They were standing outside of a large conference room; paused on the sixty-five-inch flat-screen TV was the face of Hercule Poirot as played by David Suchet. At the end of the conference table were two large salads.

“We coo,” Duke said.

“You guys eat salad now?” I said.

“Can’t have my protection lookin’ like no chicken-’n’-biscuit niggahs,” Duke said. Then to Fergie and Fin, he said, “Go on, boys. Finish your lunch.”

“You sure you don’t want us to hurt ’em?” either Fergie or Fin asked.

“I’m sure,” Duke said in a calming voice. “Go on now.” The two giants returned to the conference room and Hercule Poirot. Then to Tomás, Duke said, “You got about two seconds to push off me, ya chupacabra-lookin’ mothafucka.”

I shouldered my way between Tomás and Duke. “I suppose you don’t have anything to do with blackmailing Mr. Ronaldo Ochoa with old gambling debts?”

Duke adjusted his expensive suit, brushing what he could of Tomás off him, and furrowed his eyebrows. “Ronaldo who?”

“Ronny Ochoa,” I said. “Owns Athentico Foods in Mexicantown. Came to you maybe twenty years ago for a loan to cover some gambling debts. Says he paid you off with interest. And I know your interest rates are about as reasonable as Wells Fargo’s.”

Duke searched my eyes and Tomás’s before he said, “Somebody out there usin’ me as a cutout. Sleight of hand for suckers—and it looks like y’all done been played.” Duke gave me a hard, unblinking look. “When have you ever known me to be that damned obvious? God, Allah, Buddha and yo momma as my witnesses, I ain’t sellin’ no damn drugs, and I ain’t squeezin’ no old brown dude for his last peso.”

After a moment, I said, “God help me, but I believe you.”

“Seriously?” Tomás said incredulously. “You believe this piece of shit?”

“I do,” I said.

“Look,” Duke said. “I’m bein’ fo real, awright? Punks trading on my name don’t do my new brand no good, because the day five-oh stops surveilling me and the news media stops doggin’ me is the day both be sure I’m dead. So, listen up; I’ll pay you—both of you—to find out who’s throwin’ shade on my name.”

“And if we find out, what then?”

“Let’s just say y’all step out; I step in.”

“You are just shitting me, right?” Tomás growled at me. “You’re gonna take the devil’s money to prove he’s a freakin’ angel?”

“You awright, boss?”

It was TB. Standing, she was an imposing woman: tall, full-figured and strapped with her Smith & Wesson long barrel. Her star-spangled cowboy boots added to the effect.

The Compton twins had joined us in the hallway again, ready to pounce.