When the pause at last ground to a halt, Jimmy said, “I don’t know where Stan is, Charlie.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s been tough,” said Jimmy. “I’m surprised to hear from you. You sound healthy. Good.”

He meant I didn’t sound like I’d been shot dead by hired killers.

“I need some help,” I said.

He tsked on his end. “I’m in a pretty precarious position here. So far Beggar thinks I might be useful. He’s leaving me alone.”

“He told you that?”

“It’s implied.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not dead,” said Jimmy heatedly. “Like I said, I’m surprised to hear from you. Get out of Orlando. Beggar won’t chase you north or west. He just wants all of Stan’s old team out of harm’s way.”

“But not you, huh?”

“A guy’s got to survive, Charlie. Why don’t you wise up? If Stan’s alive, he’s hauled ass by now. You should too.”

I gripped the phone tight, barely had my voice in control. I took a deep breath, then started in. “I want you to listen to me real good, Jimmy. I haven’t done a lot of good things I can be proud of. I’m good with my fists and with a gun, but those aren’t the things that make your ma proud or impress a good woman or win you any community service awards. Okay, I’m not a model citizen, and neither are you. We don’t try to be, and it ain’t profitable anyway. But I got one rule, just one I’ve been faithful to no matter what. I’ve always been good to the people that were good to me. If you don’t have people like that- if you can’t be a person like that- then you’re never going to have a friend or a moment’s rest or a single good night’s sleep as long as you live.”

It was about the best speech I could muster on short notice, but it expressed a whole wad of twisted, churning feelings I’d had thumping around in my gut since this whole ordeal began. This time Jimmy’s pause was deeper and stank of guilt and indecision. I hoped I was pushing Jimmy’s buttons in the right places, that he’d remember all the times Stan had stood by his side when the breaks were against him.

“God damn you, Charlie.”

And I smiled.

“Okay,” said Jimmy. “First thing I’m going to do is ask about the rest of that goon squad you play Monopoly with.”

“What about them?”

“Are they accounted for?”

“They’re dead, if that’s what you mean.”

“Not all of them.”

“No,” I admitted. “I can’t find Benny.”

“Try harder.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’ll give you a second to think about it,” said Jimmy.

I didn’t need a second. I knew what he meant, and Blade Sanchez’s words came back to me. Blade had said he could go to work for Beggar. Sure. That made sense. Before Beggar took over Stan’s territory, he’d want to get a few guys on the inside.

“I’ll call you after I find Benny,” I said.

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for reminding me about some things.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hung up the phone, got back in my car.

I drove. My head buzzed. Too much to think about. Time for a quick recap of my situation.

Stan was missing, maybe dead. All my buddies from the monkey cage were dead except for possibly Benny who was maybe a rat. Everyone kept telling me to run, but I had nowhere to go. I had a set of ledgers in an airport locker which could shut down Beggar for life if they fell in the wrong hands. Probably why the Feds were keeping a close eye on Jeffers, who just wanted to shove white powder into his nose and get through the day with as little fuss as possible.

In my corner: A fat guy called Jimmy the Fix. My kid brother with his toy gun. Marcie and a house full of dead art. Burt the cop, who might answer a few questions if he felt like it and if the Feds weren’t too far up his ass. Not much of an army.

Anything else?

Oh, yeah. I was hungry. I pulled into Wendy’s, ordered a burger value meal, biggie-sized it. I ate it too fast, digested poorly. I was pissed off, my stomach sour.

I went back to the convenience store, went inside for more change. I had calls to make.

Turns out I wasn’t the only guy in town with a kid brother.

In my hunt for Benny, I’d called a topless cocktail waitress named Ruth he shacked up with sometimes. I woke her up, and she gave me an earful. I told her I was looking for Benny, and she gave me another earful.

“He tore out of here like his ass was on fire,” she said with her cigarette voice. “Went on the road with that brother of his.”

“What’s his name?”

“Shane, I think.”

“On the road where?”

“Gainesville.”

“Why?”

“What are you, a fucking cop?”

“If I have to come over there and smash you in the mouth, you’ll wish I was only a cop.”

“Tough guy. I meet all the charmers.”

“Talk.”

“The Shane kid’s in some kind of band. They play up and down the state.”

“What’s the name of the band?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I heard her fumbling around on the other end, rustling some papers. “They call the band Spanklicious, and they’re playing at the Handlebar Saloon. Benny said he’d call me later, but he probably won’t. He said he’d be back in a couple of days, but I don’t believe that either. That’s all I know, I swear to God. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Sure. Got any messages for Benny when I find him?”

“Tell him to drop dead.”

I said I could deliver that message no problem.

Gainesville was a college town about thirty-five miles north of Ocala, and when I got there, I found another pay phone, dialed Marcie, and left a message that I might be busy for a day or two. Then I grabbed the phonebook and found the number for the saloon.

I got to the Handlebar Saloon about 10 P.M., which is when the kid on the phone said the band really got cranked up. The Handlebar was in a worn-out chunk of downtown near the railroad tracks and some other buildings that reminded me of Dresden war photos after the bombing. The dirt parking lot across from the saloon held an equal split of pickup trucks and motorcycles. There wasn’t any music when I walked in, so either the band was on break or hadn’t started yet.

The Handlebar’s interior looked like it had taken up the bombing motif. The walls were mostly exposed brick with the occasional graffiti-covered patch of yellowing plaster. The wooden tables and chairs were rickety and mismatched. The patrons were a rough, working-class lot, and I maneuvered through them as unobtrusively as possible. I found the bar and waved over a beer. The fiftyish man who brought it had a canned ham for a face, and the sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up, revealing a set of serious looking tattoos. A special forces skull on the right arm, a naked girl riding an atom bomb à la Slim Pickens – except with nipple- on the left.

“I’m looking for the band.” I placed a five-dollar bill on the bar for the dollar draft. “Are they on break?”

He nodded past me. “That’s them there.”

I looked. Three middle-aged men mounted what passed for the Saloon’s stage and grabbed guitars. A fourth sat behind the drum set. This didn’t strike me as Shane’s band, and I didn’t see Benny. The bartender brought my change, and I tried again.

“That’s Spanklicious?” I felt like a first-rate jackass saying it.

“That’s The Dan Riley Band,” he told me. “Spanklicious was the early band. Left about an hour ago.”

Shit.

I asked, “Are they playing at the same time tomorrow night?”

“They would’ve, but we fired them.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Buncha damn noise. You want another beer?”

“Sure.”

He refilled my glass and said, “All that jumping around and screaming might be fine for the college kids, but these folks all work for a living. They got enough stress in their lives.”

“Do you know where I might get ahold of them? Maybe what hotel they’re at?”