“Danny?” Jackie said. With just his name, Jackie had pulled his reins.

I flipped through the paperwork in the folder: spreadsheets, profit and loss statements, accounting mumbo jumbo, a simple breakdown of Sloane’s offer, how the offer would be paid out, an unsigned contract.

“The last page, Mr. Snow,” Francine said in a soft voice.

A list of amounts of money.

And a name that instantly injected ice water into my spine.

“Gambling debts,” Mr. Ochoa said quietly. “Old gambling debts. I’m embarrassed. Sick about it. I’ve paid most all of it back to the company. To my employees. And to that loan-shark.”

“Why would Vic Bronson, of all people, feel it necessary to introduce this . . . information into an introductory business negotiation, Mr. Snow?” Francine said in a trembling voice. She knew the language of money. She was now acquainted with the terror of a personal threat presented as a spreadsheet.

I was still staring at the loan-shark’s name on the sheet of paper.

“I’ll get back to you on that,” I said, feeling the need for a shot of bourbon.

And a very large gun.

3

3

People who drive it seem to love it.

The Toyota Prius.

Me?

I don’t quite trust any car that (1) can’t accommodate my height and muscle mass and (2) doesn’t make a sound.

With me as her passenger, Elena drove us home from the meeting at Authentico Foods, Inc., in her blue Prius. I wished Elena had taken me up on my offer to drive us in my refurbished silver ’68 Oldsmobile 442—a thank-you gift from Jimmy and Carlos.

“The male version of a steel vibrator,” she’d called it, permanently damaging my pristine image of my godmother.

We turned south off Vernor Highway onto Clark Avenue, driving slowly past Mexicantown’s Clark Park, its multitude of trees showing off their array of fall colors. I thought about how much I’d loved the park as a kid: Baseball and soccer, Saturday barbeques, Sunday walks with my mom and dad, eating lemon ices from the crazy-eyed vendor parked outside of Most Holy Redeemer Church. Attempting to smoke stolen cigarettes, making out with Gina Rojos while fantasizing I was tongue deep with Jackie Ochoa.

Now, in anticipation of an early and snow-packed winter, the owners of the local Mexican grocery store, Honeycomb Market, were busy setting up the skating rink they’d donated to the park.

Who says Black and brown kids don’t play hockey?

“There’s no way you could see yourself buying the business, Octavio?” Elena said as we hummed/levitated through Mexicantown in her Prius.

“I don’t know anything about running a business. I don’t want to know how to run a business. I don’t even know how much a half gallon of milk costs.”

“If only you drank milk, Octavio,” Elena said. “Of course, I’m sure you know how much a single malt whiskey costs.”

Touché.