Franklin didn’t want to hear about any jumps into hyperspace. He had a damn load of cocaine headed his way, and he needed that goddamn girl, and he needed her goddamn father. So where in the hell was Eliot? He should have had the Alden jerk here an hour ago, easy.

Eliot, dammit, Eliot could get out of hand, and if he’d accidentally “disabled” old Burt, then it was going to be damn hard for the man to get around and get the damn money. His next call, Franklin knew, had to be to Eliot. But he’d had kind of a busy night on the phone.

Good and busy. He grinned. Damn good and busy.

Katherine Gray had called him personally, and the sweet, husky sound of her voice had made all the trouble he was going to more than worthwhile. Graham Percy was aces, absolute aces. Percy was delivering on his promise, and Franklin needed Burt Alden to do the same. There was a lot on the line.

Katherine wanted to meet him. Percy had told her all about him, and she was intrigued. That’s the word she’d used, “intrigued.”

Hell, he understood it. He was a damned intriguing guy.

“Are you on a road, Dovey? Can you tell me that?” He turned away from the betting room and walked across the office.

“Yes, sir. We’re on a road…a dirt road… in the woods, but it’s damn dark up here, and-”

“And nothing, Smollett. Get your ass the hell out of there, and call me when you hit the goddamn suburbs. I want you over at the Commerce City Garage, where that Cyclone is usually parked, in case this Ramos guy shows up there.”

The likelihood of Dovey getting lost in Commerce City was nil and none. If this Ramos guy headed home like a pigeon, Dovey could back up Mitch and Leroy, if he could get himself out of the woods. Franklin had his doubts.

“Yes, sir,” Dovey said. “ Bremerton thinks he knows how to get out of here.”

The Chicago guy? Well, that was a good one, the damn guy from Chicago knowing how to get the hell out of Genesee. He was obviously a guy who paid attention. Dovey could learn a few things from a guy who knew how to pay attention.

“Then let him drive, Smollett, and get your ass back to Denver.”

Franklin ended the call and had his finger on the speed dial to Eliot, when his enforcer entered the warehouse on the main floor.

With Burt Alden in tow-literally, dammit.

Franklin was kind of an expert in the broken bones department, and he knew at a glance that Eliot had broken Burt’s arm. It was dangling at the man’s side, looking useless.

God, that had to hurt.

Franklin had never had a broken bone, and he’d never had one for a good reason: He was smart.

Too smart to let some mope get ahold of him and break his goddamn arm.

He pushed open the window and hollered down into the warehouse, “Bring him up here.”

Eliot nodded and headed toward the stairs, hauling the guy with him. He had a grip on the older man’s good arm and was practically lifting Burt off his feet. Eliot was a big guy, six four, two hundred and eighty pounds of pure stupid mean. Dovey had it all over Eliot in the brains department, which wasn’t saying much, but Eliot knew how to execute an order. He never failed. Give Eliot an order and count on results; that’s what Franklin did, what he’d been doing for fifteen years, ever since Eliot’s last heavyweight fight had put him in a coma for a week and a half. The guy hadn’t come out of it quite right, and he’d been Franklin ’s boy ever since.

He wasn’t much in the looks department, but for what Franklin used him for, his looks worked, scaring money out of people more often than not, before Eliot ever got a chance to use his fists on them. His years in the ring had left him with a disfigured left ear, a general puffiness in his face, and one drooping eyelid, not to mention a few scars.

Franklin went back to sitting at his desk and waited. When Eliot brought Burt into the office, he could see right off the bat that his man had gone too far, too early in the game. Sweat was rolling off the older man, and his skin was pale, his glasses askew, his thin sand-colored hair sticking up all over. Burt Alden wasn’t a big man. He had a narrow build and a narrow face, and he looked more than half sick with pain. Of course, anyone would look sick dressed in brown corduroy pants and a ratty green striped shirt.

Style wasn’t that hard to come buy. Franklin had it by the boatload-quality slacks, black in color, dark blue silk shirt, a quality shirt, and a sharp vest, also in black, to match the slacks. Add a gold pocket watch, and bodda-bing bodda-bang, instant style.

Style was easy, except for guys like Burt Alden, who just never got it.

“Look at you, Burt. You look like hell.” Franklin didn’t understand it, why anyone would let themselves get in such a state. “Where the hell is my money?”

“Th-the money’s good, Bleak,” Burt said, wincing.

“I know it’s good, but where is it?” He was mad enough to do some real damage if Burt didn’t pony up. Katherine Gray wanted to meet him, but Graham Percy would pull the plug if Bleak didn’t get his hands on the cocaine, and the Chicago boys weren’t going to be giving it away. They were going to want the cash sitting in their hands, all the cash.

“My girl’s got it. She’s bringing it.” Burt sucked in a breath. “She had a deal tonight.”

That was news.

“Up in Genesee?”

“Yeah,” Burt said, his face growing even paler, if that was possible. “H-how’d you know about Genesee? You, you d-don’t have my girl, do you?”

“No, Burt,” Franklin reassured the man. “I don’t have your girl.”

Now your wife, asshole, that’s a different story, and she’s sweating almost as badly as you.

But Beth Alden’s life was looking up. She didn’t know it yet, but her husband had just delivered some very good news. Little Esme Alden had made it to Genesee and back, and if she’d gone there to get the money, well, then Burt’s life was looking up, too.

“She got the whole eighty-two thousand? Is that what you’re telling me, Burt?”

The older man nodded, one, slow, short nod- and even that hurt. Franklin could tell.

He looked at his watch-coming up on midnight-and looked back at Burt Alden. Five hours was a lot when a guy’s arm was broken, but Franklin figured the guy would hold on. He’d seen guys hold on for an ungodly amount of time, guys who’d been hurt a lot worse than old Burt. Franklin knew, though, that old Burt could be hurt a lot worse than just a broken arm. Something about the way the guy was hanging there from Eliot’s grip made Franklin think there had been some internal damage.

Eliot usually did some internal damage.

But if old Burt didn’t hold on, well, it wasn’t really Franklin ’s loss, not as long as he had the eighty-two thousand, which just kept bringing him back to the same place he’d started out tonight. He needed the girl.

He’d known it. So help him God, he’d known it. That was why he’d sent goddamn Dovey over to LoDo in the first place, to pick her up.

“Where were you supposed to meet her to get the money, Burt?” It would be easy enough for Eliot to make the meeting. Hell, maybe Franklin would go himself. Esme Alden was a looker. She was no Katherine Gray, not nearly as much pizzazz, but she had her share, and from all accounts, she was real smart. Valedictorian, Dovey had said, and yet she’d ended up dating one of Baby Duce’s boys, so how smart was she, really?

Franklin was sure proud of his little girl. Lindsey was no valedictorian. She was an athlete, varsity, which was even better in Franklin ’s book. His little Lindsey was real popular, too. Dovey had said Esme Alden hadn’t had a date in high school. Lindsey had lots of dates, and she sure as hell would never end up with some damn gangbanger from the Locos.

Pure class, that was his little girl.

“I…I wasn’t meeting her,” Burt said, every word sounding like it cost him. “She’s coming here, to do…do the deal.”