Zack takes Joey’s phone out of his pocket.

He still knows that when he hands the phone back, he loses his leverage. But what choice does Zack have?

In full view of everyone at the table, Zack turns on Joey’s phone, once more enters Joey’s code—2580—where all the trouble began, and flashes the familiar home screen at Joey.

Proof. Proof to this guy who needs a record of proof, for some reason. Proof it’s his phone. Proof it’s still working.

He starts to pass it across to Joey.

And drops it into one of the large, hot coffees.

Joey, Emily, and the client are momentarily shocked.

Joey’s eyes go wide in alarm. He reaches frantically for the coffee cup.

Zack pulls it away. Out of Joey’s reach. Dangles it there.

Joey looks at Zack, furious. Opens his coat. Ready to reach for the Glock. Ready to kill Zack right here in the crowded GreenGirl. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

He looks at his phone. Immersed in the coffee cup Zack is holding.

Then, slowly, Joey nods and smiles, suddenly understanding that Zack has voluntarily and completely destroyed the evidence.

So that no one has the evidence.

And if no one has the evidence, then there is no evidence.

Now Zack hands Joey a sealed white envelope. Joey slides it open beneath the table but he already knows. The client’s cash. As if he has actually done the hit.

As if Zack somehow knows how much Joey needs it to pay the rent.

Adding a little sweetener to the deal to make it go down better.

Joey gets it. And he realizes something else, something remarkable: this kid is trusting him. Nobody in his own whole goddamn world likes or trusts him—everybody requires proof—but this redheaded, smart-alecky kid he doesn’t even know is trusting him. Trusting him to get it. Trusting him to understand. Huh. Well that sweetens the deal a little too, thinks Joey.

But Joey can have no loose ends. “You know I have to destroy yours because my number is on it. All our texts. All our back-and-forth.”

Zack nods, understanding.

“I know your whole life is on there,” says Joey.

“Hey, destroying it will give me a life, won’t it?”

Joey nods. Slides Zack’s phone gently into his own coffee. Holds it there. Looks up at Zack questioningly.

Zack answers the technical question so Joey doesn’t have to ask. “After a minute, they’re cooked. Unrecoverable. The heat. The milk. The sugar. A quick immersion in water, beer, or a toilet bowl, an iPhone can be recovered. In hot coffee, with sugar and milk, no way. It’s dead forever.”

Die, phone.

Die in an Americano Grande. Let the milk and sugar sweeten you into nonexistence.

“So now all evidence is gone. Now it’s just a story no one would believe,” says Joey.

The client nods. She accepts it.