The old goat is seething. Caprine nostrils flaring.

“Werth–”

“Don’t you fuckin’ start, Mook. Don’t.”

“I didn’t know–”

“That was her, wasn’t it? At your place the other night. When I called, she was there.” Mookie gnaws a thumbnail, but Werth grabs the hand and yanks it out of Mookie’s mouth. “Look at me and don’t lie. Why’d she come see you?”

“She knew the Boss was sick.”

“What?”

“I dunno how. And then she said…” Don’t tell him, he doesn’t need to know. But Mookie hears the words coming out of his mouth: “Something was coming. Something… big. A game-changer.” He neglects to say she was the one who promised to change the game. He reserves that much loyalty for her.

Werth snarls. “Mookie. This whole thing, this whole fucking thing, is on you. I told you to deal with her. I gave you a good length of leash on this one, didn’t I? I didn’t tell Haversham or the Boss how you were connected to her. I didn’t go after her myself even after the little cunt–”

Mookie’s hand closes around Werth’s throat.

“–shot me–” Werth gurgles.

Mookie starts to squeeze.

The blood rushes to Werth’s head, stays there like he’s tying off a water balloon. Mookie feels something jabbing him in the ribs–

A .38 snubnose. Nickel-plated.

Mookie doesn’t care. Keeps squeezing.

Hammer back on the gun. Click.

“Say you’re sorry,” Mookie growls.

“Ggggfffuck you.” Then: “KkkaaaaI’ll shhhhooooot.”

“Apologize.”

The gun barrel digs harder between Mookie’s ribs. People are passing by, now – a Botoxed cougar with her boy-toy and her Yorkie, an old man with a newspaper under his arm. They see what’s going on and hurry past.

The gun presses harder. The sights biting into his side.

Finally, Werth says, “Zzzhhhhsssoooorry.”

Mookie lets go. The old goat takes in a big gulp of breath, quickly pockets the gun.

“You…” Gasp, wheeze, cough. “You fuckin’ asshole. Jesus, Mook.”

“You’re talking about my daughter.”

“Your daughter shot me. And now she’s gone and killed the Boss’s grandson.”

“No.” Mookie shakes his head like a man in denial. “She… she didn’t. That kid was mashed into the floor like a stepped-on banana. She’s just a little girl.”

“Maybe she had help.”

“From who?”

“Maybe from you.”

Mookie feels like he’s been shot in the heart. “You… you know I’d never–”

With a roll of his eyes Werth says, “Yeah, yeah, you’re loyal, I know. You’re like a dumb dog. I know you didn’t do this. But it sure matches your… style of doing business.”

“He seemed like an all right kid.”

“Well, now he’s dead thanks to your kid. Don’t gimme that look. Let’s say she didn’t do it. Doesn’t matter. We’re on the hook for this. Because if we don’t find her? They’re gonna send someone else. Maybe they already have. Like those two thugs, Spall and Lutkevich.”

Those assholes. Two of the Organization’s killers. But they’re not precision men. They’re messy. Spray-and-pray types. They don’t do sniper rifles – they do a hand grenade chucked into an open room, even if that open room is a church or a pre-school.