“Thank you, Mr. Hunter. It’s referred to as good genes—taken from my mama’s end of the pool. Regardless, our issue isn’t what age I look. I’m not some two-bit redneck, to be walked on and then roll over and piss on my belly. I’m a lady who believes respect is earned, not given, and I believe in second chances but never a third. I conduct my business in the same manner.” Malone inhales deep and exhales hard. Wearing a gruff face of lost patience, she asks, “Oscar, did Mr. Hunter give us a suitcase of Franklins, or just three fucking grand?”

Oscar stammers, “No-no, dear, no suitcase. It’s three grand.”

“What’s the holdup, then? Paint dries faster than you can count. We’re not even talking first-grade math here, Osc. This is just counting.”

Fiddling with the cash, Oscar tells Malone, “No, honey. Just used to using that machine that counts it for us, is all. Trying to take my time, make sure it’s all here.”

“Well?”

“We’re good, honey, we’re good.”

Malone waves a hand at her men, tells them, “You can put your hardware back up, boys. One of you make nice and bring Mr. Itch his bike.” She takes another swig of her beer. The men lower their pistols. One of them goes into the barn. Comes back wheeling Itch’s chromed-out shovelhead motorcycle with neon-jade flames down the tank. Coming from the rear of Hunter’s motorcycle, Itch approaches Malone’s guy, takes the weight of his bike from him. Straddles it. And Hunter asks, “Everyone square?”

Malone’s eyes pierce a chill through Hunter, and she tells him, “At this juncture, we’re square as a newly built home. You seem to be a good friend.” Looking to Itch, she tells him, “Get your bitch lined out at home, ’cause that was your second chance. There won’t be a next time”—pausing, looking back at Hunter and Nugget—“for any of you.”

JACK

JACK