And then this woman speaks. Her voice is a monotone.

She says, "I hear you've made some new friends, James."

And it's weird, because I don't know that anyone has ever called Jimmy "James." Not even his parents. I always figured "Jimmy" was the name on his birth certificate.

He stammers something out, something like, "Yeah, man, I'm a – I'm a real friendly dude, everybody knows Jimmy." But he knows something's up. I can't see him, but by now I figure the sweat's pouring off him.

"Even the police," the woman says. It's not a question. It's an accusation.

"No," Jimmy says, but it's half-hearted at best.

"Oh, yeah," the dude says, got a Bronx or Brooklyn accent. "Jimmy, you been talking to po-po. You been cozying up next to the pubic fuzz."

"The pubic what?" Jimmy says. He really doesn't get it.

And those were his last words. The worst last words ever, I might add. Whoever has the white tennis sneaks moves fast behind Jimmy, and then I hear choking, and Jimmy's feet do this epileptic dance on the cement floor of the garage, and I'm goddamn paralyzed with fear. I want to scream and run and piss myself and vomit, but I can't do any of those things. My mouth is open and my hands are frozen.

Then dots of blood hit the cement. Pit, pat, pit.

His foot kicks out, knocks the case back. It's not far from me. I could just reach out –

Something happens in my head. A switch flips. I don't know why I did it. It wasn't something I thought about in a conscious, "do this" kind of way.

There's a mop to my left. I grab it, and I stand up.

I see who's there now – the Italian asshole and this short, stocky bitch. She's got a wire around Jimmy's neck, a wire that dead-ends in two black rubber ball handles, handles she's got tight in her pudgy grip.

The wire's biting into his neck. That's where the blood's coming from.

They all pause to look at me. They're shocked to see me. Even Jimmy, because right then and there, he's still alive, though not for much longer.

That gives me the time I need.

The dago reaches into his jacket, and I jam the mop into the lights. The fluorescents above our heads pop, throwing us back into the dark, and I grab the case and haul ass back into the kitchen. I slam the door behind me, toss a microwave cart under the handle, and it buys me enough time to get back out to my Mustang, throw this heavy-ass case into the passenger side, and get out of town. Only later do I even find out what's in it – it wasn't locked, Jimmy never did up the combination.

So now, here we are.

I never thought they'd find me. Never.

We're fucked.

TWENTY-TWO

Everybody's Fucked

"No, you're fucked," Miriam says.

"We have to go," Ashley says. His smile is gone. She thinks back to the story he told, about how Jimmy the Dealer was on edge, itchy, twitchy – and that's Ashley right here, right now. He looks genuinely scared. The façade has cracked.