He’d bathed this morning in the river, his teeth clacking from the cold as he covered every inch of his stinky self with brown soap. Then he pulled the fresh clothes he’d purchased in East St. Louis from the bag on the front seat of the car and put them on. He commended himself on that now, as he’d guessed correctly that Smoke’s apartment would be as orderly as his dress. Place was spotless. Bare, too. Nothing on the walls, only one throw rug in the living room. Bare coffee table, Victrola without a wisp of dust or even the tiniest smudge.

Luther found the hall closet, noted that several of the coats he’d seen Smoke wearing in the last week were hung precisely on wooden hangers. The hanger that was empty awaited the blue duster with the leather collar Smoke had worn today. Luther slipped in among the clothes, closed the door, and waited.

Took about an hour, though it felt like five. He heard footsteps on the stairs, four sets of them, and pulled his watch, but it was too dark to see, so he put it back in his vest and noticed he was holding his breath. He let out a slow exhale as the key turned in the lock. The door opened and one man said, “You good, Mr. Poulson?”

“I am, Red. See you in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door shut and Luther raised his pistol, and for one horrible moment he was seized by overwhelming terror, a desire to close his eyes and wish this moment away, to push past Smoke when he opened that door and run for his life.

But it was too late, because Smoke went to the closet straightaway and the door opened and Luther had no choice but to place the muzzle of the pistol against the tip of Smoke’s nose.

“You make a sound, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

Smoke raised his arms, still wearing the duster.

“Take a few steps back. Keep those arms high.” Luther came out into the hallway.

Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “Country?”

Luther nodded.

“You changed some. Never would recognize you on the street with that beard.”

“You didn’t.”

Smoke gave that a small upward tilt of his eyebrows.

“Kitchen,” Luther said. “You first. Lace your hands on top of your head.”

Smoke complied and walked down the hallway and entered the kitchen. There was a small table there with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth and two wooden chairs. Luther gestured Smoke into one of the chairs and took the one across from him.

“You can take your hands off your head. Just put them on the table.”

Smoke unlaced his fingers and placed his palms down on the table.

“Old Byron get back to you?”

Smoke nodded. “Said you threw him through a window.”

“He tell you I was coming for you?”

“He mentioned it, yeah.”

“That what the three bodyguards are for?”

“That,” Smoke said, “and some rival business associates too quick to the anger.”