Copyright © 2021 Michael Sears

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by

Soho Press, Inc.

227 W 17th Street

New York, NY 10011

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020932922

ISBN 978-1-64129-195-8

eISBN 978-1-64129-196-5

Interior design by Janine Agro

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

to Rudy, who taught me the game

and Ruby, without whom...

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Little Richie was a hard man to like. Though if Ted had known Richie was going to be dead in three days, maybe he would have tried a little harder.

Or maybe not. Richie Rubiano was a nasty weasel with a long list of annoying habits.

It was a warm Friday in May, the Mets were at home, three games up on .500, and the bookies were predicting a sweep. Four hours till game time. Ted Molloy was having a late lunch in the back booth at Gallagher’s Pub on Grand Ave.—and anticipating a pleasant weekend at Citi Field—when Richie dropped a stack of marked-up file folders on the table. “I got you some grade A today, bro,” he said. “Check this out.”

“Nice to see you, Richie. You hungry?” Ted rescued his iced tea as the pile of folders began a slow-motion avalanche across the table.

Richie made no effort to assist in heading off this disaster. He looked at the remains of the house pad thai in front of Ted and shuddered. “How do you eat that grass?”

“I’m offering to buy you lunch.” Richie was bone thin everywhere except for his gut. He always looked both undernourished and overweight. He also had a drooping eyelid and wore a greying ponytail that looked like something you might find on the rear end of a very wet squirrel.

“No, man. I don’t eat Chinese food.”

Gallagher’s Pub, a short walk from Ted’s apartment and a quiet place to get work done in the middle of the day, had been a faltering business when Henry Zhang bought it four years ago. He’d made only two important changes. First, he fired all the bartenders who had been robbing Gallagher blind, installing in their place a troop of his female cousins. Then he upgraded the menu to better reflect the changing neighborhood, adding Asian, South American, and Middle Eastern dishes. The weekend dim sum brunch was a hit. And the place still made a great cheeseburger.

“How about a beer?” Ted asked.

“Well . . .” Richie twisted his face into a reluctant frown. He wanted the beer, but he mistrusted hospitality.