“Oh, hey, I got something you might wanna see,” Karyn says.

She goes toward the back, grabs something from a metal table.

She lays it down in front of Mookie.

It’s a cleaver. Inside a brown leather sheath.

He grabs it. Holds it. Likes its weight. The carving blade fits inside the sheath snug as anything – it slides in like a hand inside a pocket. A dark wooden handle with two inlaid brass stars encompassing the heavy pins affixing it to the blade. The handle is long. “It fits me,” he says. The wood, polished to a gleam. Mookie draws it from the sheath.

The blade is bigger than a hardback book and almost as thick at the back – perfect for smashing garlic or, in Mookie’s world, cracking heads. The blade itself is serrated, not on purpose but through what must be years of use – the edge a crass line of crooked razor teeth. But when Mookie slides his thumb across it, he sees how sharp it is just the same. The flesh parts like soft whitefish and a bead of dark blood draws to the surface.

He wipes it on his shirt.

“Classy,” she tells him.

He gestures to her apron with his chin. “Hey, we’re used to blood.”

“You’re maybe used to a different kind of blood.”

A cold moment between them. Her eyes flick away from him. Is that fear there? She knows who he is. Maybe some of what he does.

But she pulls away from it, says, “That cleaver does me right. Not just for tenderloin or chicken bones. That’ll get me through the skull of a bison if I want it to.”

“Yeah, nice, nice.” It fits like it belongs to him already. “What do you want for it?”

“Cost me fifty, so I’ll take fifty.”

“I’ll pay more.”

“Nah. Just next time you come into the city, bring me some of what you been making lately. Hook a lady up.”

“Man, I’ve been busy.” He folds a trio of twenties, hopes she doesn’t notice as he slides the folded bills toward her. “Made some lardo I’m pretty proud of. Nowhere near like what you’re bringing to the table. But it’s… OK.”

“Like I said. Bring some in next time you come.”

“That’s like a four-year-old bringing in his fingerpainting to, uhh, ahhh–” He tries to think of some kind of masterpiece painter, but nothing’s coming to mind. “One of those old artist guys. But yeah. I will. Just so you can tell me what I’m doin’ wrong.” He stands. It’s time. Get it over with. “I got a favor to ask.”

“Favor. OK. Anything.”

“I need to talk to Lulu.”

Karyn bristles. She takes a step back.

“What? Why?”

“I…” He doesn’t want to say too much. Karyn can’t know. Can’t get drawn in. “I just got some questions to ask her.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It ain’t. It’s fine. Please.”

“I’m not…” She takes a deep breath. “I can’t. Your world. Her world…”