“You’re going to rob him.”

“Yes.”

“You.” Katz snorted. “A degenerate, a drug addict in a suit. Who will be frightened of you?”

“It’s… I won’t be alone. My friends and I, we have a plan. I’ll get your money, all of it. I swear.”

Katz stepped forward. “These friends. Do they have the money you need?”

Ian stared. For a second, he almost lied, anything to get free, get out of here. But where would that lead? “No.”

“But they’ll help you.”

“Yes.”

“You know how much you owe?” Katz put one finger to his temple, tapped it. “More than thirty thousand dollars. You know what I do to people who owe that kind of money and cannot pay?”

“Yes.”

Katz laughed. “No. You think you do, but you don’t.” He stepped forward. Put his right hand close to Ian’s chest. The heat from the cigar a hairsbreadth away felt nice for a fraction of a second, then quickly began to burn. He wanted to struggle, but any motion might push his bare flesh against that glowing ember. He felt tears in his eyes.

“Mr. Katz, sir, I will pay you every cent I owe. I swear I will. I swear.” He locked his eyes forward, the heat against his chest a living thing, so close, like it wanted to burrow into him.

“You have good friends,” Katz said, “to help you this way.” He moved his hand, the cigar tracing a burning line down Ian’s belly. “Especially since you’re not such a good friend. You know why? Because your friends, now they are part of your debt. You are not the only one who owes now.”

“No, I…”

“Shh.” Katz slid his hand down farther. The glowing ember of the cigar was a half-inch from his balls. Ian whimpered and squirmed.

“You know what happens now?”

“Please. Please. No.”

Katz smiled. “No?”

“Please.”

“If I give you what you ask, what then?”

“I’ll get the money. I’ll bring it straight here. I swear to God.”

“You’ll run.”

“I won’t.”

“If you do, your friends…”

“I understand.”

“And if you get caught with these guns?”

“I will never say your name. No matter what.”

The man put his left hand against Ian’s cheek. Slapped it softly twice, like a favorite uncle. “Good. That’s good.” Then his right hand shot forward. The searing tip of the cigar bit into a testicle.

The pain was shocking, unbearable in its suddenness. A terrible smell of scorched hair rose. Ian screamed and jerked, helpless as the ember burned deeper.

Then the cigar was gone, and Katz turned away. “He is OK now, I think.”

The arm around his neck vanished, and Ian collapsed onto the couch. His hands went immediately to his crotch. He stared downward. The burn was the size of a quarter, the skin peeled and furious with ash and blood. He wanted to break down and cry, to call for his mother, to just vanish.

“Terrence. Three pistols for our friend. Make sure they’re clean.”

Ian gasped for breath, his hands shaking. “Mr. Katz, I swear-”

“Enough swearing. We understand each other now. Right?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Good.” The man ground the cigar in the ashtray. “My money. All of it. By Wednesday. Or”-he shrugged-“for you and your friends.” Katz bent, picked up Ian’s briefcase. He popped the latches, then Terry set something metal inside. Katz shut the case and held it out.

With trembling hands, Ian reached for the handle. He rose slowly. His pants were pooled at his feet, and he bent to haul them upward. The motion sent fireworks of pain up his spine.

“Now. Go.”

Ian left.

The stairs were a blur, nothing but a hint of color. He held his pants closed with one hand, the case in the other. At the base of the stairs, the woman behind the desk said something that he didn’t hear. He pushed past her to the vestibule and the bar. No one glanced up as he half staggered, half ran out the door into bright summer sunlight.

On the sidewalk, he looked in all directions, wild-eyed. A Hispanic couple stared.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Get control!

He set down the case. The catch to his pants was broken, but his belt was still in the loops. He fastened it with fumbling hands. Pulled his shirt closed and tucked it in raggedly. Ian took a step, then the world went spinny. He grasped at the metal rim of a trash can and leaned over, acid in his throat, his mouth a desert. He fought for breath, struggling to keep from vomiting, shirt torn open, pain twisting through his belly.

No one seemed to notice.

CHAPTER 9

THERE WAS ENOUGH SPACE between the oncoming traffic and the double-parked cab to drive an eighteen-wheeler, but the jerk in the Lexus laid on his horn anyway, creeping past at two miles per. Why was it, Jenn wondered, that the people with the nic est cars were the worst drivers? Was it that they fetishized them and were afraid of any little ding? Or were they people who didn’t feel all that safe to begin with, and figured an expensive car protected them somehow?

Whatever. She hadn’t owned a car in years, and liked it fine.

She crossed mid-block, heading east. In high school, she and her friends used to come here, Clark and Belmont, to visit the head shops and thrift stores, play at being punks in the Alley. Back then Mohawks didn’t draw a second glance, and most everyone had a biker jacket. Now it was expensive boutiques, the old army surplus rebuilt into a multistory chrome thing that belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest. Nice enough, but she missed the grimy feel the area used to have. Not truly dangerous, but fit for a little wild-side walking.

Speaking of…

The thought ambushed her again. Ever since Alex had showed up at her door, full of arguments and plans, every so often the reality of what they were doing would yank the world out from under her. She’d be going through her day, talking on the phone, helping a couple plan their honeymoon, sunlight through the front windows, everything normal, and then-wham!-all of a sudden she’d remember that tomorrow night she was going to be wearing a mask and holding a gun.

And each time it happened, a delicious shiver ran up her spine.

It was scary, sure. But in that good way. Sometimes she didn’t want a guy to be gentle, to touch her softly and whisper in her ear. Sometimes she wanted him to shove her face-first on the mattress and slide into her hard, to have one hand yanking her hips back and the other twisted in her hair, to do it rough and fierce and primal, without all the gloss. To drive the bed across the floor and knock the books off the shelves. Maybe not the most feminist desire, but there it was.

The thrift shop was hipster heaven, complete with retro furniture, silly gifts-who actually wanted a Jesus action figure?-and punked-out counter staff, each posing harder than the last. She checked her purse with a girl sporting a twice-pierced lip, got a laminated picture of Chuck Norris in return, and moved to the racks of clothes.

After the dinner party, Alex had asked if she wanted to come up, and she’d almost said yes. The whole adventure had her charged, and while he was a good lover to begin with, under the circumstances, it would have been something else entirely. But in the end, she’d mumbled an excuse about needing sleep. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him; she did, on one or two levels. But it just didn’t feel right anymore. It was like she’d been sleepwalking the last years. Now that she’d been slapped awake, she didn’t intend to let that feeling go.

Jenn picked through the racks, looking for simple, dark clothing, unremarkable, settling on faded jeans and a couple of work shirts, the stitching worn. The shoe selection was limited, but it was easier buying footwear that purposefully wasn’t supposed to fit.

Mitch had surprised her that night, coming up with good ideas, practical points they hadn’t thought of. Not only that, but he’d pushed back against Alex, told him to fuck off. She wasn’t one of those women turned on by chest beating, but it was good to see him stand up for himself.