Vialoux waited as Paulie put a pen and a wallet with the check on the table. The guy sidled off again, and Vialoux said quietly, ‘I’m maxed out. Man, you got no idea. I used to think … I never could understand how people could be poor, you know? It’s like: get a job, work your way out of it. But shit: I feel like … it’s like I’m walking a tightrope, and I got a bucket in this hand, and a bucket in this hand, and another fucking bucket on my head, and in a second I’m going to lose the whole lot.’

He closed his eyes, massaged his temples.

Marshall said, ‘Who’s running the book?’

‘Frank Cifaretti. He must be capo level, now. You know Frank?’

Marshall nodded. He recognized the name. His undercover work had been with the Asaro family. They thought he was a bent-cop-cum-bodyguard. He’d sat in on a couple meetings between them and Frank Cifaretti.

Marshall said, ‘I think we’ve met. You got a number for him?’

‘Yeah, I got a number, but it’s got to the point, he’s not even picking up the phone. I mean, he’s not even talking.’

He looked away, pumped his leg some more. Marshall’s beer can rattled faintly with the vibration. He set it on a napkin. It was empty now, and the stalagmite dew pattern would draw down whichever way it pleased. Marshall didn’t have a role in it. He was off the hook.

He watched Vialoux twist and reach in the pocket of the coat hanging on the back of his chair. He came out with a folded envelope, letter-size, flipped it on the table.

Marshall waited a moment before touching it. He knew he had to see the contents, but then everything he learned posed a risk of trapping him. Data has a gravity. There’d be a point where he’d learned too much, and couldn’t just walk away from the problem. Something would chime with that inner current, that inner guide who says, You should fix this.

Vialoux was leaning forward again, elbows on the table, the envelope’s fold easing slowly open.

Marshall picked it up.

Vialoux’s gaze was faraway and bright, his eyes starting to fill.

Marshall opened the flap and slid out the contents.

Two photographs. A shot of Vialoux’s wife, Hannah, side-on to the camera and opening a car door. And a headshot of his teenage daughter, Ella. Hair across her face, quarter-profile. Zoom-lens shots with foggy backgrounds.

Marshall said, ‘When did you get these?’

‘Yesterday.’ Vialoux cleared his throat, blinked a few times. When he spoke again his voice was steadier. ‘They were taken out front of the house. There’s a note, too.’

He didn’t see it at first, but then he moved apart the photos and found the strip of paper: MONEY BY TUESDAY. NO COPS.

Today was Thursday.