Blondie said, “Maybe you should call Mr. Indigo. We got that guard, he can get a message to him, ask whether the stuff might be someplace else and—”

“We are not calling Mr. Indigo!” Bullock bellowed. “That is the last fucking thing we are going to do, you understand?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m not calling him, you’re not calling him, no one is fucking calling him!”

“Okay, gotcha.”

“The last thing I need is him thinking I’ve fucked this up somehow! He’s trusting me to run things, and if I can’t do it, he can just as easily call someone in from the West Coast to do it instead, you understand?”

“I said yeah. Chill out, man.”

“Chill out? Is that what you said? You want me to chill out?” Bullock was in Blondie’s face now, as best he could, being about six inches shorter. “Getting this car back, recovering this shipment, this is a very important test not just for me, but for the three of us. That’s why we’re going to figure this out, find the coke, and Mr. Indigo will know nothing more than that we did our fucking jobs. Is that clear?”

“Yeah, boss.”

I spoke up. “What about in the rocker panels? Like in The French Connection. That’s where they hid the stuff in the movie.”

“Shut up,” Bullock said.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a slender item, black in color, about six, seven inches long, pressed a button on it I couldn’t see, and suddenly this item was twice as long, and half of it was very shiny. And then he began, slowly, to walk toward me.

“I think,” he said, waving the switchblade very slowly, “that you’re holding out on me.”

I took a step back toward the garage door. “No,” I said. “I’m not. If I knew where those drugs were, I’d go get them for you now. I have no idea why they aren’t in that car.”

Bullock kept approaching, the knife kept waving. I thought, although I couldn’t be sure, that I could see small traces of blood near the blade’s base. I had a pretty good idea whose blood that might be.

I pressed myself up against the garage door, Bullock only inches from me now. He brought the knife close to my neck.

I thought I felt the gun sag just a bit against my ankle.

“That’s a very kind offer,” he said. “Makes me think you might already have an idea where those drugs might be.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t. I swear on every one of your Barbies, I don’t know.”

His eyes danced. Was my comment meant to convey sincerity, or was I mocking him, he wondered. And I wondered, Why is it, despite my best efforts, I keep saying and doing things that make me seem like an asshole?