Reese didn’t answer, but again nodded.

Wright turned to Beck. “You, soak your hands in ice water. Take ibuprofen. Your collarbone isn’t broken. For once you’ve avoided stitches, concussion, open wounds, and so on.”

“Thanks, Brandon. Anything we can get you?”

“No, thank you. Emmanuel already offered me food. Demarco offered me coffee. You, of course, offered me a warm welcome, so I’m all set and I’ll be on my way.” He picked up his doctor bag, but before he turned to go he said, “All banter aside, is this the beginning of…?”

Beck interrupted. “No. It’s just a strange, unavoidable unpleasantness in a world where people act without thinking. On assumptions that are dangerous, but mostly just annoying. But who knows? It could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

The doctor looked back and forth between the two men, said nothing, and walked out the front door.

Beck turned to Reese. Flexed his hands, feeling the swelling and stiffness already setting in. He was already anticipating the morning pain. It would make his workout that much more difficult.

“So,” said Beck, “Want to answer a few questions?”

Reese shrugged.

“Yes or no. And a yes better goddamn well mean yes.”

“Okay. Yeah. Why not?”

Willie Reese filled the entire space on his side of the table. Sitting down with his leather hoodie off, his muscles bulging against his tight-fitting, bloody T-shirt, he looked even more formidable than he had out on the street. But he didn’t sound so tough, forcing his words through his swollen, broken nose.

“When did you get back in the neighborhood?”

“’Bout a week ago.”

“How long were you away for?”

“Five year bit. Did three.”

“Where?”

“Ossining.”

Beck nodded. “They didn’t bother transferring you out.”

“Nah. I’d already done almost a year at Rikers.”

“So, you grew up in this neighborhood?”

Reese nodded.

“Now you’re out, you have to get back to work.”

“Yeah.”

“What gave you the idea that I would be an easy place to start?”

Reese shrugged.

“Seriously, I want to know.”

“Shorty Wayne makin’ money off you, shit, I figure that’d be a easy place to start.”

“You didn’t think it through.”

Willie Reese answered with another shrug. He didn’t usually have to think about anything much past the end of his fist.

Beck leaned forward, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“I got some now.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“You smart. You not afraid to bang it with someone like me, but you sneaky. Didn’t put yourself in too much danger. Wore me down first. Got in some quick shots, and backed off. You got a crew with shotguns. You the kind of guy gets left alone. Or killed. Nuthin’ in between. That’s about all I need to know.”

Beck shook his head. “No man, no, that’s not all you need to know. I mean, that’s part of it. You’re mostly right, but you shouldn’t stop there. You gotta face the fact that you got banged up, might even lose an eye over this. Plus, you risked your guys. One or all of them could have easily gotten splattered all over the street. So now you’re just going to walk away?”

“You said something about workin’ for you.”

“Okay. But first I have to clear up one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If I say no, if I say get the fuck out of here, do I have to worry about you coming back at me?”

Reese looked at Beck. Then at Demarco watching him, the Benelli under his right hand.

“Shit. You think I’m a fool?”

“How so?”

“If I was comin’ back at you, I wouldn’t tell you. But I ain’t. You didn’t do anything to me I wouldn’t have done. “’Cept have that doctor look at me. I don’t know no doctors.”

Beck looked at Reese, deciding whether or not he was telling the truth. He decided he was.

“Okay.”

Reese focused his one good eye on Beck. “So what you wanna do? You wanna do business?”

“Maybe. Probably. Look, I don’t need your crew for protection. You can see that. I just need some eyes on my backside. Any cops heading this way, any people I might want to know about—they have to drive through the projects to get over here. I like to know if that’s happening. Not a big deal. Not worth a fortune, but worth something. You’re not going to get rich off me.”

“How much you pay Shorty and them guys?”

Beck shook his head. “You mean you actually don’t know?”

“I didn’t care. Was going to charge you my price.”

“Okay. It’s a thousand bucks a month. And before you tell me that’s chump change or some dumb-ass remark, add on the value of me deciding not to be your enemy.”

Willie Reese didn’t respond.

Beck looked at his watch.

“Okay. Take it or leave it. But if you take it, first you get my front window fixed. That doesn’t mean you give me money or the name of somebody. You get it fixed. Fast. Just the way it was. Painted black on the bottom third. Like it never happened. Do that, and you’re hired. And I won’t charge you the cost of having my personal physician make a house call and fix you up. Deal?”

“At a thousand bucks a month.”

“Yeah.”

“Deal.”

“All right,” said Beck. “And one other thing.”

“What?”

“I’m counting on you kicking the shit out of Shorty Wayne for letting you come in here without warning me.”

Willie Reese finally managed a half smile. He stood up. “You a interesting motherfucker, Beck.” Then he turned and walked out of the bar without another word.

As soon as Willie Reese left, Demarco picked up the shotgun and stood up from his table, walked around the bar, and stashed the Benelli in its usual place under the bar top.

Beck said to Demarco, “Nice work this morning.”

Demarco made a small sound of acknowledgment. He walked out from the other side of the bar, still watching the front door, just in case, sat on the stool next to Beck, and asked, “You think we’ll ever see him again?”

“Maybe,” said Beck, “There might be something in him that could get him out of the slide.” Beck paused. “That window is going to be very hard for him to take care of. He doesn’t have a lot of money. He doesn’t know how to go about getting it done. Doesn’t want to. It’s absolutely not in his nature to clean up after his shit. But I wouldn’t count him out yet. He took in everything that I said. That’s fairly unusual for a guy like that.”

“Taking a beating maybe got his attention.”

“Nah, not even half a beating. He could have gone on a lot longer. He’d have gotten me eventually. We’d have had to kill him to stop him.”

Demarco made a face that showed he wasn’t necessarily agreeing.

Beck said, “Guy like that, what do you think it took for him not to jump up and start warring all over again?”

“Not with me sitting there with a shotgun on the table.”

“I suppose. But it still seemed possible, didn’t it? The whole time he was sitting there. Right up until the end.”

Demarco considered it. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t pull with the doctor in here.”

“Maybe. Anyhow, he’s not completely the usual. It’ll be interesting to see. Keep your eye on the front window.”

Beck stood up and headed behind the bar. “I gotta get some more ice on my hands, then we have to head out and see about this thing with Manny.”

“What’s it about?”

“Trouble. I just don’t know how much yet.”

4

Demarco went out the kitchen side door which led out to Imlay Street. They kept a customized 2003 Mercury Marauder in a converted stable about a half-block from Beck’s bar. It was a beast of a car with a 4.6-liter supercharged engine, but it was almost always mistaken for a Grand Marquis, or a Ford Crown Victoria. Or even a Lincoln Town Car, which was one reason Beck liked the car.

While Demarco headed for the garage, James pulled a gun storage box from a cabinet behind the bar. He opened the lid and picked up a Browning Hi-Power 9-mm automatic, dark metal with wood grips. A classic firearm. Solid. Crisp trigger action. Hefty, but beautifully balanced. He didn’t have to check the magazine or chamber, but he did it anyhow before he slipped the gun under his belt behind his right hip.