And after a moment the kid sneered, said, “ A’ight,” and turned back to the window. Mitch slid into the open seat.

The rest of the ride, he replayed that moment, how simple it had been. How simple it was all turning out to be. You just decided what you wanted, and you acted like it belonged to you. Why the fuck hadn’t he learned that years ago? Although, it occurred to him, the cooler move would have been to, after brushing the guy’s foot off the seat, turn to someone in the aisle, a woman, and offer it to her. Like, Jack Reacher, at your service. That would have been suave.

Rossi’s looked the same, and he had a claustrophobic moment as he remembered the last time he’d seen it, in the car with Ian, the guy playing weird music and drumming his fingers against the wheel, that manic intensity under skies saddening to dusk. He forced the thought away, replaced it with a memory of Jenn giving him a hug, wearing her Bond-girl dress. The dress he’d later slid off her long, sweet body. That was the world he lived in now.

Yeah? So why was Alex showing up at her place in the middle of the night?

Shut it down.

Thursday night, and the place was busy. The usual suspects, junior-corporate-whatevers, holding martini glasses and pints and longneck bottles, loosening ties and laughing too loud and leaning in to touch one another’s arms. He slid through them to the end of the bar, and was surprised to see everybody already there, Ian slumped on his elbows, Jenn chewing on her plastic toothpick. Alex was in conversation with another bartender, and Mitch nodded in his direction, got nothing in response.

“Happy Thursday,” he said. He stepped toward Jenn, but she pinned him with her eyes, gave the tiniest shake of her head. Fine, OK. He settled for squeezing her shoulder, the skin humming under his fingertips. Ian turned his head without moving his shoulders. Though his suit was as impeccable as always, the man himself looked like he’d been wadded up and slept in. “Hey.”

Mitch glanced back and forth, said, “Somebody die?”

Jenn snorted at that, a quick little sound that he wasn’t sure was amusement, and Ian said, “Funny.”

“Next round’s on me.” Mitch raised his hand, gestured to Alex, but the guy still didn’t seem to see him. “So.” He smiled. “Victory, huh?”

Ian nodded, not looking at him. Jenn said, “Victory?”

“Sure. That was the plan, wasn’t it? That when things were done, we’d celebrate?” He didn’t want to talk too openly, but figured he could risk that much in the noise of the bar. After all, this was the cherry on top, ripping Johnny off and then drinking on his dime. Even if things hadn’t gone quite as planned, it was still a good feeling.

But the others didn’t seem to see it that way. He looked around for another chair, but the place was full, and so he rocked from foot to aching foot, trying to think of something to say, wishing he had a drink. Finally, Alex came over, drying his hands on a rag. He had fresh butterfly bandages on his face and a dark bruise. “Mitch.”

“Alex.” There was a long moment, then Mitch said, “Can I get a beer and a shot?”

Alex reached for a martini shaker. “I heard from Chip over there,” pointing with an elbow, “that Johnny has been going crazy about the robbery.”

Mitch shot him a shut-the-fuck-up look.

“I guess whoever it was”-Alex bounced back a you’re-not-the-only-smart-one look-“they must have gotten a lot of money from the safe. Chip says Johnny came in yesterday afternoon looking like somebody was threatening his mother. That’s a quote.” He shook his head. “He’s been in and out all day, making calls, yelling. Trying to find out who did it.”

“Did you talk to him?” Jenn pushed her glass forward, and Alex poured to the rim, the amount he’d mixed in the shaker precise to the drop. “I hope he’s paying for your trip to the hospital.”

“He said he would. Right now he’s a little distracted.”

“The people that did it are probably in another state by now,” Mitch said, getting into the spirit of it. “Besides, the police are after them. What’s a bar owner going to do?”

“You never know.” Alex grabbed a bottle of single malt from the back bar, poured Ian a generous double. “He seems pretty motivated. I tell you”-setting down the bottle and staring at Mitch-“I wouldn’t want to be the guy who robbed him. If Johnny ever finds out who it was”-he clicked his tongue-“no telling what he’ll do.”

A bloom of frost flowered in Mitch’s belly. He was suddenly conscious of his breathing. Was Alex threatening him? Was that what this was?

Jenn caught the stare and leaned forward, her face anxious. “Let’s not talk about that.” She glanced from one to the other, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. “How about a game? Ian?”

“Huh?” His skin was pallid and sick, and he’d finished half the scotch in a gulp. “Umm. I don’t know.”

“You don’t have a game?” Her tone light as May. “What’s the world coming to?”

“Fuck if I know,” Alex said.

“You have a bad day too?” Mitch put his jacket over the back of Jenn’s chair, unbuttoned his cuffs and started to roll them up. “You guys are about as much fun as a Smiths reunion.”

“I guess I just got up on the side of the wrong bed,” Alex said. “You ever do that, Mitch? Get up on the side of the wrong bed?”

“You mean the wrong side of the bed.”

“Yeah. Right.” Something in his eyes an accusation. What was that? Did the guy actually think he’d be ashamed for being with Jenn?

Question: Who shows up at a woman’s house at two in the morning?

It came in a flash. All the looks between Alex and Jenn that had stretched a half second too long. All those shared cab rides north. The man’s moodiness, the way he still hadn’t gotten Mitch a drink, the way he seemed to be trying to pick a fight.

Answer: Someone who’s sleeping with her.

Something twisted in him. Alex with his broad shoulders and muscles and sensitive stories about his daughter. All this time, even while he knew, he knew, that Mitch was carrying a torch. All that time he’d been fucking Jenn.

He felt dizzy, hot. The air in the bar was close and thick. He had a panicky feeling, like the world was slipping, or like he was. Like he was a little kid again, gawky and shy and falling down in gym class. In just a moment the laughter would start.

That’s not you anymore. It’s not.

“Come on, guys. Let’s not be like this. This is a celebration, remember?” Jenn looked back and forth, brushed hair behind her ear.

“What are we celebrating?” Alex had the look of a man vibrating inside. “Everything is falling to shit.”

“Hey, man.” Ian looked up from his empty glass. “Keep it cool, OK?”

“Cool? Why?” Alex shook his head. “I’m a thirty-two-year-old bartender. I live in a one-bedroom in a crap neighborhood. My ex-wife is taking my daughter away. This is not the way my life was supposed to be.”

“Everybody feels that way sometimes.” Jenn’s voice was pitched low and consoling. “It’s natural.”

“Yeah, well, not everybody has detectives calling to talk to them about a robbery, do they?”

“You saying that’s somebody’s fault?” Mitch asked.

“It’s the Jolly Green Fucking Giant’s fault. It’s whoever robbed this place and shot someone out in the alley’s fault.”

It was like the guy wanted them to get caught, the way he was pushing the envelope, hinting too broadly. If anyone heard this, told Johnny, they’d be in trouble. What was Alex doing? Didn’t he realize he was putting them all in danger? Did he just not care?

“Get back up on the sumbitch,” Ian said in a startlingly realistic Tennessee drawl.

“Huh?”

“Something my dad used to say. He was a big one for clichés, my pop. Cleanliness and godliness, early birds and worms. ‘Son, it ain’t about falling off the horse. It’s how fast you get back up on that sumbitch.’ ”

“That’s what I need. Platitudes.” Alex shook his head. “All due respect, but fuck your dad right now, OK?”