Halfway up, I had another horrifying thought. What if my climb up was all the ladder could take? How would I get down? I glanced back at the alley floor, making sure the car was still there, and noticed just how far down the ground was from here. This is stupid. I am an idiot. Ben is right; I have a serious problem. I planted my foot one rung up, added my weight, and let out the mother of all yelps when the rung crumbled underneath me, the broken pieces crashing to the asphalt below with an earsplitting rattle. I clung to the ladder, my heart slamming against my rib cage. I was going to kill Nick Spada. I was going to yank his wicked heart right out of his chest and stomp it into a bloody pancake. I started climbing again.

Every rung cleared was a gift from Heaven. When I finally slid my body onto the rooftop’s tar covering, I lay there, hugging it, my cheek to the sticky surface, sweat streaming off me like a waterfall. I’d made it. I didn’t die. I’d live to eat breakfast in the morning, work myself out of debt, grow old in Key West. When my legs and arms stopped shaking, I rose up on all fours and crawled over to the rim to peer over it. There it was, the Dudz and Sudz, just where I left it. I lay on my stomach, flat against the roof, and got out the binoculars, training them at the door. I’d be here when the goons showed up, and if I didn’t figure out a better way to get down, I’d be here for a lot longer than that.

* * *

The Williams brothers walked into the Dudz and Sudz three hours into my ill-advised rooftop sit-in. They drove up in a white Dodge Charger with tinted windows, no front or back plates. The car was likely hot. Maybe the two were trying it out before they drove it into their cousin’s chop shop. I quickly switched from binoculars to camera and snapped away at the ugly twosome. They were standing out in front of the Dudz and Sudz, chewing the fat with a squirrely-looking guy in a tank top and basketball shorts. I snapped him, too.