“I’d prefer a beer,” Morgan said, more a wish than an actual request.

“Certainly.” Valentine waved his hand like he was casting a spell. “In the refrigerator behind the desk.”

Harold Jenks crouched on the fifth-floor fire escape of the abandoned building and smoked a Philly Blunt with one hand, the other hand in the warm front pocket of his Cardinals sweatshirt. He scanned the alley below. He puffed quick and nervous, watched the smoke spiral away on the cold wind.

He was always nervous picking up a delivery from Red Zach. Anything could happen. Only two years ago, the cops had shot Jenks’s cousin in a drop just like this. Those undercover fuckers could be anywhere-on the roof, in the old buildings, disguised as homeless drunks sleeping in a Dumpster. Anywhere.

Sherman Ellis’s wallet still hung heavy in Jenks’s back pocket. Jenks sighed out a long, gray stream of smoke. He hadn’t wanted Spoon to kill that boy. His heart hadn’t been in it. Hadn’t been in a lot of things for a while now. If Spoon hadn’t been there…

Jenks had told Spoon his wild idea, but in a flash of sanity, Jenks figured it just wouldn’t work. Spoon told him he was crazy and should throw the wallet out. If he did this thing-if he was crazy enough-he’d keep it under wraps. He would tell no one. Jenks would simply slip off quiet into the night. He made Spoon swear to keep it secret.

A flutter of noise off to his right. Jenks jerked, his free hand going to the Glock at the small of his back. But it was only pigeons. Damn sky rats sawing on Jenks’s nerves.

He smoked the Blunt down to the end, flicked the glowing butt into the alley.

Then he saw Red Zach’s white limousine enter the alley. It approached slowly, parked under Jenks’s fire escape. Five men got out. Four big motherfuckers, hands deep in the pockets of expensive overcoats, stone faces, sunglasses. They spread out and kept watch.

Red Zach craned his neck, looked up at Jenks. Jenks waved. Red Zach climbed the fire escape. Jenks watched him come. Zach carried a small canvas gym bag.

Red Zach had hair the color of a fire engine. Not natural, of course. Zach was a broad-shouldered, light-skinned black man with a pencil-thin beard also dyed red. He had sharp features, a pointed nose. Story around was Zach had some white blood in him somehow.

Jenks heard Zach clanging halfway up. Red Zach wore an impressive collection of gold chains and bracelets, a brown pin-striped suit that cost more money than Jenks saw in a month.

By the time Zach reached the fifth floor he was huffing and puffing pretty good.

“You know I’d climb down,” Jenks said.

“Better up here,” Zach said. “We can see if the cops come in either side of the alley and have plenty of time to dump the stuff. Besides”-Zach grinned big, capped teeth, white-“I need the exercise once in a while.” He patted the beginnings of a slight paunch under his suit.

Zach opened the gym back and showed Jenks the contents. It was full of little clear Baggies of white powder, prepackaged for street distribution. Jenks’s job was to ferry the stuff to the bartenders and hairdressers and street pushers who distributed the stuff in his area. Jenks knew he was looking at a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of junk.

“Here you go, Harold.” Zach handed over the bag. “You know what to do with it.”

“Right.”

“You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“You don’t seem like yourself,” Zach said. “You down? Got some kind of woman trouble?” He nudged Jenks, laughed.

“I’m just tired.”

“Uh-huh. Where’s your boy Spoon today?”

“I didn’t bring him.”

“Shit, I know that. That’s why I asked where he is.”

“Went to see his sister and her kids. Going to eat Chinese with them.”

Zach leaned on the rail, looked down into the alley, then out across St. Louis. “You know I been keeping an eye on you, Harold. You’re doing good work, and I’ve noticed that. I need loyal men on my team. You keep clearheaded and put in your time, and I’ll do right by you. You know what I’m saying?”

“I know.”

“I could send one of my boys up the ladder with the stuff if I wanted, but I come up here to talk to you personal. I’m bringing you along. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I hear you.” Jenks looked up at the gangster. “You know I appreciate it, Red.”

Zach nodded, squeezed Jenks’s shoulder. “Okay. You stay cool and I’ll check you later.”

Red Zach climbed back down the ladder. Jenks watched him get back into the limo with his boys. Jenks lit another Blunt, inhaled long and slow, watched the limo glide quiet out of the alley like smoke on the wind.

Back at Jenks’s shabby apartment, he threw the gym bag on the bed, looked at it for a long time.

For two years he’d been Red Zach’s boy. He knew Red was right. If he stayed tight, he’d eventually have a fine ride, a Caddy or a BMW. He’d have fine clothes, bitches that did whatever he said simply because he was Red’s boy.

But Jenks kept seeing Ellis’s eyes when Spoon had stabbed him. In one angry motion, Spoon had taken away everything the boy was, everything he’d worked for. And Jenks was to blame too. He’d been there.

Jenks pulled his big army surplus duffel bag out from under the bed. He packed his clothes, packed everything he valued, and threw away the rest.

And he took Red Zach’s gym bag too.

Red Zach sat in the back of his limo, mute goons on either side of him. The limo cruised the decay of East St. Louis’s side streets. He had more stops to make. A big day of pimping and gangstering.

He pulled out the latest copy of Esquire from between the seat cushions. There was a clothing advertisement which featured a square-jawed black man in denim. Stonewashed. Snakeskin boots. The jacket matched the jeans, and the black man had one leg up on some rocks, a mountain view in the background with an SUV off to the side. Zach couldn’t decide if the man in denim looked rugged or like a fag.

He thought about elbowing one of his goons, showing him the ad and asking what he thought. Never mind. It was no good talking to these guys. They didn’t do talk. And Zach couldn’t risk his image anyway. These boneheads expected him to strut around in ridiculous outfits and spit out homeboy talk. Fine. He’d put on the act for the troops. Whatever.

But Zach didn’t bust his hump to clear a high six figures a year just to waste away in the hood. He had reservations in Aspen. He wanted to catch Don Giovanni before the season ended. He’d recently become a gold-level member of the St. Louis Art Museum and there was a cocktail reception at the end of the month.

He needed some new clothes.

And some new acquaintances. He was surrounded by troops and his crew, but not pals. These leg-breaking motherfuckers were useful, but not good company.

Harold Jenks was a little different. That boy had something. A quality. But Zach noticed something was off. Jenks had something on his mind. And when a brother didn’t have his mind right, things could go bad.