Rick took offense at the characterization of him as the nervous Nellie. Frank liked to pretend that he was the big man, the guy with the gun ready to play real-life cops and robbers. But Rick was the brave one. What had Frank done when Rick had thrown a tire iron at Philip’s window? Peel off in the Porsche. That was what.

“You try standing next to Ratatouille’s extended family and see if you don’t itch,” Rick said.

Frank chuckled. “That was a decent payday.”

“Yeah. Brad turned out to be quite the voice actor, huh?”

“Well, he was always better suited for cartoons than romance flicks. I told him when we signed him that he could clean up as the heavy. But it’s too out of character for him. Audiences can’t buy it after seeing his comedy.”

“He’s too nice a guy,” Rick agreed. “No one believes he’s going to blow anyone’s head off.”

As soon as he said it, Rick regretted it. He worried that Frank would take the statement as a challenge, a sly suggestion that Mr. Brand-New Revolver didn’t have the guts to fire at anyone. Shooting someone didn’t take courage, in Rick’s opinion. It took fear and anger. A lack of control.

He still didn’t know whether Frank’s emotions had gotten the better of him when talking to Nate about their failed restaurant. Rick hadn’t asked his partner point-blank because he didn’t really want to know. Better for him to continue operating under a cloud of plausible deniability, to be able to say that he hadn’t turned Frank in because he’d been certain that Nate had died after a marital dispute with his wife. She was probably the more likely suspect anyway. If Melissa had learned half the crap that Nate had pulled over the years—half the things that Rick had smoothed over and kept out of the headlines—then she would have had more than enough cause to shoot him in the face.

A rustling noise sounded from the opposite side of the alley, followed by a crack and a whoosh. Rick was still struggling to make sense of the noises when he saw Philip in the doorjamb, illuminated by the kitchen light behind him. He held a large, black plastic bag, near bursting at the seams.

“Philip,” Rick shouted, stepping into the center of the alley where the light reached. “We need to talk.”

Philip continued toward the dumpster as if Rick hadn’t just surprised him in a dark alley. As if he found his presence nothing more than slightly tiresome. “Money’s spent, man.” He flung back the dumpster’s metal lid with one hand and tossed the bag inside. “There’s nothing more to talk about.”