Then there’s that nagging thought: Nora knew about this. She told me he was sick.

How the hell did she know?

Mookie moves to get in line. He jostles Shawndell Washington, who turns to say something but then sees who he’s dealing with and then shuts up. Sometimes Mookie likes scaring people. Other times it makes him sad. Right now he just wants to eat.

Which is why it sucks that Werth comes up, grabs him out of line.

“Hey goddamnit,” Mookie protests with a grindstone growl.

“Shut up, you’ll get to eat. You’re like one of those goddamn Hungry Hungry Hippos.” He waves Mookie on. “Let’s go see the Boss.”

“He doesn’t want to see us.”

“He doesn’t want to see you. But we gotta pay our respects.”

“All right, all right. But then we eat?”

As they head over to the corner table where the Boss has parked himself, his tank, and Haversham, Werth slaps Mookie’s gut through his stained shirt. “I remember when you were cut like a slab of mountain rock. You got fat.”

“I got old.”

“I’m older than you,” Werth says. “And I’m thinner than ever.”

“You got a tapeworm. And you’re part goat.”

They stand in line behind a couple of other lieuts looking to kiss the ring, metaphorically-speaking. Werth keeps egging Mookie on: “I’m just saying, Mookie, you used to be a mean cut of meat. Now you’re like a… flabby chuck roast.”

“I can still hit things.” He snorts. “And chuck makes a damn good pot roast.”

“Oh, here we go. You and your little… froofy foodie obsession.”

“It’s charcuterie.”

“Shark cootery. Sounds French.”

“It is.”

“You’re too dumb to speak froofy French.”

Mookie shrugs. “Only French word I know. And it ain’t froofy. It’s meat. I kill pigs. I take their meat. I put it in sausages. I cure the fat. I eat it.”

“Whatever. You know what I like? That two cheeseburger meal at McDonald’s. Same every time. Couple bucks. Greasy and sweet. The pickle? The ketchup and mustard? Right on the money. And those fucking French fries, Jesus Christ on a cupcake those are like, the perfect– Oh, here we go.”

Ahead of them, Marla Koladky-Pinsky steps out of their way, gives them a pissy look like they’re the last pair of dingleberries hanging, and then–

There he is. The Boss. Looking small and crumpled. Like an origami tiger on the seat that somebody sat on without realizing.

The Boss stands. Steps around his oxygen tank, thrusts out a hand. That’s his thing. He shakes your hand no matter who you are.

Mookie takes the hand.

“Don’t break my arm,” the Boss says with a wink. He stifles a hard cough.

“I won’t.”

“You got a good grip. Confident. But not too confident.” The Boss doesn’t let go. He casts a squinty look down at the two hands – his own hand dwarfed by the human oven mitt that is Mookie’s. “I can tell everything with a handshake. Everything. It all comes together in that moment. I can tell if I like a guy. Or if I want to stick him in the gills with a switchblade. I can tell if he’s gonna betray me or if he’ll stand by me as Hell pisses on my head.” He licks his teeth. “You’re rock fucking solid, you are. Not just physically. You’re loyal. A good soldier. And you–”