Bubba cared about exactly two people in the world—me and Angie. And Phil had spent too much time hurting Angie over the years for Bubba to feel anything for him but pure hate. Being the object of another’s hate is relative. If the person who hates you is an advertising exec whose Infiniti you cut off in traffic, you’re probably not going to worry much. If Bubba hates you, though, putting a couple of continents between the two of you is not a bad idea.

“Bubba,” I said.

He turned his head slowly to look up at me and his gaze was muddy.

“Phil is on our side for this one. That’s all you need to know right now. He wants to be in on whatever we do.”

He showed no reaction, just turned his head back toward Phil, fixed that muddy gaze on him.

Phil held the look for as long as he could, long after sweat had slid down by his ears, but eventually he looked at the floor.

“All right, douche,” Bubba said. “We’ll let you sit in for a few hands, you want to find redemption for what you did to your wife or whatever bullshit you told yourself.” He stood and towered over Phil until Phil looked up. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding—Patrick forgives. Angie forgives. I don’t. Someday I’m going to hurt you.”

Phil nodded. “I know that, Bubba.”

Bubba used his index finger to prop Phil’s chin up. “And if anything that happens in this room leaks, I’ll know it didn’t come from Patrick. Which means I’ll kill you, Phil. Got it?”

Phil tried to nod, but Bubba’s finger kept his head from moving.

“Yes,” Phil said through gritted teeth.

Bubba looked up at a dark wall on the other side of the elevator. “Lights,” he called.

Someone behind the wall flicked a switch and a sickly green-and-white neon flickered in the few remaining light fixtures over the back half of the alleys. There was more sputtering and several gauzy yellow bars of light shafted over the bowling pits themselves.

Bubba raised his arms and turned around grandly, like Moses parting the Red Sea, and we looked down the alleys as a rat scurried for safety along one of the gutters.

“Holy shit,” Phil said under his breath.

“You say something?” Bubba said.

“No. Nothing,” Phil managed.

At the end of the alley directly in front of me, Kevin Hurlihy was kneeling in the pit. His hands were tied behind his back and his legs were tied at the ankles and a noose around his neck was tied to a nail in the wall over the pit. His face was swollen and shiny with bloody welts. The nose Bubba had broken was flabby and blue, and his broken jaw was wired shut.

Jack Rouse, looking even worse for wear, was tied in an identical fashion in the next alley over. Jack was a lot older than Kevin and his face was almost green and slick with sweat.