"Who is it?"

"I think it's Vito."

Vincent took the phone. It was Vito, Vito saying Tony wanted to see him right away. "He couldn't find you," Vito said. "I told him I bet I know where he's at. So, how was it?" Vincent hung up on him.

"Tony wants me."

Angie glanced at the clock. Five past six.

"Well, you better get going."

She wore a big loose white cotton sweater that hung down to cover her panties, pink ones. From there on were the whitest legs Vincent had ever seen in his life, like fuckin marble. Except they were always warm you ran a hand up them.

"You got somebody coming, haven't you?"

"Honey," Angie said, "I work. If I don't have somebody coming, you don't get your free ride."

"Who is it?"

"What difference does it make? A guy."

"One you got through Randy's?"

"I think so."

"Then two bills of it's mine."

What a prick. She'd bet anything he still had his First Communion money.

Vincent left.

A few minutes later Johnny Pajonny walked in.

"Yeah, now I remember," Angie said. "I was hoping it was you.

Let me have your coat."

Johnny said, "I think I passed Vincent Moraco down the lobby, but I didn't look at him good."

"It's better you don't," Angie said, "he'll give you that 'You lookin at me?' I think it was in a movie."

Vincent had to stand around in the front hall waiting for Tony to see him, Vito saying Bernacki was in there. Vito went outside and Vincent picked up thinking about the guy in Angie's lobby again, pretty sure now it was the other guy in their booth last night, with the priest, had the same leather coat on. The guy looked familiar, the face going back a few years to that cigarette business they were in, but Vincent couldn't put a name with the face.

Now Ed was coming out with his briefcase, giving him a nod. Vincent entered the study and approached Tony sitting at his desk that looked like a fuckin gold and red wedding cake-Tony saying one time Louie XIV used to have one like it-the red leather surface clean as usual except for papers directly in front of him.

"Go see Randy," Tony said, "and come back with a check for twofifty."

Vincent couldn't believe it. "You serious, you giving 'em the money?"

What he gave Vincent was a hard stare, and shoved the papers across the desk toward him. "Have him sign this. It's a loan agreement."

"Tony, we own the guy. It's like you're taking it from yourself,"

"What's he give us a week?"

Vincent said, "Five grand," without hesitating, even knowing what would come next.

"I thought we talked about eight."

"What he's got going there won't take the load. I settled on five with him, like the bookies."

"He's been paying it the past nine, ten months?"

"From what the girls bring in."

"It's enough to cover the five?"

"That's the figure I gave him. I don't ask what it comes out of. If he has to dip into his personal finances, well, that's how it goes." Vincent said then, anxious to change the subject, "You want to give this mick priest a quarter million to spend on a bunch of nigger kids?"

"The little girl gets half," Tony said. "You were there, you don't remember that?"

"Okay, but what do we care if Randy at one time or another fucked her over? You're giving 'em dough that's sitting there waiting for us to dip into whenever we want."

Tony kept staring at him. Without looking at the phone he reached over and put his hand on it.

"I call Randy right now and ask him how much he pays a week, he'll tell me five grand?"

Vincent hesitated. He wasn't ready for it and, Christ, he hesitated a moment too long, old Tony staring him down. What Vincent did was shrug and say, "Yeah, five," trying to sound a little surprised.

Now he said, "I already told you that," with an edge, like he felt Tony was questioning his loyalty.

Tony's hand came away from the phone. He said, "Vincent, go get me the two-fifty."

RANDY DIDN'T SEE A PROBLEM withthe priest. He gives it to his brother to bring suit, then months of depositions, court dates set and postponed for one reason or another, by then, or long before then, the guy's back in Africa. Debbie, he knew he could handle. If he got sixty-seven grand out of her once he'd forgotten it was that much he could give her a few grand to calm her down and then play with her, massage her ego, laugh at her jokes, even get her back if he felt like it.

Ideally, the Mutt would get to Vincent this week, before Saturday, and that would be the end of the eight-grand payoffs, at least till Tony realized it wasn't coming in and by then he could be in some federal lockup doing twenty years. That was the hope. Randy believed the Mutt would make good and whack Vincent out because he was motivated, he hated Vincent; but the Mutt, being stupid, would probably fuck up and get caught, by either the mob or the cops, more likely by the mob, unless he made the hit and took off, no time for goodbyes, or to get paid. Randy did not believe the Mutt would try to implicate him. If he did, Randy was ready to act astonished and simply deny it.

He sat at his desk in soft light reading the latest review of the restaurant in Hour Detroit. Ambience, excellent. Service, very good.

Food… and the Mutt walked in.

"You want to see me?"

"Hey, come on in and sit down. How's it going?"

"Okay."

The Mutt closed the door, came over to the desk and took a seat.

"Anything you want to tell me?"

"About what?"

"You're getting ready to do the deed, aren't you?"

"Oh. Yeah, you bet. What I'm doing is working on a plan, decide where's the best place to do it. I was thinking go to his house, only his wife'd be there, and I don't want to have to do her, too. If you know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean," Randy said, maintaining a soft approach now that he and this redneck retard were pals.

"I'd like to catch him like someplace having his supper."

"You don't mean here."

"No, some Italian restaurant, he's sitting there, has his napkin stuck in his collar-"

"A mom-and-pop place," Randy said, "that's been in the neighborhood for generations. Known for good basic pasta dishes, checkered tablecloths. Like in the movies."

"Yeah, like that."

"There aren't any," Randy said. "Detroit, for some reason, is not big on good Italian restaurants. There're a few… No, I was thinking the best way to do it, you follow him. You see him get in and out of his car. The right moment comes, you pop him and drive away.

You do have a car?"

"I got the pickup I drove here. She needs a new batt'ry, I'm always having to jump her. What I been thinking of doing, go to Sears and get a new one."

"Or you could steal a car, just for the job. I understand," Randy said, "that's often the way it's done. You know, in case someone gets the license number."

"That's a good idea."

"Have you ever stolen a car?"

"When I was a kid they called it joyriding. Yeah, we'd get us a car and go on up to Indianapolis and drive around in it. But what I was thinking," the Mutt said, "I could get me a driver. It would, you know, free me up. I wouldn't have to find a place to park when I go to do it."

"Ask one of your buddies?"

"I don't have none here. But I know a fella's done some time'd go for it."

Randy didn't like the sound of that one bit. He said, "Mutt, I can't see you needing help, like it's your first time and all," Randy getting a hint of down-home drawl going. "Hell, you get a pistol and shoot the guy. Do a drive-by, you don't need an assistant for that."

"I could."

"You did get hold of a pistol?"

"Not yet, but I will. I'm told there's nothing to getting a gun in this town. '