I reached up, placed my hand on his and adjusted his measurement by half. "That thick. And no, it's not the money. See this guy only has eight bucks in here, but the rest of this stuff might come in handy."

I pulled the eight bucks out of the billfold before I put it in my pocket and retrieved my lighter and cigarettes. "Henry, Mr. Shelby would like to buy me another beer.”

“Whatever Mr. Shelby wants,” he said, replacing my glass. “Hey, where did you get that lighter?”

I held it up for him. It had three Cyrillic letters and two roman numerals under a red starburst background and appeared to be a Russian military commemorative lighter. “It was a gift from my mother. It looks cool but it’s not quite right. You have to know the trick.” I took it loosely in my right hand and slapped it three times in rapid succession against my left palm to prime the wick and lit up.

“Was she Russian?”

“No, Bulgarian.” I squinted at him through a strong exhale of smoke. “It’s complicated.” I leaned close to him, eager to change the subject. "I might need your help in a couple of days. The usual stuff at the usual rate. You up for it?"

"For you man, always. Besides, I could use the money. Just call me when you're ready Evan. Another drink?"

I reached into my pocket, grabbed the envelope, pulled out the handwritten address and unfolded it. “No, this is my last one. I’m going to take a walk.”

Garbage and broken window glass covered the sidewalks in Martin’s warehouse neighborhood. Only one in four or five buildings looked occupied. I counted down the numbers on the transoms and door frames of the passing buildings: 2678, 2674, 2670. Martin's building was brick and had been painted, the last time in gray. It stood two stories high, with four tall narrow unbroken windows running along the street side of the second floor. The two large picture windows in the front of the second floor had long been boarded over with plywood that had turned the same color gray as the paint from the assailing smog-soiled rain. A lonely floodlight at the back of an occupied warehouse halfway down the alley cast long shadows at the rear of the building. The door Martin had mentioned was large, four feet wide, eight feet high and made of metal with riveted steel straps running horizontally across it. It looked more at home in a prison than it did on a warehouse.