneck blinked, and this small, circular anomaly flickered. “What’s wrong with the lights?”

“Nothing is wrong with the lights,” stated a woman who Chester thought sounded black.

Suddenly, Chester recalled what had happened to him on the night of the pay-per-view event. A void filled his stomach.

The black woman cleared her throat. “Do you rememb—”

“Am I gonna be blind forever?”

Silence and the smells of ammonia and boiled vegetables filled the darkness.

“Yes.”

Terror rended Chester. “Are you sure? I mean—”

“I am sure.”

“Go get a doctor.”

“I am a doctor.”

The redneck’s eyes stung, and the dark gray spot started to shimmer. “What the fuck was in that eye dropper?”

“Hydrochloric acid.”

“That fuck. That fucking faggot-ass homo fuck.”

The words evaporated, and a moment later, the doctor cleared her throat. “Somebody’s here to see you.”

“Dora?” asked Chester, whose small and weak voice sounded like it belonged to somebody else.

Silence filled the darkness. A moment later, a ballpoint pen clicked and scribbled upon a hard surface.

“Doctor? Is it Dora? Does she know what happened yet?”

“It’s a policeman.”

“Why the fuck’s a macho here?”

“I’ll let him discuss that with you.”

Sniffling, the redneck raised a hand to wipe his eyes. A steel bracelet clanked against the bed rail and dug into his wrist.

“Why the fuck am I cuffed? I can’t even see.”

Footfalls sounded as the doctor walked away from the bed. “I’ll come back to check on you later.”

A latch clicked, and hinges squeaked. Five footfalls echoed in the larger space that lay outside of the room.

“Sir? Mr. Fredericks is awake.”

“Thank you very much,” replied a man who had a deep and raspy voice.

“He asked if Dora was going to visit him.”

“Interesting.”

A newspaper snapped, and hard soles cracked against the floor like gunshots.

“Have the desk page me if you need anything,” added the doctor.

“Thank you.”

The percussive footfalls entered the room.

A door shut, and something scraped across the darkness. The noise grew louder and louder as the object was dragged toward the bed.

Growing anxious, Chester sat upright. “What do you want?”

No response came from the approaching visitor.

Hard soles cracked, and the scraping became strident. The odor of shoe polish joined those of ammonia and boiled vegetables.

The redneck channeled his fears into anger and turned his head toward the visitor. “Are you guys even looking for the fuck who did this to me? Doing your jobs for once?”

The footfalls and scraping stopped. A cushion squeaked as the visitor sat in the chair he had just dragged to the bed.

“I’m Police Commissioner Terence MacGrath.”

Chester felt his entire body go cold.

“It looks like you’ve heard of me,” rasped the macho.

The blind redneck cleared his throat. “Why am I handcuffed?”

“Because you are not yet in prison.”

“Prison…? I didn’t do anything—I’m the one that got hurt.” Chester then remembered the bald black trespasser whom he had shot. “Is this because of that African American on my lawn?”

“Dora Haglund?”

“What? No. The bald African American who was trespassing on my property and had a gun in his hands. An assault rifle.”

“Dora Haglund?”

“Not Dora—the goddamn African American!”

The shouted words echoed throughout the room.

“Sorry…” Chester calmed himself. “Florida State law says I can defend my property if it’s threatened. The stand-your-ground law.”

“It does. But it would be hard to prove to a jury that Miss Haglund was a genuine threat.”

“Why d’you keep saying that? It was an African American with a machine gun that came onto my property.”

“It was Dora Haglund, gagged, shaved bald, and covered in brown greasepaint who came onto your property.”

“But he had a gun on him!”

“She did, though it was empty and bound to her hands with wire.”

Horrified, the redneck shook his head in denial. “It wasn’t. I swear to God it wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“But she looked like a nigger!”

“You did a commendable job with her costume.”

This accusation stunned Chester. “You…you guys think I dressed her up?”

“Miss Haglund’s hair was on scissors and a razor that we found in your bedroom covered with your fingerprints. The brown greasepaint was in your home as well.”

“Someone planted that!” shouted the redneck. “Why the fuck would I make her up like a nigger and shoot her? Why? Dora was good to me—we’ve been together for more than four years, and I— I—”

Chester lost his voice.

“Your motivations are far less important than your actions, though the deceased’s father and her classmate Lisa Gordon have both agreed to testify that you regularly abused and threatened to kill Miss Haglund.”

The redneck was nauseated by the thought of his girlfriend lying dead on the front lawn. “She’s dead…? My Dora’s really gone…?”

“One hundred percent. Now lie back and get comfortable, Mr. Fredericks, because I have some more bad news for you.

“A lot more.”

