“It was me. What are you doing here, Bix?”

“Frankie Gee told you about me acquiring your marker?” he said.

“Yeah, I know all about it. With respect, this business about a marker is bogus,” Clete said. “I think Frankie took you over the hurdles. I hope you didn’t get burned too bad.”

“If it’s bogus, why is your name signed on it?” Bix asked.

“Because I used to play bourre with the Figorelli brothers. I lost some money in a pot, but I covered it the following week. How that marker ended up in Didi Gee’s safe, I don’t know.”

“Maybe because you were stoned out of your head.”

“That’s a possibility. But I don’t know and I don’t remember and I don’t care.”

“Purcel, ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I don’t care’ don’t flush.”

“It’d better, because that’s as good as it’s going to get. What’s Waylon doing here?” Clete said.

“He works for me. Why do you ask?”

“He killed a four-year-old child, is why,” Clete replied.

“That was during a robbery. Waylon was the victim, not the guy doing the robbery,” Bix said.

“He backed up over a kid and made the parents testify that a carjacker did it,” Clete said.

“That’s news to me,” Bix said, looking at his friend. “What’s this stuff about intimidating the parents, Waylon?”

“You got me,” Waylon Grimes said. He was a small-boned man with a concave chest and a wispy red pencil mustache and hair that hung like string over his ears. He wore his shirt outside his slacks, the sleeves buttoned at the wrists the way a 1950s hood might, a chain hooked to a wallet in his back pocket. He lit a cigarette, his hands cupped around his lighter. “Want me to go downstairs?”

“No, stay where you’re at,” Bix said. “Purcel, I’m not greedy. I checked out your finances. You got about fifty grand equity in this place. You can borrow on the equity and give the check to me, since I know you don’t have any cash. But no matter how you cut it, I want thirty large from you. I want it in seven working days, too. Don’t try to stiff me on this, man.”