Playboy's eyes moved back and forth between them. His lids were narrowed, but not in the half-asleep pose he'd been affecting. He reached up slowly and took the pistol.

"I'm giving you this because I want you to know that we aren't lying." Jason spoke quietly. "We didn't kill C-Note." His heart was pounding. The safety would slow Playboy down enough for Jason to tackle him, but his friends were the real problem. Jason was counting on them following their boss's lead. If they didn't…

Playboy took a last drag on the cigarette, then flicked it away. He held the gun at his side, his arm loose. Tilted his head up so the rain ran down his shaved skull. "And you're going to take care of DiRisio."

"And Galway. And everybody in with them."

"If y'all are playing me-"

"You're a general now," Jason said. "You got a hundred soldiers standing behind you. We know what happens if we play you."

The man nodded slow. "Guess that's so." He tucked the Ruger into the back of his pants, and Jason started breathing again.

Then the wrestler cocked his pistol. "Fuck that. Let's take care of business." Beside him, Curtis nodded, his gun aimed at Jason's chest. Cruz brought her Glock back up, holding it beautifully, two hands, legs spread in a target-shooter stance.

"Nah. Man's got a point. Besides," and Playboy smiled a thin, brutal smile, "not like we can't find him again. Him and his little nephew."

Jason felt his lips twitching, fought the urge to close his hands into fists.

The wrestler said, "I say we-"

"I ask your opinion, motherfucker?" Playboy glared at him. "Man, I've had crotch lice got more brains than you, you're going to tell me what to do?"

"No, but-"

"But what, bitch?"

The wrestler straightened at that, his nostrils flaring. Glared at Playboy, a hard look between hard men. If this went wrong, Jason knew, then things were going to get ugly. Bullets flying, everybody shooting at everybody, who knew who'd get hit.

Finally, the wrestler looked away. "It's your world."

"Goddamn right. It's my world." Playboy held the stare for a moment, then turned to Jason. "So we're clear, I don't much like you either." The gangbanger reached in his pocket, pulled out his cigarettes. Shook one out slow, held it to his lips, fired it up with the Bic. "But keep your end of this, and we 'aight."

"You come after me or mine again, we're going to mix it up."

"Do right, I won't have to." In the distance, a siren wailed. Playboy glanced over his shoulder. "Now. Do yourself a favor and don't be leaving for a bit. I see you coming after us, might be I take that the wrong way."

Jason nodded.

Playboy turned and walked away, his cross-trainers carving trenches in the soft mud. Curtis and the wrestler followed him, walking backwards with guns out. Jason stood with his skin vibrating until they were out of sight.

Then he heaved a sigh. "Jesus."

Cruz stared at him. "How'd you know that would work?"

"Playboy thinks he's a soldier. Long as we had the upper hand, he couldn't back down. But if we're two soldiers talking about a mutually beneficial arrangement, well, that's different."

She shook her head. "Boys. You're all just little boys with guns."

"You only figuring that out now?" Jason shook out his shoulders. Felt that familiar lightness, relief and tension mingling. The siren grew closer. Dealing with Playboy had only been a distraction. They still had their real work ahead of them. And now they didn't have the evidence to make it safe.

One step at a time, soldier. That's how the march works.

"Speaking of guns," he said, and stared pointedly at her. "For two days I've been wishing we had one, and for two days you've been awfully quiet about yours."

Cruz shrugged. Hiked up one pant leg, then bent to strap the Glock into the ankle holster she'd slipped it out of while pretending to faint. When she straightened, a smile tugged at one corner of her lips.

She said, "I'm working on my trust issues."

CHAPTER 37

The boy was playing with the gun, and the sight twisted something in Washington.

Billy leaned against a heavy oak bureau that had been in the room as long as Washington could remember. He was hunched in the classic hiding position, plastic pistol held in both extended arms. Rain lashed the window in blinding sheets, and yellow headlights rolled slowly by. Billy tracked them with the gun, steady and slow. Pulled the trigger: once, twice, then threefourfive. "Gotcha," he muttered, and swung the pistol back.

It's just a toy, old man, Washington reminded himself. Can't take everybody's toys away. Still, it bothered him to see it. He couldn't put his finger on why, exactly. Maybe just seen too many boys with real guns in their hand. He rapped on the edge of the doorframe. "How you doing, son?"

"Okay."

"What are you up to?"

"Just playing." Billy left the window and sat on the edge of the bed. "This used to belong to Uncle Jason. See?" He held it up.

Washington leaned down to read the inscription on the handle. It would have been easier to bring the pistol to his eyes, but he didn't want to touch even a toy gun. Maybe ridiculous, maybe not. Recovering alcoholics didn't tell themselves they could drink light beer. Not if they wanted to stay recovering, at least. "This says Michael Palmer."

"I know, but it's scratched out. Uncle Jason won it from him." Billy held the gun in both hands. "Maybe when I grow up I'll be a soldier like he was."

The knot inside cinched tighter. "Maybe."

Billy looked up at him, head cocked. "You sound funny."

"I don't like guns."

"Because they're dangerous?" Billy said it with the mocking insouciance of a child.

Washington sat on the edge of the bed, hearing that old cold song of twisting metal. The siren song that had roared through him sure, pure, and sweet all those years ago. Like always, it tugged at him, urged him back. He sighed, cocked his head. "I remember being your age thinking how much fun all that stuff on TV looked, people shooting each other. But it's only on TV that it's that easy. Most of the time you can't just shoot the bad guy."

"Why not?" Billy's eyes were earnest. "If you know they're bad, I mean?"

"Well, for one thing, that's not easy to know." The rain fell steady and slow, drenching the world. "Some that seem one way are really the other. Ronald used to be a bad guy. Me too."

"You were a bad guy?"

A roar, and a hot punch against his hand. The boy with the cauliflower ear spinning, slow, a last pirouette, eyes already dying.

A debt that could never be repaid.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I was."

Billy chewed his lip. "What if somebody is really bad, though? Not like you or Ronald, but really bad?"

Washington could hear the question under Billy's words, understood that he was asking about the people who had murdered his father. And part of him wanted to say that you still couldn't make that kind of decision. That people changed, that you could change them. That good could always be reclaimed from evil. But he didn't want to lie to the boy.

"I don't know, son. I don't have an answer for you. I just know I don't like guns."

Billy nodded slowly.

"But," Washington said as he stood, "that don't mean you can't play with your toy. Though right now, we got more important things to worry about. Like getting you dressed for tonight. You need any help?"

"Nuh-uh." Billy set the gun on the bed and went over to the closet. "I know how to do it."

"You sure?" Washington straightened his bow tie in the mirror. He'd delayed renting a tux until the last minute, but he had to admit, he was enjoying wearing it. "I'd be happy to make you look as dapper as I do."