Jinky pulled a candy bar from the pocket of his purple velour tracksuit and tore off the wrapper. “You’re making this hard on your friends.”

Gerry stared across the warehouse at the guy punching Frank in the face. The guy was a gorilla, yet Frank kept smiling at him in between getting hit. Frank had boxed as a pro for six years, and won all his fights except a couple of hometown decisions. His fight philosophy had been simple: he’d been willing to take punishment in order to deliver punishment. They’d picked the wrong guy to beat up.

Gerry’s eyes returned to Jinky. “Let me guess. Russ Watson is the dead guy that turned up in my motel room yesterday.”

“That’s right,” Jinky said. “I want to know who shot him.”

On the other side of the warehouse, Frank let out a sickening grunt. It echoed across the room, and made Gerry’s stomach do a flip-flop.

“Will you tell me something if I tell you?” Gerry asked.

Jinky bit into the candy bar like he had a grudge with it. “Depends.”

“We came to you in good faith, and told you what we were doing in Las Vegas,” Gerry said. “You got in touch with the Tuna, and ratted us out. The Tuna sent a hitman, who killed my best friend, to kill us. When that went south, youtried to have us killed. Why did you do that?”

The candy bar was a memory. Jinky fingered the control on the armrest of his chair, like he was considering taking off. The question obviously made him uncomfortable. Gerry, tied to a chair, had just called him a piece of shit.

“You don’t know how things work in Las Vegas,” Jinky said.

“I don’t?”

“Nope.”

“Then why don’t you educate me?”

Jinky snorted under his breath. “This town is run on juice.”

“It is?”

“Absolutely. The Tuna has juice with people in town, so it was in my best interest to strike a deal with him. Your father has juice with people in town, so it’s in my best interest not to kill you. Get it?”

Gerry gazed across the warehouse. “What about my friends?”

“Your friends are fucked,” Jinky said. “Nobody knows them from Adam. They could die and it would be like they never existed. That’s what happens when you don’t have any juice in Las Vegas.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“What’s that?”

“Who does the Tuna have juice with?”

Jinky’s laughter filled the warehouse. “You don’t know anything, do you?”

“I guess not,” Gerry said.

“Now, it’s your turn to answer a question. Who shot Russ Watson yesterday?”

“Why do you care?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jinky said angrily.

“He was a hitman,” Gerry said.

Jinky’s face went blank. “So?”

“One of the job dangers of being a hitman is that sometimes people fight back.”

“You think Russ got what was coming to him?”

“You sent Russ into battle and he lost.”

A look of rage flashed over Jinky’s face, and it occurred to Gerry that he wasn’t used to back talk. The big man touched the arm control on his wheelchair and crashed into him, sending Gerry’s chair scraping several feet across the concrete floor.

“Don’t give me any of that philosophy shit,” Jinky roared. “Which one of you shot Russ Watson?”

Gerry studied Jinky’s face. Every time Jinky mentioned Russ Watson, his eyes went soft, and Gerry guessed they’d had a relationship like the one he’d had with Jack Donovan. Telling Jinky the truth would only lead to Frank getting killed.

“It was the security guard,” Gerry said.

“Which one?”

“The guard in the parking lot.”

Jinky had to think. “The old geezer with the hearing aids?”

“Yeah. Your friend got fresh, and the guard shot him. It wasn’t pretty.”

Jinky crashed into him again. Seeing it coming lessened the impact, and Gerry felt his chair tip dangerously to one side, then right itself like a tightrope walker.

“If your father wasn’t tight with Bill Higgins, I’d put a bullet in your head,” Jinky said.

A harsh cry went up across the warehouse. Jinky stared, and Gerry followed his gaze. The man who’d been punishing Frank was clutching his hand while cursing up a storm.

“What happened?” Jinky yelled to him.

“I broke my hand against his face,” the man called back.

“I told you to wrap a towel around your hand, didn’t I?”

“I did wrap a towel around it,” the man said.

“So, walk it off.”

Easy for you to say,Gerry nearly said. He watched the man walk a serpentine pattern across the warehouse. If the look on his face was any indication, he was going to need a doctor. Frank had beaten the guy without ever laying a finger on him. Gerry caught Frank’s eye, and Frank winked. His friend’s face looked like a pepperoni pizza that had been left out for too long in the sun. Gerry winked back.

“Who’s got the digital camera?” Jinky called out.

“I do,” the man with the broken hand said.

“Bring it over here.”

The man came over and handed Jinky a digital camera. Jinky monkeyed with it for a little bit, then aimed at Gerry and snapped a picture. Jinky held the camera away from his face and stared at the picture, then showed it to the man with the broken hand.

“What do you think?”

“He looks too pretty,” the man said.

“Then make him look unpretty.”

The man came over and popped Gerry in the face with his good hand. Gerry felt something run out of his left nostril and knew it wasn’t snot. He stared down at the blood sheeting his neck and the front of his shirt, then saw another flash from Jinky’s camera.

“Take a look,” Jinky said.

The man came around Jinky’s wheelchair and appraised his handiwork.

“Much better,” the man said.

40

Valentine hung around the poker room for a few minutes and helped Rufus Steele collect his money. Poker players were a lot of things, but it was rare that one welshed on a bet. By Valentine’s calculations, Rufus was owed five hundred and ninety-four thousand dollars, and that was exactly the amount collected. When Rufus tried to hand him some, Valentine balked.

“Come on, it’s your cut,” Rufus protested.

“I did it as a favor,” Valentine said, refusing to touch the packets of money being shoved his way. It was at least fifty grand, maybe more.

“I’m well aware of that,” Rufus said, “but I’m not a charity case. Take it.”

The tone of his voice hadn’t changed, but there was a bite to his words nonetheless. Gloria was standing nearby with Zack, and they both turned their backs, and pretended to be watching the segment they’d just shot. Valentine didn’t want to make an enemy of Rufus, and stared long and hard at the money.

“I’m here on someone else’s nickel,” he said quietly. “If word got around that I’d gone into business with you, my real business would suffer. So let’s just say you owe me one, okay?”

“No one ever worked with Rufus Steele and didn’t get paid,” the old cowboy said, waving the stacks in Valentine’s face. “This is your money. I’m going to hold it for you until your job is over. Then it’s yours. Understand?”

Rufus wasn’t going to back down, and Valentine guessed there was a worthwhile charity he could donate the money to before he left town.

“I’ll do it, provided one thing.”

Rufus had eyebrows that looked like fluffy sandpaper. They both went up.

“What’s that, pardner?”

“Explain how you pulled that stunt.”

The old cowboy laughed like someone was tickling both his feet.

“Never in a thousand years,” he said.

“What kind of man puts up nearly six hundred thousand dollars to back a crazy bet?” Gloria Curtis asked when Rufus was gone. There was a bemused look in her eyes, and Valentine didn’t know if she thought he was a fool or an idiot or both.