“You were bought-and-paid-for muscle,” I said. “An extortionist who collected and distributed bribes, then licked his chops at the dirty money he pocketed.” I spat out some blood. Even in a rage, he delivered a punch I could take. For a while. “You and Marco Jennings and Sal Lanzotti and that nut-sack mouth breather Neil Bayman broke legs, kneecapped and honey trapped on behalf of the old mayor.”

Another right cross to my jaw.

Blood pressure: 160 over 70.

Bruised but not broken.

“Cheap thugs in polyester pimp suits hiding behind shit-stained badges,” I continued. “Wha’d the newspapers call you and your crew? The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Of course, the news never gets it right. They should have called you guys the Four Fuckin’ Stooges.”

Hayes unleashed a right cross, a left cross and another right before landing a solid, lingering punch to my midsection, forcing every bit of air out of me. I figured even with his current level of brutality, I could last maybe twenty minutes, a half hour. After that, it was anybody’s guess.

With a gloved hand, Hayes grabbed my throat, and bringing his face within inches of mine, he hissed, “Jennings got out a year before me. Spent a grand at a strip club, then went to the restroom and ate a bullet. Lanzotti? Opioid overdose, probably from his back troubles. See, he got the shit kicked out of him in Jackson before he was released. Good men who just needed a little more cash for their wives. Their kids. So please, Detective Snow. If you would. Spare me your self-righteous, holier-than-fucking-thou assessment.”

He released his choke hold on my throat.

As thanks, I slammed my forehead hard against the bridge of his nose.

A Scottish Kiss.

Hayes stumbled back, his nose bloodied. He laughed. Then he said, “I could use some coffee. You want some coffee?”

“Cut me free and I forget about this whole thing,” I said. I could feel the zip ties biting into my wrists, my ankles. “I’ll even pay you. What’s your asking price these days?”

At a small table behind the work lights, Hayes poured steaming black coffee from a thermos into two white Styrofoam cups.

“Oh, no, see, I’m already spoken for, sweet cheeks,” he said, blowing the steam away from one cup and taking a cautious sip. “Imagine my surprise when I find an envelope with twenty-five crisp C-notes slipped under the door of my one-bedroom apartment in Redford and a note kindly requesting me to give former detective lieutenant and gold-plated snitch August Octavio Snow a nice little tune-up. You know, it felt just like Christmas! Apparently, you’ve been a naughty boy, Detective Snow, making off with somebody’s five mil, for which I get a ten percent recovery fee—”