Vincent said, ‘Guys, c’mon.’ Looking at the red-faced blond guy—a subliminal indication that his attention was leftward, away from the man with the headphones. ‘I think we’re better off just talking things over.’

The blond guy started to reply, which was helpful, because it reinforced the notion that the only interaction was between him and Vincent. Without looking, Vincent jumped right and put a kick through the knee of the man with the headphones, striking the joint front-on and at a downward angle—more of a stomp, really—bringing the foot through with as much weight as he could summon. He felt the knee give with a crack, and the guy came down hard with a face like a ten-thousand–volt shock, and Vincent pivoted to his left and swung through again with his right leg and kicked the blond guy in the groin.

He’d hoped at that point, with two people on the ground, the ratty guy might be inclined to get in the DeVille and drive away. But he came at Vincent side-on in a boxer’s stance, hands raised, trying out a few shadow jabs as he closed the gap. Vincent hunched a little and raised his arms up by his head, elbows forward like a pair of horns—a Mossad technique he’d learned. It prevented face shots but preserved visibility, which meant the guy had to try for body blows: he launched two right jabs that Vincent took on the Philip Roth book, and then a big left that landed square on the Amis. The guy was close in now and had his arms lowered, and Vincent lunged forward—leg thrust with a bit of help from the waist—and hit the guy in the face with his raised elbows.

The guy went down bleeding, and Vincent took a moment to survey the damage: the guy with the headphones on his side, moaning and hissing through clenched teeth with his leg bent the wrong way; the blond man in the suit dry-retching and hunched up like a contortionist trying to fit in a suitcase; the ratty guy down on one knee, touching his face and then looking at his fingers, like he’d never seen blood before.

Billy Ellis and the woman were just standing there.

Vincent figured modesty and understatement were the best way to move things forward. He went around to the F-150’s passenger door and said to Billy, ‘You drive.’

He got the story on the way back down Kent Avenue. Billy Ellis owed a thirty-K gambling debt to the Marcetti brothers in New Orleans, and he’d fled to New York to get out from under it. The problem was, the blond guy with the red face was some kind of small-time Brooklyn shitbag with a contact list that included folks in Louisiana. He’d bought the debt for a discount, and then come looking for Billy.