Vincent said, ‘Look. I won’t do you the discourtesy of pointing a weapon at you. But if I have to pick it up, I’m going to shoot you.’

The Cuban called Andre thought about that for a moment, eyes on Vincent’s and his focus shifting by minute degrees. ‘You think you can get to yours first?’ Sounding genuinely interested.

Vincent said, ‘Uh-huh.’

The Cuban moved his stance, facing him square, the bag hanging at his side. ‘Maybe I should start a count.’

Vincent said, ‘There’s no point counting. It’s just saying you’ve lit the fuse on whatever you’re going to do. So I might as well shoot you now.’

The Cuban still looked amused, but Vincent saw a look in his eye: like he was closing in on the bottom line, and the numbers weren’t quite in agreement.

Vincent said, ‘And I’ve got cover, too.’ He gestured at him. ‘You’re stuck in there between cars.’

Silence.

He saw the Cuban let his breath out, maybe trying to slow his heartbeat, and for a second Vincent was sure he was going for it. But then his mouth downturned, and he scrolled his bottom lip out, and said, ‘Yeah. You might be right, actually.’

He turned and walked around the front of the Lincoln and headed back out to the road, like he had other business to get on with.

Vincent watched him go. He said to Lou—still on his hands and knees, bleeding freely from his nose, ‘Do you need some help, or are you leaving on your own steam?’

Lou spat blood. ‘Fuck off.’

The Cuban reached the kerb and waited a moment. Then he raised a hand, beckoning, and a moment later the Tahoe rolled into view in the far lane—Sly at the wheel, one arm hanging out the window like something from the back room of a butcher shop.

Vincent saw him say, ‘What?’ Palm upturned and staring at Andre, not getting it yet. Lou would be out of sight from over there.

The Cuban said something in reply as he walked around the hood to the passenger door, and Sly’s eyes closed for a long blink. Then he just sat there looking at Vincent, expression flat, drumming his fingers lightly on his door.

It was tempting to go over there, offer some closing remarks, but he didn’t want to hang around given the state Lou was in. And he had an audience, too: on the street, a white Lincoln Navigator was crawling by—low speed and smoked windows perfect for rubbernecking.

Vincent closed the trunk lid and went around to the driver’s door, unlocked it and got in behind the wheel. Lamar hadn’t said a word since they’d left Deacon’s, and he was still out of the car—hands on his hips, looking off toward the Tahoe.

Vincent put his window down and said, ‘You coming?’