Billy pretended to be thinking about things, busied himself by looking around the office. Barton had come up in the world- from a two-bit bouncer to the head of a very lucrative construction firm. He had punctuated his rise in social status by acquiring things-the big hulking rosewood desk, the new wet bar with the Lalique Scotch tumblers (the clod had left the labels on the bottom of the glasses), and the contemporary artwork that Billy’s three-year-old niece could have done in her sleep.

“You ain’t answering my question, Billy.”

“Look, sir…” Billy leaned across the desk. “This is a prime opportunity for some young stud to cut his teeth on. I’m getting old-yeah, I know, I know, I’m only forty-two. But I’m getting out of the business soon. Maybe it would be best if you started breaking in someone with a little more grit.”

“You’re the best. I want the best!”

Billy said nothing. No sense disagreeing with the obvious.

Mr. Barton laughed, showing off big porcelain-capped teeth. That grin sitting between heavy shadowed jowls reminded Billy of a bulldog. When Barton was younger, thinner, he’d been a dead ringer for Richard Nixon, right down to the ski-slope nose. Now the man was a quintessential crime boss-the gaudy custom suit, the blow-dried gray hair, the collar pin, the gold Rolex, and the flashy pinkie ring. Still, Billy was smart enough to know that although Barton was a caricature, he was no cartoon.

“It’s the money, right?”

“I already told you that money wasn’t the issue.”

“Money is always the fuckin’ issue,” Barton growled. “I’ll make it worth your while, Billy.”

“You already did that, sir.”

“I’ll give you double.”

Billy couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”

“You heard me, kiddo. I’ll give you double.”

“You must really hate this guy.”

“Yeah, I do. He gets in my way.”

Again Billy looked around the room, but in his mind, he was already spending the cash. Amber would look dy-na-mite parading around the Caribbean, wearing one of those skimpy little things… basically tit pasties and butt floss. She had the body, that was for sure, and what Mother Nature had left out, surgery sure helped along. “Yeah…” Billy nodded. “Yeah, okay. You want it done that bad, I’ll make sure it gets done.”

Barton grinned. “See, I told you it was the money.”

“You’re right, Mr. Barton. You’re definitely right!”

“You can smile now, Billy.”

Billy felt his lips move upward, then he felt himself beaming. “You are one hell of a crazy motherfucker-”

“Watch your mouth!”

“You’ve got a file on this guy?”

“Do I got a file on this guy?” Barton leaned back in his chair. “Pshhhh. I got everything you want on this guy, twenty-four/seven. I know when he wakes up in the morning to take a piss, I know how he takes his coffee, I know where he stops to buy his lotto ticket, I know what position he likes best when he fucks his old lady. She’s okay, you know. The old lady. You might wanna-”

“It leaves evidence, sir.”

Barton laughed. “You never heard of a rubber?”

“As tempting as it sounds, I’d like to get the job done cleanly. In and out.”

“Clean, dirty, I don’t care. Just so it gets done and it don’t come back to haunt me. You wanna know what the beef is, Billy?”

“Anything you want to tell me, Mr. Barton, I’m listening.”

“The beef is, he’s a self-righteous son of a bitch. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us. Makes all of us working stiffs look bad.”

Barton was repeating himself. Billy said, “I don’t like self-righteous assholes, either.”

“He came from garbage. He got above his raising. Such impudence can’t go unpunished.”

Billy nodded. “I’ll take the file whenever you want.”

“Go on, Billy. Tell me how you’ll do it.”

“As soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know.” Billy tried out his best smile. “I’ve got to read the file first.”

“Fair enough.” Barton leaned forward. “You still ride that piece-of-shit jalopy?”

“I don’t need anything fancy.”

“Fancy is one thing. But that broken bag of bones? What is it? A Honda or a Hyundai or a Daewoo… some small piece of Oriental crap. Don’t you need something with accelerated pickup?”

“The engine’s modified, sir.”

“Why don’t you get yourself one of those nifty little two-seater jobs from the Krauts? They really know how to tune an engine.”

“Those kind of cars are noticeable, Mr. Barton. What you want for the job is something plain and ordinary. Like Sal.”

“Who the fuck is Sal?”

“My car, sir. Her name is Sal.”

Barton gave him a strange look. “You name your car, Billy?”

“Yeah. We’re like… like old friends. She’s my workhorse. A mule, actually. That’s why I named her Sal, after that song about the Erie Canal from grade school.”

Barton looked at him with suspicious eyes.

“You know what I’m talking about?”

“I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“The mule that helped build the Erie Canal…” Billy hummed a few bars. “That don’t sound familiar?”

“Not in the least. I went to Catholic school. Only thing I remember about the music was a chance to stare at Katherine O’Neal’s tits as she sung in the choir.” Mr. Barton shook his head. “Just make sure it don’t break down.”

“I guarantee you she won’t. We’ve been through a lot together, Sal and me. She’s sort of my… my good-luck charm.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t tell you how to do your job. But I am saying that she could use a permanent date with the compactor.”

“Maybe one day, but not yet.”

Barton got up from his chair, signaling Billy to do the same. He handed Billy a black briefcase. “Everything you need is in there.”

Billy nodded. The two men shook hands-a gesture of clinching the deal rather than one of trust or friendship. They stood eye-to-eye, locked for a moment in an ocular pissing contest. Then Billy broke it off. After all, the man was paying a considerable sum of cash. He held the rights to being the alpha dog. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Billy. As always, it’s a pleasure doin’ business with you.”

“Absolutely.”

“I do got a question for you.”

“What, sir?”

“You keep calling your hunk of junk a mule. And you also keep callin’ it a she. Aren’t mules males without balls?”

Billy thought for a moment.

The man wasn’t educated, but he sure as hell wasn’t stupid.

Billy did what he always did before he went on the road. He brought Sal in for a complete tune-up. Harry announced that she-in Billy’s mind, Sal was always going to be a she-was healthy and fit enough to travel anywhere Billy wanted to go. Afterward, he gave Sal a wash. Her bronze coat had faded to peanut-butter brown, and primer was peeking through some of the bigger dents, but Billy loved her more because of her imperfections. To him, the dings and scratches were war medals, emblems of fine service and a job well done. Her interior leather had begun to crack, little spiderweb lines in the seat cushions, but for a ten-year-old baby, she was still soft and supple.

The next part of the routine was the meal: the biggest, baddest, most cholesterol-laden piece of motherfucking cow you ever wanted to eat in your whole life, served specimen-rare-blue, they called it-with blood still running from the animal’s veins.

Just hit the beast over the head and put it on a plate.

The waiters knew what he liked, had heard him order like that before. Still, they laughed at his corny joke whenever he told it. They knew a good tip when it bit them in the ass. The eatery he liked best served his cow with a mound of french fries dripping with oil or a baked potato the size of Idaho. Salad, too. Yeah, it was good to eat something green. He called the meal his primary-color dinner-red, yellow, and green-until Amber pointed out that green wasn’t a primary color, blue was, and that green was actually a mixture of blue and yellow. That’s when he told her to shut up unless she wanted her crème brûlée shoved in her face. (He said it a little nicer, but that was the gist.)