Rocky sighed. “Otis.”

Otis grabbed Jeff’s right arm, held it.

Jeff squirmed. “What is this? Hey!”

Otis took Jeff’s hand, grabbed the pinky finger, twisted. Snap.

The noise made Conner flinch.

Jeff howled.

“Again.” Rocky’s voice was barely above a whisper. He looked straight into Jeff’s face, didn’t blink.

Otis grabbed the next finger.

Jeff tried to pull away. “Hey, now wait-I said wait just a-”

Snap.

Jeff screamed. He’d gone pale, a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead. “Rocky, please, I-”

Rocky nodded, and Otis broke another finger. Then another. A strangled, agonizing noise caught in Jeff’s throat. He went from pale to red to green in two seconds flat. Conner decided to look at his shoes. He felt cold and sick.

“They’re only fingers,” Rocky said. “So you can still walk out of here. But next time we do the legs. Then after that, you don’t walk out of here at all. Are we clear on this?”

Jeff’s mouth hung open. He looked at his wrecked hand, nodded.

“Otis, give the man his hand back. Jeff, see you in three days. Bring money.”

Otis helped Jeff stand. He wobbled on trembling legs, cradled his hand against his chest. Otis led him out of the office, shut the door behind them.

Rocky stood, shook his soft hands, shivered. “God, but I hate that. Oh, I think I’m going to be ill.” He shoved the phone book off his seat and onto the floor. “I simply detest violence.” He sat down again, breathing deeply.

Otis returned with a glass of water. He dropped in two tablets, and the water fizzed. He went to Rocky, put a gentle hand on the little man’s shoulder. “Your stomach?” He handed Rocky the glass. “Drink it before it goes flat.”

Rocky took the glass, drank it down, made a sour face, and put a hand on his chest. “When I heard the first finger break, I really thought I was going to lose it.” He set the glass on his desk. Otis’s hand was still on Rocky’s shoulder. Rocky covered the big guy’s hand with one of his own, offered Otis a grateful look. “You’re too good to me.”

“You need anything else, Rock?”

Rocky shook his head, smiled. “Let me have a word with your friend Conner, okay?”

“Sure.”

Otis flicked a two-finger salute at Conner. “Later, Conner-man.” He left.

Rocky gestured Conner back to the seat across from his desk. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Me too, thought Conner.

“Conner, I’ve decided we’re not going to take any more bets from you. I’m letting all my bookmakers know, so that’s really all there is to it.”

“What?”

Rocky looked slightly embarrassed. “Now, don’t be hard on Otis. It was his idea. He thinks you’re going to get yourself in trouble. Otis speaks highly of you, so I’d like to start considering you a friend of the family. It would be extremely awkward if you got in over your head, and we had to break every bone in your body. And I think you know now that having to do that would upset me just as much as it would upset you.”

Conner doubted that, but kept silent.

“In fact, Otis says you might be a useful fellow to have around,” Rocky said. “If you’re having money troubles, perhaps some sort of employment in my organization…”

“That’s okay, Rocky,” Conner said. “I always get by somehow.”

“Of course. You know best. All that’s left is to settle up the two thousand you owe me.”

Conner gulped. “I thought, well, since I’m pals with Otis, and since, you know, you’re cutting me off from the bookies… I thought you were letting me off the hook.”

Rocky sucked air through his teeth. “Mmmmmmm.” He shook his head, looked genuinely pained. “I’m afraid business is business. I just can’t do that. I hope you understand it’s nothing personal. My goodness, no. I can’t let anyone off the hook. It wouldn’t look right.”

A lead weight settled in Conner’s stomach. His mouth was dry. Conner wondered if he’d been allowed to watch Otis bust Jeff’s fingers in order to make a very specific point.

“I can see this comes at a bad time,” Rocky said. “How about this? Take a few days, get your finances in order, then bring me my money. Let’s say by the end of the week.” He picked up a pencil, flipped open his Rolodex. “I’ll even call you with a friendly reminder. What’s your number?”

Conner briefly explained his current telephone woes.

Rocky tsked. “When it rains, it pours, doesn’t it? Come with me.”

Conner followed Rocky out of the office.

They passed the machine-gun man, and Rocky said, “Hello, Pete. Have you met Conner?”

Pete grunted.

Rocky and Conner climbed into a golf cart that was parked on the other side of the forklift. Rocky drove. They whizzed past crates of stolen tennis shoes, blenders, sporting goods, and three red BMWs parked in a row. Rocky took the sharp turns at high speed, and Conner held on tight.

They screeched to a halt in front of a row of plastic garbage cans and climbed out. Rocky went to the can with the sign PREPAID written in green Magic Marker. The can was full of cell phones, all shapes and sizes. Rocky plucked one from the top, examined it, then tossed it back. He found another, turned it on, and nodded.

“This one has a full charge,” Rocky said. He scrolled down the cell phone’s menu and found the number. He scribbled it into a little book, which disappeared into a vest pocket. He handed the phone to Conner.

“Thanks.” Conner turned the phone over in his hands, wondered if he really wanted it. He stuck the phone in his pocket.

“Now we can stay in contact.” Rocky rubbed his hands together. “Anything else you need?”

“I could use a tuxedo.” Conner had meant it as a joke, but the smile died on his face. He joked when he was nervous, a bad habit that had earned him a few black eyes over the years.

“Come on,” Rocky said.

They sat in the golf cart, and Rocky unfolded a map of the warehouse. “Tuxedos on the other side. You look like a perfect forty-two to me.”

Conner hung on tight as the cart lurched forward, the warehouse becoming a dark blur of stolen goods. His life had taken a turn for the surreal. He was unable to decide if he was afraid of Rocky or if he’d just made a new pal.

“Shoes,” Rocky said. “You’ll need shoes too.”

Joellen Becker knew a hired thug when she saw one, and the big black guy who’d pushed Samson into the Lincoln was definitely a leg-breaker. No wonder Samson needed cash. He probably owed a loan shark. Or maybe he was behind with his dealer. Samson didn’t seem like a junkie, but it was hard to tell these days.

She’d put her car into gear and followed them at a safe distance. They’d ended up in front of Playerz. Becker knew about the place, knew who owned it. If Samson was going in there, then there was a good chance he wouldn’t come out again. She mentally scratched Conner Samson off her list of leads.

Just for the record, she grabbed her digital camera out of the glove compartment, zoomed in, and snapped a picture of Samson. She flipped open her laptop, downloaded the picture from camera to computer. Her computer and software, like all of her equipment, was top-of-the-line. She brought up the photo, cut it down to a shot of Samson’s head and shoulders. She fiddled with the contrast a bit, but really it was a pretty good shot. Then she added some text underneath, an off-the-cuff, thumbnail profile. Now she had a brief record in case she might find Samson useful in the future.

Her cell phone twittered, and she flipped it open. “Becker.”

“I want a progress report.” It was Billy Moto.

“Not now, Moto. I’m on top of it. Call you later.” She flipped the phone closed and tossed it into the passenger seat.

The last thing she needed was the prim half Jap breathing down her neck. She’d gotten nowhere fast finding Folger. It was frustrating. She considered herself a good investigator. This should have been simple. Perhaps it was time to drop in on the ex-wife. Maybe Becker would get lucky. Pissed-off spouses and lovers were often fonts of information. Hate made people talk.