Later, in her bed, I woke up sometime in the early hours. I couldn't remember what I'd been dreaming, but it had given me the chills. One of the bedroom windows was open, the humid air of the night spilling into the room. I laid there, my hand on my chest, wondering how many beats my heart had missed.

Chapter 9

"Fuck." I slammed the phone down and kicked the coffee table, knocking some magazines onto the floor. Wouldn't you know the one I could make out the best was the cover I'd made of Sports Illustrated right after the Super Bowl. I picked up the magazine and tore it to pieces, cursing and wishing I could get my hands around Weems' chicken-bone neck.

Lowe had been on the phone telling me how hopeless it was. If Weems said I was out, I was out. He also told me if Stadanko had put up a stink, the situation might be different. Stadanko was fronting $370 million, and since I hadn't broken no league rules, Weems really didn't have a legal right to ban me if it got to court. But Stadanko didn't say shit.

"Goddamn," I got mad again, and looked for something to break. The phone rang again, and I was surprised it was still on the hook.

"Yeah." I was in a mood to tear whoever was on the other end a new one.

"I'm sorry."

It was Wilma. "You sittin' in the front office, why didn't you tell me?"

"Get real, Zelmont. I have my own office, and Stadanko doesn't need to tell me about something like this. His exposure is minimal, since, let's be honest, you don't have the money to fight him. And Cannon can be squeezed to say you were a medical risk. You're in a tough position."

"But you know the way I should turn." I guess I wanted her to make me do it. I guess I wanted her to have me lust after her and the promise of money. In the end, I knew I wanted to do it for myself. I wanted to get back at Stadanko, Chekka, and all of them. Then I'd figure out something special for Weems.

She didn't say anything, but I could almost feel her and smell her through the phone. Well?"

"You going to be home around 4?"

"I suppose." What the hell was I gonna do? I didn't feel like working out, it wouldn't burn off this hurt I had.

"Good." She hung up and I waited. I didn't drink, although I felt like it. Didn't take a toke of nothing either. Instead, I watched some shit on cable, infomercials and such. There was one about a device that let you count cards and coins, and with a simple attachment it became a fan. This English dude with a pink face was very excited about the silly-ass gadget, how wonderful a time saver it would be around the house.

I was imagining other uses of the coin counter when the doorbell rang. It was a motorcycle messenger Wilma had sent. He handed me an envelope and I didn't tip him. Man, I had to watch my ducats. Inside was a note written in Wilma's perfect schoolgirl handwriting. "The Encounter, 8:00, burn this," it said. I did, and got there when she told me to.

The restaurant was inside the building at the airport that looked like it belonged in The Jetsons. There were curves coming out of the round upstairs part, making it look like a concrete spider. I'd heard somewhere that a black architect had designed the place. Wonder what ma and pa flying in from Iowa might think about that if they knew.

"What the hell is this?" Danny Deuce had gotten used to his new style. He was dressed in a Calvin Klein blue serge number with a maroon shirt and a tie that looked like somebody spilled paint on it. You could tell he liked being the boss while his big brother laid low.

''Duck fajitas,'' Nap said. He'd cut off his dreads and looked like he'd lost some weight after his stay at Burroughs' little hideaway. His biceps were loose in the sleeves of his Prada sports coat. He scooped meat and onions and guacamole onto his plate. "It'll expand your palate."

I didn't think Danny knew what the word meant but no sense getting him worked. Not now, at least. "So let's do this thing." I had more of my Maker's Mark.

"Yeah, let's get the money," Danny said like a kid getting to go on the scary rides at Magic Mountain for the first time.

"This is not going to be some gangsta smash and grab," Wilma said. "We know where the money is taken to be housed for transfer," she tipped her head toward me. "But there's much more we have to learn and set in motion before we strike."

"Like what?" Danny said, stuffing fajitas and pieces of tortilla into his mouth. "This shit's a'right."

Wilma's eyes were slitted, hiding the look she must have been giving Danny. "Stadanko is on a precipice. Coming at him is the Justice Department on one side and the Armenians on the other."

"What in the fuck are you talking about?" Danny had more food. Nap wasn't grubbin' like he normally did, just eating a nibble here and there. Outside, a plane zoomed by, making the windows shake.

"Through a college friend who's now in the major crimes section of the DOJ, I've learned that local vice cops placed an illegal tap on the Pink Cavern strip club in Brooklyn two-and-a-half years ago."

Danny kept eating as Wilma talked. I drank and listened. Nap worked on a piece of bell pepper.

"The cops were following a trail of Tijuana-issued heroin. Supposedly, the border cartel boys were looking to expand business to the east. The strip club was owned by a Puerto Rican-American named Octavio Colón who had ties to these guys.

"If it was illegal, then how were they going to use anything they got off the tap?" I asked.

"Cops do it all the time," Wilma answered. "They do the tap, find out something that puts them in a certain direction, and claim later they got the new goods through an informant or a tip from another bust. Anyway, who should be dating one of the strippers but Yagos Ondanian."

"I know him, right?" Danny said.

"He's been to the Locker Room once or twice," Nap told his brother.

"Ondanian is part of an Armenian group muscling in on some of the Russian mob's action along the eastern seaboard. Well, anyway, the tap picks up him and his old lady hinting around about the heroin delivery."

"I'm gettin' lost here." Danny kept chowin' down.

"The point is," Wilma went on, "Ondanian managed to turn one of Chekka's Russian mafia connections. This guy now works for Ondanian."

Danny looked blank and Nap seemed bored. Maybe I was the only one who got it. "That's when the Little Hand must have decided there were virgin pastures in L.A."

"Right. At the same time there was this big push to bring a new franchise to L.A., and Stadanko was in the middle of it. Thus a perfect opportunity for Chekka. A lot of money floats around the league, what with insane TV and cable revenues. How better to hide the origins of your money than through Hollywood-style bookkeeping? They brang in some others, all of them bent to some degree or another. You can't make millions of dollars by always playing fair. And the NFL was anxious to have a team back in the number two media market in the U.S., so it was destined to happen." Wilma had some of her wine. She licked her bottom lip and I forgot for a few moments what we were there for.

"And Ondanian follows Chekka out West?" Nap was finally eating like I was used to seeing him do.

"Yes. There's now supposed to be a detente between the two mobs. But it's Ondanian that Justice has been keeping watch on since that night. The vice cops made sure the info leaked up so they'd have favors with the DOJ down the road."

"But the Justice boys would be happy to nab Stadanko too," I said.

"Yeah," Wilma said. A look I couldn't figure out suddenly came across her face, then left just as fast. "You do pay attention when you want to."

"You think I learned all them complicated plays by just running around?"