He took another bite of Italian beef, chewed with relish, loving the crunch of hot peppers amid the soggy mess of meat and bun. Grease glistened on his fingers as he turned the page of his novel. Mr. Beef was a Chicago institution, and though the walk from the office cut an hour’s lunch break thin, today he didn’t give a rat’s ass about getting back in time.

At first he’d thought Anna was crazy for wanting to keep the money, especially after the break-in. Oddly enough, what had settled his stomach was the story in yesterday’s paper linking Will Tuttle to the Shooting Star case. Yes, the money was stolen, and he supposed that, in some black-and-white way, that made him a bad person for wanting to keep it. But it had been taken from a movie star who commanded fifteen million a picture, even for that last piece of dreck about the asteroid. Not only that, but from the beginning, the tabloids had been full of rumors that the Star was buying drugs.

“You mind?” A sharp-dressed black man gestured at the empty bench seat opposite Tom’s. The lunch crowd was thinning out, and there were other seats available, but Tom shrugged, said, “Be my guest.”

Considering where the money came from, why shouldn’t it end up theirs? Better them than either a Hollywood brat or the thieves who targeted him.

Across the table, the man carefully tucked a silver tie between the fourth and fifth buttons of an orange shirt. “I love a sausage now and again, but they are messy.”

Tom didn’t say anything, just dipped a fry in ketchup, popped it in his mouth. He ate pretty healthy overall, but sometimes you needed grease.

“Yes, sir,” the man continued. “And nobody likes a mess. Am I right?”

Without looking up, Tom nodded.

“A mess” – holding the bun in slender fingers – “is a sign of a disordered mind. And a disordered mind is a sign of weakness.”

Tom put a finger in the margin of his book. The man didn’t look crazy. The suit was expensive and clearly tailored, and the thin mustache against his dark skin gave him an air of gravity. He looked like an entrepreneur, or a particularly stylish politician. “Do you agree, Mr. Reed?”

“What?” How did…

“Do you agree that a disordered mind is a sign of weakness?”

“I’m sorry. Have we – do we know each other?”

“And here’s the problem with weakness. You show weakness, you open yourself up to your enemies. The world is defined by strength. When you’re strong, actual violence isn’t much necessary. The threat is plenty. But for that to work, you can’t be seen as weak.” The man took a bite of sausage, chewed slowly. He picked up his napkin and wiped his fingers carefully, then said, “Do you love your wife, Mr. Reed?”

Something icy slid down the back of Tom’s thighs. Caught between fear and anger, he decided on the latter. He started to rise, saying, “Excuse me? Who the hell-”

“Anna. She’s lovely.”

Three words. Just three words, but the world warped under the weight of them, like the restaurant was tilting. He sat back down, his hands shaking. The money. This had to be about the money. Jesus. “Who are you?”

“Generally, I’m too busy to read as much as I’d like,” the man said, ignoring the question. “But I do a fair bit of business in Los Angeles, and I like a book when I fly. Mostly history. Coming in from LAX my last trip, I went through something on Genghis Khan. Interesting stuff. His empire was bigger than Rome, you believe it? Genghis, he marched all over the world. Fought his whole life. Got so that countries were so scared of him, they’d lay down arms just because they heard he was coming. And if they did, you know what happened?”

Tom felt a vein jump in his forehead. He looked around the room. The exit was only a dozen feet away. But between him and escape sat a muscular man in a maroon track suit. An untouched basket of fries lay in front of him. His hands were large and scarred, and his eyes, lazily half-open, were locked on Tom.

“I see you’ve noticed Andre. But are you listening, Mr. Reed?”

He found his voice. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” The man raised his eyebrows. “Nothing. The Khan would welcome them into the empire. I mean, there’d be slaves taken, some tribute due. Basically, though, everybody could go on about their business. But if they resisted him, well. He tore cities down to nothing. Killed everybody, women and children, even livestock. Had the earth salted so crops couldn’t grow. Know why?” He leaned forward. “Because by resisting, they had tried to make him appear weak. So he had to look especially strong in victory. Had to look like anybody who cost him reputation, what they call face, would suffer. And not just his enemies, but everyone who loved them, helped them, even sheltered them.”

Some part of Tom wanted to just say, Take the money. I’m sorry, we’re sorry, take the money and go. But remembering what the man had said about weakness, he tried to keep his voice even, to give nothing away. “What does this have to do with me and my wife?”

The man in the suit steepled his fingers. His eyes were steady and his voice was calm. “Not long ago, a group of men cost me face. And as I’ve explained, world I operate in, that can’t happen. So I’m burning cities, and I’m salting earth. Understand?”

Tom swallowed hard, nodded.

“Good. Now. I’m going to ask you a question, and I suggest you think hard.”

Here it comes. He felt a hollowness inside, a mix of fear and adrenaline and loss. Perhaps it shouldn’t hurt to give up what had never been theirs to begin with. But it would. It would rip away the safety net they had begun to enjoy. It would cripple their dreams of a child. Plus, he realized with a rush of fear, they had spent so much of it. Would he be able to convince them that this was all they had found? He remembered the way this stranger had said his wife’s name, pronouncing the syllables as if he owned them, as if he could do with them what he liked.

Then the man spoke, and Tom wondered if he’d understood correctly.

“Whose side are you on?”

“What?”

“I suggested you think, Mr. Reed, and you’d better start. Because you have sheltered my enemies.” The intonations like a preacher reading scripture. “Now, it may be that you’re just what you look like. A perfectly normal man. But even so, you have sheltered my enemies, and for that alone, I could regain face by punishing you. So I ask again, whose side are you on?”

Tom took a breath. Tried to think of an answer that would satisfy. All he could come up with was the truth. “I’m not – we’re not on anybody’s side. We’re just…” He spread his hands, palms up. “We rented our apartment, that’s all.”

“You rented it to Will Tuttle.”

“We only just found out that was his name. After he was dead, I mean. He told us his name was Bill Samuelson. We barely knew him. He paid his rent every month, lived quietly.”

“Who else do you know?”

“What?”

“Jack Witkowski. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Marshall Richards.”

“No. We don’t know anyone.”

“You don’t know anyone? In the whole world?”

“I mean-”

“You’re not convincing me, Mr. Reed.”

The skin on the back of his hands itched, and his neck burned. “I swear to you, we didn’t know anything about this. We’re just… we’re trying to have a baby. I’m on my lunch hour, for God’s sake.” Tom stared, not sure how he got here or how to get out. If it were just him, he’d make a run for it, maybe start yelling. But they had mentioned Anna. “Listen, it’s been a bad couple of weeks. First there’s a fire, then our tenant dies, then we find out he’s a criminal. Now you show up and threaten my wife? I don’t know those people. I don’t know anything about anything. I’m just, just a guy.” He glanced at his watch. “Hell, I have a meeting in half an hour.”

For a long moment, the man opposite just stared. Finally he gave the ghost of a smile. “A meeting, huh?”