Do that to fish for what Terry’s up to with Brooklyn? Yeah, figure that’s how Predo plays his games. And figure Terry’s got that figured just as well.

Now I’m supposed to go home, turn in my report, tell him how it went down so he can take a read on Predo’s hand.

Both of them trying to get an idea of the other guy’s cards by looking at my face.

Fucking job!

Oh. Fuck me.

Two dozen pints. He said, Two dozen pints. Fucker knew what Solomon had in stock. Predo. Van Helsing. Would he do that? Send one of his enforcers down to do a job that looks like a Van Helsing? Do that to get me in his office where he can look me over? Hell yes, he would.

Or.

Shit.

Or it could have been Terry. Could have been he had Solomon done, knowing Predo would try to play me. Terry could have done it to get me in Predo’s office so he could…

What?

Fuckers!

Try to think like them, try to make your thoughts slither and creep like theirs, all you get is tangled and lost. Screw it. Keep it simple.

The Van Helsing is just a Van Helsing, till further notice.

Predo is just an asshole, till further notice.

Terry is just my boss and my oldest friend and a man who I don’t trust for shit, till further notice.

I can’t afford to figure it any other way. I can’t afford to try and play it any other way. Start playing someone else’s game, you’ve already lost. Besides, I got more important things to worry about.

I got a sick girl.

– Joe.

I stop kicking the can I’ve been chasing down the dark Central Park footpath. I look at the woman blocking my way.

She’s black and she’s beautiful and she’s built like a brick shit house.

– Sela.

She toes the can with the point of her glossy black knee-high boots, the slit in her skirt falling open over a bare, muscle-rippled thigh.