"You base your cut on four girls a night, but only two show up, once in a while three. And there aren't that many relay teams or all-nighters."

"You have to understand," Vincent said, "you don't get this class of girl off the street. You know who some of the best ones are? College girls. They work hard to pay for school and make something of themselves."

"But two, at the most three girls," Randy said, "even with Ph.D.'s and working their asses off, won't come close to making the nut."

"Why? You having trouble bringing people in? Business falling off?"

"Leveling off. Carlo said you have to expect that. No matter how well you open, after a while it's bound to settle down. We do okay all week and still go crazy weekends."

"So what're you trying to say?"

"I just told you, the way it is doesn't work. Either put on more girls and turn the place into a brothel that serves food, or cut back on your take. You're not gonna make a cent if we have to close."

"Cut it back to what?"

"Four, at the most. I'll do business with you, Vincent, but I can't pay you out of restaurant receipts and stay open. Your take's drawn from my personal account."

"The dough," Vincent said, "you fucked that widow out of? I know how much you got, Randy. Everybody knows."

Randy had to ignore that one, let it pass. He said, "Up to right now, today, I'm out about a hundred and fifty thousand. And do you know what I get for that, Vincent?" Randy paused, playing his role. "I get to watch you eat lunch."

For the first time in nine months Randy saw Vincent Moraco smile.

He watched Vincent look over at the Mutt and now the Mutt was smiling.

"You hear what he said?"

"He gets to watch you eat?"

Vincent said, "Mutt, you're a stupid fuck, aren't you?" He pushed out of the chair, still smiling a little, and said to Randy, "Lemme have the envelope and I'll get out of your way."

"Mutt, what was the main idea you got from the meeting?"

Mutt had to think about it, half closing his eyes, the brow above ridged with scar tissue.

Randy was patient. He said, "Mutt, I'm paying that man out of my pocket. You ever hear of a business partnership that works like that?"

"He don't care about you."

"What happens if I stop paying?"

"The first time you're late? Somebody shoots out your windows.

That's what they do to bookies they don't pay their street tax."

"What if I said no more pussy on house accounts and stopped paying altogether?"

"I 'magine you'd have a fire. Have to shut down."

"What would he do to me?"

"You're paying him out of your cookie iar anyway, I 'magine he'd keep after your money."

"What would you do, go back to work for Moraco?"

The Mutt grinned. "That was funny what you said about watching him eat. I mean I wasn't laughing 'cause he was. I have no respect for Mr. Moraco and he knows it. Not being one of them's why he put me here."

"Why'd he hire you in the first place?"

"I was at Southern Ohio Correctional, the prison? There was an old boy there I looked after, saw no harm came to him. I got my release, it was Mr. Rossi set it up for me to come work here in Oe-troit."

"So Moraco hired you," Randy said, "out of respect for this Mr.

Rossi."

"Yeah, but I never kissed Mr. Moraco's ass like he wanted, so we didn't get along too good. I started out driving for Mr. Amilia. It was the first time I had to wear a suit of clothes."

"The boss himself, uh?"

"Yeah, but he said I drove too fast. So they put me on the street.

You know, lean on the bookies, make sure they pay their street tax. I'd do a shylock collection if the guy fell behind."

Fascinating. Randy leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk.

"What would you do?"

"You mean get him to pay? Stop by his home, meet his wife, talk to 'em. If there was a second time I'd catch him away from home and body-punch him good, break a couple of ribs."

"What if he was a big guy, two hundred pounds?"

"I can hit," the Mutt said. "I lifted weights and got into boxing again at Southern Ohio. Got pretty good."

"Why'd you go to prison?"

"I was in a bar fight and shot a fella, Bellefontaine, Ohio. I was working at the ski area there, making snow."

Randy said, "They ski in Ohio?"

"They got a hill there. This fella in the bar gimme a smart mouth, looking for it. I hit him with a Bud Light. He come out with a pistol and I took it off him and he got shot as we tussled."

"You killed him?"

"Yeah, but the witnesses, fellas that worked at the ski area? They said he started it, so it wasn't called murder. I did forty months. Mr.

Rossi said I coulda done 'em standing on my head. Oh, and I killed another fella while I was inside, shanked him out'n the yard, but nobody saw it. Two hundred convicts out there, nobody saw it."

"Why'd you kill him?"

"Teach him a lesson. He's one of the fellas leaning on my friend Mr. Rossi."

"Have you done anything like that for Moraco?"

"One time, yeah. Was a Chaldean bookie lived over by Dearborn?

I was only the driver, but this Tootsie Roll they hired got nervous or something, I don't know. I took his pistol and shot the Chaldean through the heart. I still only got my wages."

"Moraco didn't respect you for that?"

"I told you, I don't respect him, and he knows it."

Randy said, "Mutt, you've been here nine months, and you know something? You've never told me your real name."

"You never asked. It's Searcy J. Bragg, Jr."

"Where'd you get Mutt?"

"When I was at Southern Ohio my cellmate's name was Jeff? He was a big tall fella, so I got called Mutt. You get it? He was hurt pretty bad, some boys come after him during the prison riot? You might've heard of it. Left the place a mess, I'm telling you."

"You don't mind being called Mutt?"

"It's okay."

Randy eased back in his chair, got comfortable and locked his fingers behind his head. "Well, Searcy-"

The Mutt stopped him. "I like Mutt better'n Searcy. How'd you like to be name Searcy?"

"I think I'd change it."

"When I was fighting I was called Banger, Banger Bragg, but I never much cared for it, either." He raised his right fist to show B-A-N-G tattooed on his knuckles. "My right hook's my banger."

Randy started over. "Well, Mutt, we're in some kinda fix here, aren't we?" Randy's voice taking on the trace of an accent it never had before. "How to deal with Mr. Moraco. You know something? I think he's skimming off a that eight grand, keeping maybe half of it for himself. See, with his boss in federal court- You know about that, don't you, the trial going on?"

"Yes sir, it's in the newspaper."

"But Moraco isn't on trial, is he? Why you suppose he wasn't brought up?"

"I guess 'cause he's smart," the Mutt said, "never talked business anyplace they coulda hung a wire. Not even in his car. They say the gover'ment's still trying to put something on him."

"So while he's walking around free," Randy said, "I don't imagine Mr. Amilia's paying much attention to him. Old Tony's got his own problem, how to stay out of jail." Randy paused before he said, "Just out of curiosity, how much do you normally charge to take somebody out?"

"Kill'm? I don't have a set price," the Mutt said. "How much is it worth to you?"

Randy was ready. He eased forward in his chair to rest his arms on the desk and look directly at the Mutt.

"I can go twenty-five."

"Twenty-five what?"

"As much as you make in a whole year, twenty-five thousand dollars.

Cash or check."

"Okay."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'll doer."

Randy sat back, but then came forward again.

"How?"

"I prefer to shoot him."

"You have a gun?"

"I can get one. After, I'll have to take off, as they're liable to find out was me."