“Get over it. Be cool. How many times do I have to tell you, the enemy of our enemy is our friend. He came to us, we did not go to him. We have the power in this situation.”

Miggy wasn’t sure whether that was true, but for now he had no choice but to go along with Alonzo’s theory if he wanted unlimited hot water, primo food, and silk sheets.

Mr. Hot Shot, as the Scorpions called him, entered the room and walked up to the makeshift throne in full swagger as if he owned the place. He looked more like someone’s neighbor, possibly a postal worker or a man who worked in a supermarket stocking shelves than a criminal mastermind. He had no distinguishing marks. He had no tattoos and no piercings like the two men in front of him. He didn’t wear glasses or any jewelry, not even a watch. His clothes were ordinary, off the rack—wrinkled chinos, a long-sleeved Izod T-shirt, and boat shoes. He looked to have a full head of brown hair, with just a tinge of gray at the temples.

Mr. Nobody.

Mr. Somebody.

Mr. Anybody.

Or the man with bags of money.

Just a man with no name except for the name that Alonzo bestowed on him, Mr. Hot Shot. Or so the man thought; but about that, he was so very wrong. Alonzo knew exactly who he was, where he lived, and what he did for a living.

Alonzo leaned forward, his eyes as black and shiny as marbles. He squinted now with the sunlight pouring into the stifling room. “Where’s my money?” His tone was light and sounded almost playful.

“You botched the job. Cricket is still alive, and it looks like he’ll make a full recovery. In other words, you didn’t finish the job.” The voice was strong and angry, conceding nothing to the gang leader.

“My house, my rules. We did the job you requested. You can’t blame me for the flock of pigeons that took that particular moment to swoop down to look for food. In my book, that’s an act of God. And just for the record, we do not do do-overs, so pay up!”

“Or what?” the man barked.

The light, playful tone disappeared as if by magic. Alonzo laughed, a mean, menacing sound that didn’t seem to bother the man standing in front of him.

The meat cleaver, which was razor-sharp, sliced through the air so close to the man’s ear that it sounded to the man as if the tide at the ocean had just rushed in before it hit its intended mark on the door frame.