The phone rings and I answer it and talk to someone and hang up.

I head for the door, in a hurry to be somewhere else, to be doing something else. To be thinking about anything else. I go fast and I leave the guns behind.

I won’t need one where I’m headed.

Unless I plan on shooting my boss.

God knows I’ve had worse ideas.

Organ courier.

I wish.

Freelance. My own boss. The way I used to have it.

That was cherry.

It was a scrabble being a Rogue, not having a Clan to look out for you and keep you in the drink, but no one looks over your shoulder and tells you what to do. You fuck up, someone’s gonna put you down. Nothing but blood, sweat and tears. And damn little blood.

Hell, I pine for it.

– The Candy Man? That’s a real bummer.

I get out of my own head and look at Terry, the man whose dime I’ve been on for the last year. Not that he’d put it that way. He’d say I’m simply a pledged member of the Society, serving the greater good. But I know better. After all, it may be a dog’s life, and I may be the dog, but I know whose hand is holding the leash.

– Yeah, whole bunch of SoHo ragtags are gonna have to find a new hookup.

He holds his index finger and thumb an inch apart.

– You’re still taking the short view.

He spreads his arms wide.

– What I’m trying to get you to see is the big picture. Expand your vision, get into your peripherals, man. See the vistas. The trees, they’re beautiful. But the forest, when you see the whole thing? That’s a mindblower.

He shades his eyes with a flat hand, gazing into the distances beyond the walls of this tenement kitchen.