Handcuffs clanked as the redneck reclined upon the narrow mattress. Rubber bedding squeaked against his bare back, which his hospital gown did not cover.

“Shortly after this story made the papers,” the commissioner continued, “eight individuals came forward to let us know that you were a loan shark who collected money through intimidation, humiliation, and physical violence.

“The current tally is approximately one hundred and eighty-nine counts of assault.”

Chester swallowed dryly.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

The redneck did not respond to this question.

“Also coming to light is your involvement with the six homicides that occurred on the eighth of September. Three officers were tragically killed in that event, as were two worthless lowlifes and a disgusting whore who had once been my daughter.

“You were connected to this event earlier today, when two male prostitutes came to the uptown precinct in a silver luxury sedan. One’s a black veteran named Tyrone, and the other’s an HIV-positive junkie named Perry.

“These guys told us some pretty interesting stories about Chester Fredericks and the abandoned house.

“Your fingerprints are there, and we expect to find no small amount of your DNA as well.”

Ammonia and boiled vegetables crowded the darkness.

“Do you wish to comment upon any of this, Mr. Fredericks?”

No response came from the redneck.

“Even if the murder of Miss Haglund is dropped to manslaughter, and even if the assault cases don’t stand up in court, you were partially responsible for the deaths of three police officers, which is why I am here right now.” A chair squeaked as the commissioner leaned forward. “I wanted to be the one to let you know that you will be incarcerated for the remainder of your life.”

Numb and silent, the redneck scrutinized the small gray spot that was his future.

The chair squeaked as the macho leaned back. “There’s a prison in South Florida that has a section for people who are sensory impaired. This area is where we incarcerate blind lowlifes such as yourself, as well as the ones who are deaf and mute.”

Chester tried to ignore the commissioner.

“I’ve been told by the warden that the deaf inmates and the mute inmates have a very big advantage over the blind inmates when it comes to matters of nonconsensual intercourse.

“You’ll let me know.”

Tears rolled down the redneck’s face. His insides were a void.

The macho cracked his knuckles. “Tissue?”

Chester did not respond.

Chair legs scraped the floor.

Hard soles cracked as Police Commissioner Terence MacGrath strode across the room. “Try to remain optimistic.”

The door opened.

A light switch clicked, and the small gray spot that loomed before Chester Fredericks turned black.

XLI

Final Associations

It was the beginning of January, and the rising sun was little more than an effulgent implication in the cloudy sky. Winter had not arrived in Great Crown, but the locals had finally shut off their air conditioners.

A Teutonic engine rumbled as Dublin drove into the cemetery parking lot, dialed the leather steering wheel clockwise, and veered toward the black sports utility vehicle that belonged to Karate John. Two left tires crushed an empty beer can.

The plump redhead jerked his keys and flung the door. Pricey Italians cracked against the pavement as he stood.

Chilled by more than just the weather, Dublin took a folded newspaper from the dashboard, locked up Fraulein, and buttoned his new houndstooth sports coat. “Good morning.”

Karate John nodded his gaunt skull, closed the door of his SUV, and leaned into the cane he now employed. The fellow had not yet recovered from the various unkind things that Strembicky’s cogs had done to him when they were trying to locate Task back in September.

“Feeling any better?” inquired Dublin.

“I only took three painkillers this morning.”

The plump redhead tried to think of some optimistic maxims, but he could not recall any. Rather than do nothing, he fiddled with his tie.

The bearded fellow’s cane struck the pavement as he limped across the parking lot. “Did you know she was going to die?”

“Dora?”

“Yes. Dora.”

The associates walked onto the grass, where their hard soles squeaked on dewy blades.

Dublin shook his head. “I thought she was gonna be taken prisoner or knocked out. Maybe shot in the foot or the leg at most. I didn’t think Chester was gonna go right for a headshot.”

Italian shoes squeaked as the pair walked between two granite headstones decorated with chipped Stars of David.

“It’s shitty what happened to her,” remarked Karate John, who had driven the disguised woman to the site of her execution. “Really goddamn shitty.”

“Yeah. But Chester killed her—not us.”

“We helped. And I wonder if Task knew it would go that way.”

“It happened, and it’s done.” Dublin gestured to a central row. “Let’s cut across.”

Shoes squeaked as the associates turned and strode toward the west part of the cemetery. A chilly breeze stirred the vegetation that sprouted from the acres of human soil.

The plump redhead circumvented an elaborate headstone.

Atop this granite slab, ten cherubs of the same material blew bugles for Meredith L. Coates (1903–2002).

“Ninety-nine years,” remarked Dublin, who then whistled. “I hope I live that long.”

“You won’t.”

The plump redhead threw a frown. “Why’s that?”

“You’re south. You poke enough people in the eye, and eventually, you’ll find a finger in yours.”

