“Set dressing.”

“Yeah. You stand with your arms folded. Don’t say anything. Just look mean.”

“Umm.” Alex hesitated. “I’m not sure-”

“Two hundred bucks. Should only take ten minutes or so.”

Alarm bells started chiming in Alex’s head. A meeting in the back office, him pretending to be muscle? He remembered the things he’d told the others, Italians coming in with briefcases and leaving empty-handed. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about a new restaurant. “You know, Mr. Loverin, that’s not really what I’m about.”

“What do you mean, it’s not what you’re about?”

“I mean, whatever this is-I just-well, I’m really not into that kind of thing.”

Johnny took his feet from the desk, sat up straight. “What kind of thing?” His voice thin and his eyes narrow.

Shit. “That came out wrong. I just mean, if it’s OK with you, I’d as soon stick to my regular job.”

“Your regular job.”

“Yeah.”

“You work for me, right? So your regular job, it’s doing what I tell you, isn’t it?”

All right. First Trish, now this. Enough. “When some drunk gets rough in the bar, I handle it. But this is something else. I’ve been here a while, and I’ve heard some things, and whatever this is, I don’t want any part of it.”

For a long moment, Johnny said nothing. Then he ran his tongue slowly over his lips. “That’s a pretty big speech, kid.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect.”

“A pretty big fucking speech indeed, coming from an assistant fucking manager. You’ve heard some things? Good for fucking you.” He cracked his thumbs. “There’s a recession, you know that? Every day I get people in here looking for work. Plenty of people who could do your job. You ever think of that?”

“Mr. Loverin-”

“You had your say. Now it’s my turn. You do this very simple thing I’m asking or you find yourself another job. But you better not even try to tell people you worked here. Because when they call-and they will-I’ll tell them that I fired you for stealing from the register. I’ll tell them you’re an ungrateful little punk been ripping me off for years.”

“That’s not true.”

“I said it, so it’s true. Get me?”

How the hell had they ended up here? One minute he was coming in to cover a shift, now he was in danger of losing his job? Part of him wanted to stand up and tell Johnny Love to screw himself.

But then he remembered his bank account, maybe two hundred bucks in it. He thought of Trish, and the way she’d started in on him about the child support from the moment he saw her. He could find another job, but Johnny was right; if he tried to go to another bar, the owner would call. Sure, he’d be able to find something eventually, probably something better. But how long would it take? And what would Trish say when he told her he’d been fired?

What would she say to Cassie?

Then Johnny smiled. “Anyway, you’ve got this all wrong. It’s no big deal. Just a show, kid. No need to get your stockings twisted.”

Alex felt another cocktail of emotions coming on. Two parts sickness in his stomach, one part pissed-off, with a twist of what-choice-do-I-have? “Mr. Loverin, I need this job. But-”

“Good. Tuesday. And you know what? Let’s call it three hundred.” He reached for the phone, dialed, rocked the chair back on two legs. “Mort! How the hell are you.” Johnny laughed, then looked up at Alex as if surprised to see him still standing there, and jerked his head toward the door.

CHAPTER 4

HE WASN’T GOING.

Mitch lay on his back, one arm behind his head. The night had been cool enough to leave the bedroom windows open, and the breeze blew the curtains in flips and swirls, morning sunlight blinking as they parted. The room went from dark to bright to dark.

He could imagine the scene this Thursday night. Them asking where he’d been, why he’d missed brunch. Just shrugging, saying something came up. Playing it cool, like Jack Nicholson. Aloof. In control.

Of course, Jenn would be there. Probably wearing a sundress.

He stared at the ceiling. Sundress. Jack Nicholson. Sundress.

Mitch kicked the covers off and rolled out of bed. Maybe he’d be late.

He showered, NPR in the background. The subprime housing crunch, the Dow plummeting, the Bush administration pushing for war with Iran because the two wars they already had were going so well. He shaved carefully, then killed the water and dried himself with the same towel as always, even though there were two hanging in the bathroom. Two because that’s what grown-ups had, just in case someday there were two people showering.

He put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Made coffee. Sipped it slowly. The clock read 10:37. If he left now, he’d be right on time. He poured a second cup, picked up a novel.

It was funny. When the four of them had started hanging out, they’d all had other people they thought of as their “real” friends. But time kept passing, and those people got married or moved away or just got lazy in that late-twenties way, never leaving the house, always saying they’d love to get together but never doing it. And so Thursday nights went from optional to mandatory, and before long, they started adding more occasions. Dinners at Ian’s condo in the sky. Cubs games in the summer. And lately, Saturday brunch.

That seemed to be the way with life. The things you were now, today, were the things you really were. Maybe you used to play guitar; maybe in the future you’d take up bowling. But what you did now, the people you saw, the books you read, the dreams that woke you, they were the real you. Not some construct of what you wanted to be or once were.

At 11:02, he stopped pretending to read and went for a cab.

Though named like a convenience store, Kuma’s Corner was a cross between a heavy-metal bar and a café, with tasteful lighting and tattooed waitstaff, eggs Benedict and burgers named after bands. Mitch had timed it right, strolling out on the small patio to find the three of them already there. Jenn flashed white teeth, motioned to the empty chair beside her. No sundress, but a strappy shirt that showed off her shoulders.

He sat, smiled, then saw Ian. “Whoa!” The guy’s left eye was swollen nearly shut, thick flesh ringed in bright purple and dark black. “Jesus,” Mitch said. “What happened to you?”

“He won’t tell us,” Jenn said. “But I think it was a woman.”

“I did tell you. I tripped. I was out late, came home buzzed, caught my foot on the mat.”

“And hit the doorknob with your eyeball?”

“Yeah.” Ian reached for his beer, drained half in a pull. “Nice shot, huh? Doorknob, one; Ian, zero. But I’ve got plans for revenge.” He smiled. “Anyway. You’re missing a hell of a story. Alex is beginning a life of crime.”

“It’s not funny, man.” Alex had dark circles of his own.

“Hold on. Let me order.”

“I did it for you,” Jenn said. “Chilaquiles, right?”

Mitch looked over and smiled, suddenly ten feet tall and lighter than air and very glad he’d come. “Yeah. Thanks.” He held the look a moment, then turned to Alex. “So?”

“His boss is using him as muscle,” Ian said. “He’s gonna get medieval on some tough guys.”

“Would you quit it? This is serious. My boss is-”

“An asshole?”

“Well, yeah. Yesterday he was fiddling with the safe when I walked into his office, and he freaked like I caught him jerking off.” Alex shook his head. “I calm him down, very polite, use his last name and everything. And he says he wants me to come to a meeting. Like, an after-hours kind of meeting. A side deal, he wants me to be his bodyguard.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. And I say no, still very polite. He says I don’t do this, I’m fired, and he’ll tell everybody I’ve been stealing.”

“Hmm.” Mitch could picture it, the skeezy guy condescending and threatening at once, big tough Alex having to stand there and take it. The thought almost made him smile. Payback’s a bitch. Then he saw the look in his friend’s eyes and immediately felt bad for feeling good.