“Leave that to me,” Cap said. He smacked the heavy bag one last time, hard enough rattle the chains.

*   *   *

FOLLOWING CAP’S instructions, Lou grabbed a couple of slices of pizza from Dimitri’s, making a conscious effort not to look around while making the purchase. Outside, the two men in a black Cadillac sedan rolled past, then past again in the other direction.

“Be careful to act nonchalant,” Cap had insisted. “You don’t want these guys getting suspicious.”

Lou carried the pizza box upstairs to his apartment. Once inside, he turned on the TV and took out a slice. He felt like a duck in a carnival shooting gallery walking back and forth in front of his apartment windows while eating a slice of four-cheese with mushrooms, but he wanted to be certain he was seen from the street below.

Again, Cap’s idea, not his.

Lou’s cell phone rang. He stepped away from the windows to answer it.

“They’re on the move,” Cap said. “They think you’re in for the night. Let’s go.”

Lou raced down the back stairwell, threw open the unalarmed fire exit door, and stepped into a narrow alleyway. A beat-up Chevy Prizm, sans hubcaps and the passenger-side mirror, sped down the alley toward him and flashed its lights once. The rear door opened and Lou scrambled into the backseat as the car kept rolling. Then, as soon as he slammed the door, it accelerated.

Cap was driving, but Lou did not recognize the two twenty-something black men in the car with him. The one sitting beside Lou was clean-shaven with short, tightly curled hair. He was big, as in “needs to buy an extra plane ticket to fly” big.

“Ah man, I smell pizza. You bring us any pie?” he asked.

“After we get back to the gym, it’s my treat.”

“Terrific. I do a large with everything. Hold the anchovies.”

“Lou, meet Notso,” Cap said from the driver’s seat.

Notso’s beefy hand enfolded Lou’s like the wrapping on a burrito.

“Notso?” Lou asked.

“His real name is Anthony,” the man riding shotgun said, “but his last name is Brite.”

“Got it,” Lou said, suppressing a smile. “You okay with that, Mr. Brite?”

“My mother’s the one who first called me it, so I guess the answer’s yes.”

“And you would be?” Lou asked the second man.

The man maneuvered around to get a better look at Lou. He was slightly built, a while from his last shave, and was wearing a gray T-shirt, tattered at the neck. His left ear was studded with a lone diamond, while his tortoiseshell glasses gave him an air of intelligence. He reminded Lou of Spike Lee—minus the New York Knicks gear.

“Name’s George,” he said. “George Kozak.”

His hand was to Lou’s as Lou’s was to Notso Brite’s.