Dublin spat a response onto the grass and shrugged. “I don’t believe in that karma shit.”

“It’s not karma—it’s odds. Nobody beats them. Not even an insulated guy like Strembicky.”

“You’re south.”

“I was,” corrected Karate John. “And I don’t wanna live that long anyway.”

A cool wind blew as the associates passed by a grave decorated with two angel wings and a crucifix.

“When’re you and Gabriella leaving?” inquired Dublin.

“Soon.”

“You decide where you’re going?”

“We did.”

Hard soles squeaked upon the damp grass.

The plump redhead looked at the bearded fellow. “You’re not saying where?”

“North.”

“Pretty much everywhere’s north of Great Crown.”

“Right.”

Karate John thrust his cane into the earth and ambled forward.

“Wait a sec.” Dublin held up his hand and pointed to the left. “The thing’s this way.”

The associates faced the indicated direction and continued forward.

Standing at the far end of the long row was a small white dot.

Dublin removed the Great Crown Daily News from under his armpit and looked at the front page.

“Blind Suspect Chester Fredericks Accused of Assault, Kidnapping, and First Degree Murder, Takes His Own Life While in Police Custody at Hospital.”

Dublin nodded his head with satisfaction.

Hard soles squeaked as the associates neared the grave of their dead boss.

At present, the plump redhead noticed something dark at the base of the headstone.

“Is that what I think it is?” inquired Karate John.

Dublin stopped, withdrew a semiautomatic, and scanned the cemetery.

Nobody living inhabited the grounds other than himself and his associate.

Relaxing, the plump redhead pocketed his firearm. “C’mon.”

The associates traversed the remainder of the row and stopped in front of the bright white marble headstone that belonged to “Darren Tasking, Entrepreneur.”

Lying at the base of the monument was a clump of human excrement.

“Fucking disgusting,” remarked Dublin. “Think a macho did this?”

“Maybe. Though really…it could’ve been just about anyone.”

The plump redhead grimaced, leaned over, and tossed the periodical on top of the human feces that marked the grave. A chill wind blew, circulating bad smells and ruffling the headline that was Darren Tasking’s epitaph.

About the Author

S. Craig Zahler is a novelist, screenwriter, director, composer, musician, and cartoonist who was born in Florida and lives in New York. His debut western novel A Congregation of Jackals was nominated for both the Peacemaker and the Spur awards. His 2014 crime novel Mean Business on North Ganson Street received a starred review for excellence in Booklist who said the book was “bizarrely mean…mordantly funny…and not to be missed,” while Kirkus Review called it “a gripping story.” His science fiction novel, Corpus Chrome, Inc. was praised by sci-fi grandmaster Larry Niven and called, “a bravura literary performance,” by Booklist, and his other books, the horrific western Wraiths of the Broken Land and the gothic orphan tale Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child were were similarly well received. He wrote and drew his debut graphic novel, Forbidden Surgeries of the Hideous Dr. Divinus, which was released in 2020. Foreword Reviews called the work “…comic, creepy, and compelling,” and acclaimed cartoonist Tim Seeley said, “IT’S INSANE. I love it.” The Slanted Gutter is his sixth novel.

Zahler wrote and directed (and co-composed the score for) the 2015 film Bone Tomahawk, an Independent Spirit Award nominated picture for Best Screenplay, starring Kurt Russell, Patrick Wilson, and Richard Jenkins. The film garnered praise from critics and fans alike, including the New York Times, who called Bone Tomahawk, “[a] witty fusion of western, horror and comedy that gallops to its own beat,” and Conan O’Brien, who named it the single best motion picture of the decade. Zahler then wrote and directed Brawl in Cell Block 99, starring Vince Vaughn, Jennifer Carpenter, and Don Johnson, which premiered at the prestigious Venice Film Festival and went on to be a New York Times critics’ pick and even wider critical acclaim.

Zahler’s third movie was Dragged Across Concrete, a crime film that stars Mel Gibson, Vince Vaughn, and Tory Kittles. This picture premiered at the 75th Venice Film Festival in 2018 and showed at the London Film Festival and also to a sold-out crowd for the closing night of Beyond Fest. The Guardian called it, “Inventive and nasty,” and Birth.Movies.Death. said it was “[A]n idiosyncratic cop movie masterstroke,” while Indiewire named the director, “One of genre’s most exciting filmmakers.”

His movies have been added to the permanent collection at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City.

Zahler has released three albums with his doomy epic metal band Realmbuilder (in which he sings and plays drums) and a pair of black metal platters with Charnel Valley, and he co-composed the soundtracks to all three of his movies, two of which contain original songs that were performed by soul music legends, The O’Jays and Butch Tavares.