“Still, thanks for being honest. And don’t think I don’t know. I know you killed me.” He draws a deep breath, then lowers his voice. “… but I killed me, too. I hurt my family worse than you ever did.”

Mookie knows that feeling all too well.

Burnsy continues: “I’m not forgiving you. That’s not the kind of thing I can stopper up in a bottle and throw into a dark hole. Every day my skin feels like I’m being bitten by a thousand black widow spiders. Every day is a day I have to sneak up top to see my family – you know my wife got remarried? Some banker turd. My kid’s smart, at least. Spelling bee champ. Good with numbers, too.”

“That’s something.”

“But…” He fumbles around under some mess for a blue plastic spray bottle. He spritzes some all up and down his face. “What I’m saying is, you wanna ask me for a favor, I’ll let you ask. At least.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I need to find a ghost.”

“Find a ghost.” Another water spritz.

“I heard you got into that. Tracking specters.”

“Most of us Daisypusher types fall into that kind of work. We’re good at it. Who you wanna find?”

“The Boss, his grandson–”

“Died, I know, I heard.” Burnsy waves away Mookie’s surprise. “Information has weight, and this place has gravity. News always trickles down. You want me to find the grandson’s ghost? So you can solve the murder, I’m guessing.”

“They say my daughter did it.”

Burnsy whistles. “That I did not know. What do you say?”

Mookie doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Won’t.

“Right, OK. If he’s down in the dark somewhere, I can find him. But this isn’t a favor. This is a job. And I take this job, you gotta pony up.”

“Whaddya want?”

“My family.”

“I can’t give you them back. Or you back to them.”

“No, not that. I want them cared for.”

“You said she’s remarried, that the girl is… smart.”

Burnsy stares hard, those bright white eyes like uncovered light bulbs. “And I want to be the one making their lives better, not worse for once in my… life. Unlife. Whatever. I want to take care of them. One last time.”

“Name the price.”

“Fifty thousand.”

Mookie almost chokes.

“A year,” Burnsy adds.

“Christ, Lister.”

“That’s the cost. Pay it or hit the schist.”

Mookie’s not good with math, but he knows what he makes a year and he knows that while the Boss is good for stuff like this, he has no idea how long the Boss is going to be hanging around what with the cancer and all.

A counteroffer, then. “Twenty-k a year for five years.”

“Thirty for twenty.”

“Twenty-five for ten.”