Somers moved past the register, where a pimply girl was biting her lip as she pasted plastic gems to her nails, past the wire racks of groceries, past the refrigerated units, heading straight for the sandwich counter in back. He felt like one of those cartoon characters who smell something really good, and their feet go up, and they just float along on the smell.

Connie was standing behind the sandwich counter, although the store was empty. He was almost the same age as Somers, but their birthdates were far apart enough that they’d been in different grades. Connie glanced at Somers, and his dark eyes didn’t change. He just picked up a mini loaf of Italian, cut it open, and worked one glove inside, pulling out lumps of bread that he set in a red-check paper basket. When he had hollowed out enough of the loaf, he stirred a spoon through a pot of bubbling red sauce and began pulling up meatballs. Then he added the meatball sub to the paper basket, poured some more sauce over the bread he’d taken out of the sub, and topped all of it with fresh mozzarella. He popped it on a conveyor belt that ran through a toaster oven, and then he leaned on the counter and stared at Somers.

Somers grinned. “Should I have said, ‘the usual’?”

“What is your dumb ass doing in here? Uncle Dill is going to kill me. He’s sure as hell going to kill you.”

“I like the twist curls.”

“Don’t talk about my hair.”

“Fade’s getting kind of, uh, not fadey, though.”

“What did I just say?”

“Were Carlson and Nickels looking for me?”

Connie rolled his eyes.

“Ok, ok,” Somers said. “I had to ask.”

“Look, I appreciate the way we used to do things. I really do. Uncle Dill does too. But he will lose his shit if he finds out you’re in here.”

The way they had used to do things was simple: they had watched out for each other. Somers had been new to Smithfield, still learning the ropes as a cop, and facing the hardest and most dangerous area of the city. Connie had started working with Dill, and they’d come under pressure from a group of overly confident assholes who thought they could force out Connie and Dill as part of a redevelopment scam. Connie had helped Somers stay alive—literally, a couple of times—in those first few years, and Somers had talked to his dad and gotten the redevelopment assholes sent packing. Right then, though, with Connie’s dark eyes on him, Somers felt like that had all been a long time ago, and he thought maybe he’d made a mistake coming here.

The toaster oven dinged, and Connie turned and slid the paper basket onto a tray. “You want something to drink?”

“Yeah. Jesus, yes.”

“Then your own dumb ass can grab it.” Carrying the tray, Connie headed toward a door marked STAFF. Somers grabbed a liter of Aquafina. And then he grabbed a liter of Pepsi. And then he grabbed a second liter of water and hurried after Connie.