The next noises were smothered scrapings and gruntings, Marcena’s laugh, a slap, mock outrage from Bron. An R-rated recording, oh, well. Then a few starts and stops with Bron maneuvering his truck and cursing at some other driver, and then he was telling Marcena to get behind the seats, to lie down on the mattress back there so the guard at the warehouse gate wouldn’t see her. The guard checked him in; the two knew each other and kidded back and forth. There were similar exchanges all through the warehouse; he was talking to my friend in the Harley jacket about their routes and loads, bragging about April and her ball playing, joining in laments about the Bears and about company management, until Grobian summoned him.

Grobian went over his route and his load for the day, then said, “That supplier in your neck of the woods, Czernin, that flag maker, I don’t know if it’s his Serbian head, but it seems kind of thick, like he’s not getting the message.”

“Hey, Grobe, I did my best.”

“And we showed our gratitude.” That was Aunt Jacqui. “But we—the family—want you to give him another message.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“We want you to give him a message, shut his plant down for a day, but let him know we can put it out of business for good if he doesn’t play ball. A hundred, like before, if you do the job by the end of the week. An extra hundred if you make the message strong enough to force him to come round,” Grobian said.

“What did you have in mind?” Bron asked.

“You’re creative, you’re good with your hands,” Aunt Jacqui used a provocative tone, implying that she wouldn’t mind knowing what he did with his hands. “You’ll think of something, I’m sure. I don’t want to hear that kind of detail.”

Her voice came through more clearly than Grobian’s—she must have been sitting in the chair in front of the desk, while Grobian sat behind it. Was she wearing that black dress whose buttons only came down to her hips? Had she crossed her legs, casually, giving a suggestive flash up the thigh—this could be yours, Bron, if you do what I want?

All at once, I heard voices coming in through the loading area. I’d been so intent on the recording that I hadn’t heard the truck pull into the yard. What kind of detective was I, sitting there like a turkey waiting to be shot for Thanksgiving dinner?

“Jacqui, if you wanted to come along you should have worn proper shoes. I don’t care if your damn thousand-dollar boots have a scratch on them. I don’t know why Gary tolerates your spending.”