“Frankly, I’m not too keen on yours,” I said. “My godfather almost died because of your disorganized organization. You sent three no-talent punks from Jersey for me, and you gave a cop I put in prison twenty-five hundred to punch my ticket. I ended up in the hospital for four days, but the real fucking insult is you gave him twenty-five hundred. I’m worth at least fifteen large, asshole! So stop being a pain in my ass and get smart: Sloane’s got your money. You find him, you find your money. You keep coming after me, and swear to God, I’ll dump separate pieces of you in sewers from here to Dearborn.”

“You seem to forget,” Bo said congenially. “I have a gun pointed at you, Mr. Snow.”

“And you forget,” I said. “I have a friend with a switchblade less than an inch from the base of your skull. Six inches in, a little shake and bake, and you’re either dead or a vegetable.”

Bo’s face went slack.

I wasn’t sure Jimmy had it in him to stick a knife into the brain stem of another man. But his look was one of someone quietly centered and clear about whatever his choice was. I hated putting the kid in that position, but it was the only card I had left to play.

Bojing’s phone announced an incoming call: Elvis Presley’s “Viva Las Vegas” covered by ZZ Top.

He slowly, cautiously stowed his gun away in his shoulder rig.

Ben brought my remade sandwich and fries out and set the plate in front of me.

“Everything cool?” Ben said. He nodded toward Xiang, who was sitting up against a counter stool but still out of it. “You want me to watch the kid?”

“With what?” I said. “A spatula?”

Ben reached into the wide pocket of his cargo pants and revealed a .357 Colt King Cobra revolver. “I call it my Holocaust denier denier.”

“We’re good, Ben.”

He went back to the kitchen.

Bojing was speaking fluent French into his phone.

I don’t speak French, but I know the look of someone getting reamed out by a superior. That sudden and confusing storm of anger, embarrassment and desperation. The call ended and Bo stared at me with a look that I’ve met numerous times before: barely restrained murderous contempt.

“It seems I’ve vastly underestimated you, Mr. Snow,” Bo said.

He stood, buttoned his overcoat, gave Xiang on the floor a kick to his ribs and issued the semiconscious killer a command in Chinese.

“What’s happening here?” I said.

“I thought we were coming to a gentleman’s agreement,” Bo said. “About the money and about your neighborhood. Apparently, I was wrong.”

“Wait a minute—”

“Good day, Mr. Snow.”

Xiang, nursing his broken fingers, gave Jimmy a bleary-eyed look and said, “Next time, mate.”

Bo pushed Xiang to the door, and the two men were gone.