I wasn’t looking forward to taking the upper-floors watch — not much happened up there at night — but it always paid to do a man like Frank Weld a favor. You never knew when you might need one in return.

I spent the afternoon in the massive rear yard of Party Central. This was my favorite spot. Business was brisk, as a result of which time — the foe of bodyguards worldwide — flew by. Cars had to be checked and rechecked. The fence had to be probed hourly for weak points. Delivery teams, chauffeurs, executives — all were subjected to our scrutiny and tracked into the building if they looked in the least suspicious. The yard could have been Party Central’s Achilles’ heel if not properly policed. As it was, you had a better chance of blasting your way through the front than squeezing in by the back.

At the end of an uneventful shift I ducked out to grab a pizza. Shared it with a couple of guys in the canteen when I got back. Jerry was among them.

“Frank get onto you about the stairs?” he asked as we ate.

“Yeah.”

Jerry made a face. “I hate the espionage shit. If The Cardinal says leave the stairs alone, we should leave ’em the hell alone. For all we know, he plans on running a team of cannibal ninja bastards up and down them all night long.”

Cannibal ninja bastards. I had to smile. “You could have said no.”

“To Frank?” Jerry snorted. “I also could have said, ‘Here’s my ass — ram a stick of dynamite up there and blow me to fuck.’ It was different with Tasso — he didn’t sulk if you turned him down. But Frank…”

I nodded. Frank did tend to take things personally.