He went out front, came back with a cheap canvas gym bag, set it on the table.

“Been hearing some things about you,” he said.

“Like what?”

“That you been going up against those boys from around the way. Took down a couple of their people.”

“What else you hear?”

“That they looking for you. I see you in here buying all this, makes me wonder what you got in mind. There’s a lot more of them than there are of you.”

“My warring days are over.”

“Don’t look like that to me.”

Morgan put the wrapped Walther and the ammunition boxes in the bag, zipped it shut.

“Let me ask you something,” he said.

“What?”

“You ever sell to those Three Paw boys?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Morgan hefted the bag, put out his hand. Otis took it. They clinched, released.

“We go back a long way,” Otis said. “Thirty years at least.”

“ ’Bout that.”

“And you always one of my best customers. So don’t take no chances you don’t need to.”

“I never do,” Morgan said.

He put the gym bag in the trunk, headed back to the motel. On the way, he broke the seal on the Sam Cooke tape, pushed it into the player. “A Change Is Gonna Come” filled the car. It sounded like church. Like heaven. Like death.

“You all set?” Mikey asked.

“Good enough,” Morgan said. They were in a parking garage downtown, Morgan leaning against the hood of the Monte Carlo, Mikey in the front passenger seat of the Suburban, the door open. Dante was at the wheel. C-Love stood a few feet away, smoking a cigarette, looking around.

“When you leaving?” Mikey asked.

“Tomorrow. Take me two, maybe three days to get down there.”

“You could drive straight through, be there before you know it. I can get you some blow for the ride, keep you kicking.”

Morgan shook his head. “I want my head clear when I get there. Couple things I need to know, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Willis’s woman know what he was doing down there?”

“Maybe. Some of it, I’d think. Don’t know how much he told her.”

“She know how much money he was carrying?”

“Shit,” Mikey said. “Even Derek didn’t know that. No need. Package was in the car before he even picked it up. He was told to deliver the car, leave it. He didn’t need to know shit else. Unless the boy was a total fool, he knew he had some cash in there, but not how much. He knew I wasn’t paying him no four grand up front just to drop a car off.”

“Four grand? That it?”

“For driving a car to Florida, leaving it somewhere? Yeah, four grand is fucking generous, yo. Plus he pull that off, come back and he’d have more work waiting for him. He knew all that. Knew the risk, too.”

“His woman down there, asking questions, poking around. She finds out how much was in that car, don’t you think she’ll want a piece of it?”

“How she gonna find out? Who gonna tell her?”

“Don’t know. With a little one and all, she finds out, she might think she’s entitled.”

“Fuck that. She don’t know, and no one’s gonna tell her. You’re gonna hook up with her down there, and she’s gonna tell you everything she knows. I’ll take care of her when she get back. I’ll pay for the funeral, the flight and all that shit, too. She should be happy I’m doing that. Nigga got himself smoked, lost my money. She’s lucky I’m not trying to take it out of her ass.”

Morgan looked away. C-Love finished his cigarette, dropped it, twisted it out with his foot.

“I’ll call you when I get down there,” Morgan said. “Let you know what’s going on, what the deal is.”

“I’ll send the twins down, you think you need them.”

Morgan shook his head.

“Okay then,” Mikey said. He put a hand out. Morgan touched knuckles with him. Dante started the engine as Mikey pulled the door shut.

C-Love got in the rear, closed the door. As the Suburban backed out of the spot, Mikey nodded at him through the tinted window. Morgan watched them drive away.

Cassandra moved naked across the room, lit the short, thick candles on the bureau top. Morgan watched her. He lay with a pillow behind his head, the sheet thrown aside. His skin felt warm, almost feverish.

When the four candles were burning, their incense filling the small room, she set the plastic lighter beside them. Soft light flickered on the wall, glinted off framed photos on the bureau.

“That okay, baby?” she said.

He nodded, and she slipped back into bed, curled against him, one hand on his chest, the wiry gray hairs there.

“I can feel your heart,” she said.

He looked past her, through the open door into the other bedroom, could see the crib there, the night-light over it.

She traced his scars with her fingertips, lingered over the fresh one from his appendectomy.

“When are you coming back?” she said.

“Soon. I just have to take care of some things.”

“You’ve been spoiling me. Sending me that money, and Aaron love those toys. But it feels like you haven’t been by in a long time.”

“Been busy.”

He hadn’t told her about being sick, wouldn’t. He’d known her for three years now. She’d been nineteen when they met. Her boyfriend worked for Mikey, had been killed in a police chase after making a delivery. The first time Morgan met her, he was bringing money from Mikey-five hundred dollars. It was all he would give her.

Morgan had added five hundred of his own, then come by to see her a week later with two hundred more, and then again the week after. That night she’d let him stay, and when he’d woken in the middle of the night, she was crying softly beside him. He hadn’t known what to do, so he’d done nothing. After a while the tremors stopped and she slipped back into sleep. He’d come by once or twice a month ever since. Mikey didn’t know about it. No one did.

He watched shadows play on the ceiling, then closed his eyes, felt her warmth against him, her softness. Wind rattled the room’s single window.

He felt safe here, the only place now. Her breathing was slow and deep, and he found himself falling into rhythm with it, drifting into warm darkness.

He woke all at once, his eyes snapping open, muscles rigid. A draft from somewhere made the candles flutter. She murmured something against him but didn’t wake. After a while, he disentangled from her, went to the window. He looked down on the empty street. A plastic bag scudded into the light from a streetlamp, then blew higher and out of sight.

He dressed without waking her. When he was done, he took two thousand dollars from his jacket, folded the bills, and slipped them under the jewelry box on the bureau. Then he leaned over and softly blew the candles out one by one.

He let himself out of the apartment, used his key to lock the door behind him.

He was on the road by noon. He took Route 78 to the Turnpike, headed south. He’d bought a map at a gas station, knew it was a straight run to Florida. I-95 all the way to Jacksonville, then west on 301.

He’d disassembled the Beretta and Walther, wrapped them in oiled rags, and stored them in the spaces below the rocker panels, along with the boxes of shells, the bag of marijuana, and the pills. He couldn’t take a chance having them in the car if he were stopped.

The Monte Carlo’s tank was full, the fluids topped off, and it was running smooth and strong, the heater on low, the Impressions coming through the speakers, “People Get Ready.” It calmed him as he drove.