“Four thousand dollars a month,” Shaw said.

“Forty-eight thousand a year.”

“Fifty-two,” Shaw said. “There are fifty-two weeks a year.”

“Right. I know that.”

“Well, you didn’t calculate it that way. It probably just slipped your mind. You were probably thinking in terms of a construction site budget. You were probably thinking about how much steel you could buy, or how many cement trucks you could use. That’s ok. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“How many fucking cement trucks I could get? What the fuck, Shaw?”

“I mean, you are the one who worked construction growing up. And in college. It’s kind of a compliment.”

“A fucking compliment? That’s your idea of a fucking compliment, you fucking yoga pretzel? I’m the one who graduated college, Shaw.”

“Why do you get to call him a fucking yoga pretzel,” Brueckmann muttered, “and I can’t even say he’s—”

“Shut up,” North said, shaking him by the hair.

“Look,” Shaw said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s cute, really. You just didn’t think about how many weeks there are in the year. You were probably thinking about how many pieces of rebar you need for—

“I’m the one who graduated. Not you. Me. I’m the college graduate.”

“I know. And that degree in construction management is absolutely adorable.”

North was breathing through his nose. “Keep pushing this, Shaw. Keep poking me.”

“I’ve got a fucking pen through my hand,” Brueckmann bitched. “I’ve got a fucking broken nose. If you two are done—”

“We were kind of in the middle of something,” North said. “Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt?”

“You’re very smart,” Shaw said.

“Damn right.”

“And you’re amazing at your job. At every job you’ve had, in fact.”

“I absolutely fucking am.”

“And if I were hiring a guy to mix cement, I swear to God, I’d really take a good, long look at your resume.”

North stared at him. His nostrils were white when they flared with each breath. “All right,” he said. “You made your fucking bed, Shaw. I warned you.”

Shaw grinned at him and spread his hands.

“I don’t get why you two are—” Brueckmann began.

“Is that all?” Shaw said to him.

“What?” Brueckmann gave another bloody sputter. “I mean, yeah.”

“How’d you pay?”

“I don’t. I said I wanted proof. The guy never emailed me back. The end.”

“Do you have any idea who it was?” North asked. “And don’t lie to me. I’m at the end of my fucking rope because of this asshat in hemp pants, so don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“I don’t know. Honest to God, I don’t. Not even a clue.”

Shaw and North exchanged a glance. Shaw shrugged. Then he ripped the pen out of Brueckmann’s hand. Brueckmann screamed and fell backward.

Dragging Brueckmann by the hair, North moved toward the back room. Shaw followed, watching Brueckmann gag and moan and howl and try to dig in his heels, but North just kept going. And then they reached the row of wire crates, and North shoved Brueckmann into one at the end.