Deke, who must entertain so many agonized egurgitations that he has cultivated a dentist’s facility for interpretation, comprehends my meaning instantly and relaxes the pliers. He does not let me up, however; he holds me to the ground, pinned in a posture of absolute submission, hovering over me. Up close, I notice that he has the sad, calm eyes of the truly violent, eyes that have seen it all, done it all, and therefore know what’s coming, and how much it will hurt.

Deke tilts his head quizzically, showing me his ear, flaunting it, I think at first, but then I am able to comprehend through the stupefying pain that he is making a gesture that is meant to invite speech. He is encouraging me to repeat myself, and I am only too eager to please.

“Money,” I say, sticking to the vitals. “I have some. Will have some.”

“How much?” he asks casually, as if inquiring about a menu special.

“Plenty.”

“How much precisely?”

Reflexively I utter the figure that will be due the floater as commission upon full execution of the Nakamura job.

“And you want to do the right thing with it?” he asks, squeezing the pliers.

With my earlobe ensnared, nodding is out of the question, so I contort my face into an expression that I hope conveys affirmation. Deke nods as if proud of a student who has hazarded an adventurous guess at a difficult problem. The pressure diminishes, the curtains of pain in front of my eyes momentarily pull up, and I am able to breathe.

“When?”

“Soon,” I say, committing another faux pas. Apparently this is yet another statement Deke is weary of hearing, and down go the curtains. I’m not sure how much time passes but eventually his vise grip lets up and I am able to gasp for oxygen.

“When precisely?” Deke asks tonelessly.

It’s hard to do the computation when my head is so preoccupied routing signals of agony, but I think: today’s Thursday, the Nakamura job starts next Saturday, one-week hold, figure another week for the clowns in payroll...

“Three weeks!” I blurt. Then as the pliers relax, I unwisely say, “Four absolute max.” Seconds later I am recanting. “Three-threethreethree!” I repeat until Deke releases me and undergoes a facial spasm that might be a smile.

“Three weeks, then,” he says. Then he repeats the figure I quoted as the floater commission, which, without the influence of pliers, now seems optimistically large. It’s possible I carried a nonexistent one or messed up a decimal. I was never any good at math in school, much less math under duress of torture. “I’ll pencil it in.”

Then he pockets the pliers, stands up, pats his chest and inhales pleasantly, as if savoring the first flowers of spring, and produces an envelope that he toys with like a bauble.

“I know I have a reputation,” he says, almost apologetically, turning the envelope over in his hands. “I know people say things. But don’t worry. If you’re late I won’t kill you. I try not to kill clients. It’s bad business.”