“Stripes,” she said, walking around the table to the other side. The rim was marked with ancient cigarette burns. Elwood sipped beer, watched her. She picked her shot, leaned, eyed the setup, pointed the stick at a side pocket. She hit the nine off the eleven, watched it drop.

“Glad we’re not betting on this,” he said.

She missed her next shot, watched the twelve carom harmlessly off the rail.

Elwood put his cigarette down, blew smoke through his nose, hefted his stick, and circled the table. Sara looked back into the bar. Lee-Anne had her left arm linked in Billy’s right, had pulled him close. He was listening to her, nodding. He looked over his shoulder at Sara. She met his eyes for a moment, looked away.

Elwood sank his shot, took another, missed. She looked back at the table and for a moment couldn’t remember if she had stripes or solids. Elwood was watching her.

She eyed a combination on the eleven, shot and missed.

“You’re distracted,” he said.

She chalked up. “I guess.”

He walked around the table, looking for his shot.

“Our friend’s out a lot these days,” he said. “He should be keeping a lower profile.”

He sank the five ball.

“Is that what you’re doing here?” she said. “Keeping an eye on him?”

He stretched out for a shot, looked up at her, then back at the table, hammered the three ball into a corner pocket. “Maybe somebody needs to,” he said.

She sipped Guinness, looked out to the bar. Billy and Lee-Anne were standing, ready to leave, arms still entwined.

Elwood missed his next shot. Sara looked away from them, back at the table.

“Your shot,” he said.

She put the Guinness down, shot for the eleven again, missed. She heard the front door open and close.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw you miss two shots in a row,” he said.

“Can’t seem to concentrate.”

“No wonder on that.” He bent, missed an easy shot on the four.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

“Do what?”

“You know what I mean.”

He shrugged, got his beer.

She looked at him, then down at the table. She chalked up, leaned for the shot, used the ten ball to put the eleven in the side pocket. The cue ball came to rest midtable, gave her an easy setup with the fifteen in the far corner. She sank it hard, watched the cue roll back into position for another shot at the ten.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

She sank the ten, ran the table. The eight ball lingered near a corner pocket. She pointed the stick at the pocket, and he nodded. She chalked, bent, put it in.

“Like I said, glad we weren’t betting.”

“Good game, Sam.”

“Go again?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ve got to be getting home.”

She put the cue back on the rack. The pint of Guinness was still half full, but she was done with it. She carried it back to the bar to save Althea a trip, went out the front door. It shut behind her, muffling the music. She got her keys out, headed for the Blazer.

Billy’s truck was still there. Light wash from a pole fell at an angle across the windshield. She could see him in the driver’s seat, alone, head back, eyes closed, as if he were sleeping.

As she walked by, he opened his eyes, saw her. He said something she couldn’t hear, and then Lee-Anne raised her head up from under the dash, looked out at her.

Sara felt the warmth rush to her face. Lee-Anne met her eyes, smiled. She pushed her braids away, turned and spoke to Billy, then powered her window down. Billy sat there, frozen, blinking.

Sara couldn’t move. Lee-Anne looked out at her.

“You want to come over here and watch?” she said. “See how it’s done?”

Sara turned away, walked to the Blazer, her face burning. Behind her, Lee-Anne laughed. Sara got behind the wheel, turned the key, ground the starter, had to switch the ignition off, try it again.

Lee-Anne looked back at her, then dipped her head again, disappeared from sight. Sara heard a low moan from the truck, one she knew well.

She backed out, turned the wheel, pulled fast out of the lot. She was a mile down the road before she realized she was speeding. She willed herself to slow down, her face still flush and hot. It was the tears that surprised her.

When the knock came at the door, Morgan got the Beretta from the nightstand, looked through the peephole. C-Love and Mikey were outside.

“Come on, man,” C-Love said. “It’s freezing out here.”

Morgan undid the lock and night latch, opened the door, the Beretta at his side. As they came in, he looked past them into the parking lot. The Suburban was parked in the shadows near a Dumpster.

“The twins out there?” he said. He shut the door, locked it.

“Yeah, why you ask?” C-Love said. He was carrying a black plastic grocery bag. Mikey walked around the room, poked the bathroom door open.

“What are you looking for?” Morgan said.

“Nothing.”

“You bring what I asked?”

C-Love hefted the bag, dropped it on the bed.

“We need to talk about some shit,” Mikey said. There was a table and chair under the front window. He pulled the chair out, straddled it.

“That boy you murked in the alley,” he said. “That was Philly Joe from around the way.”

“So?” He set the Beretta on the nightstand.

“His people gonna be looking for you.”

Morgan went to the bed, opened the bag. Inside was a ziplock plastic bag filled with greenish-gold marijuana. C-Love stood near the door, watching him.

A plane came in low overhead. The lamp on the nightstand rattled.

“That’s good shit,” C-Love said. “Best hydro around right now.”

Underneath, two brown plastic prescription bottles without labels. He twisted the top off one, saw the Vicodin inside.

“What you need that shit for, dawg?” Mikey said. “You never told me.”

The tablets were five milligrams each. Morgan broke one in half, put it on his tongue. He dropped the other half back in the bottle, put the cap on. He went into the bathroom, palmed water, swallowed it.

“That shit will fuck you up,” Mikey said.

Morgan drank more water, came out of the bathroom.

“You scarfing down those pills so quick,” Mikey said, “you don’t even see what else is in the bag.”

Morgan looked. There was a black plastic bundle at the bottom, ends taped shut with duct tape. He drew it out, knew what it was. “This for my trouble?”

“That’s an advance,” Mikey said. “I need you to take that little trip for me. Shit I told you about.”

“How much is in here?”

“Five Gs.”

“Not much.”

“For expenses, for now. Traveling money. Good timing, too, since Philly’s boys looking for you. There’s that thing with Rohan, too. Gonna be a while before all that shit quiets down.”

“You talk to them?”

“That Trey Dog crew? Can’t do that just now. They’re screaming for blood, and they know you with me. I can get messages back and forth, with an intermediary. But I gotta watch my back on this, too.”

Morgan sat on the edge of the bed. “Tell me about this trip.”

“Told you some of it. Pipeline’s been dry since the Colombians went down. Even if they beat the case, they ain’t gonna be up and running anytime soon, if ever. Now I got this RICO shit hanging over my head, and these lawyers, man, they keep wanting more.”

“Go on.”

“Word was some Haitians down in Florida had a good line on powder, shit coming in through the islands. They the new power down there now. Making mad money. We set up a meeting, place called Belle Glade. Curtis went down there.” He nodded at C-Love. “It looked good. They had their shit together, steady source, but they don’t know me well enough to want to do business. And those voodoo motherfuckers don’t trust anyone didn’t grow up poor and barefoot like them.”

“So you sweetened the deal?” Morgan said.