He leaned back in his chair, stared up at the ceiling, and made the sign of the cross while whispering in tongues—“shala-pala-shala-mala”—then leaned forward again.

Fire and Ian looked at each other in disbelief.

Fire threw up his hands in frustration, but Ian continued to argue, jousted with Donovan, wore him down until he confessed.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he said. “Somebody else bought them, so I have to bring down another set when I go up again.”

“Who?” Fire asked.

“Can’t tell you that. Confidential. Just like how I don’t discuss your business with other people, I can’t discuss other people’s business with you.”

“Don’t give me no confidential fuckery, Donovan. I want to know who has my fucking washer and dryer!”

“Listen, man, get a hold of yourself. Don’t raise your voice at me. And is not your washer and dryer, is theirs. They paid for it!”

“But I gave you the fucking money,” Fire shot back.

“But they gave me more.” He covered his mouth quickly. He’d said more than he’d meant to.

“Look,” he said, “it’s fucked up and I’m sorry. Listen, Fire … don’t let that come between us though y’know, man. Two more weeks and you get it.”

Fire narrowed his eyes. Ian got up to go to the bathroom.

“We have to call this meeting over,” Donovan said as Ian left. “I have a function to attend at the Pegasus, and I have to leave here now. Call me tomorrow morning and we’ll straighten things out. Come on, let’s deal with this intelligently. Call me Monday. And Fire, tell you friend to cool it. The man is acting like I’m a tief—like anybody tief like coolie.”

Coolie. Fire wanted to break his jaw for that … crack his teeth … bust his lip … spill his blood. The Glock was heavy on his waist. Shoulda gunbutt de fucker fe dat, he thought. Fe diss de man like dat. You cyaah call a man a coolie. No man. Dat nuh right.

Ian returned. “Tell you what,” he said. “Just give us back de money then and call it quits.”

“What you talking about?” Donovan replied. “A deal is a deal.”

“Gi wi back de money now.” Ian hammered the desk.

Donovan sucked his teeth.

“Okay, then,” Ian said. “We’ll come for it next week.”

“Can’t do that either,” Donovan said nervously.

“Why?”

“It’s kinda tied up.”

“In what?”

“Well … I had to give some money to this chick I have.”

“So wha appen to de money you get from whoever buy de washer and dryer from you?”

“I gave her that as well.”

“Suppose I just kick you in you face right now, Donovan?” Ian asked. His voice was calm but purposeful, as if he were asking the time.

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m just asking a question. Suppose I just kick you as an individual in your particular face right now? Would you cry? Would you run? Would you try to fight me and get kicked some more? Or would you just go into a drawer somewhere and get the money and hand it over? Tell me, because I don’t want to waste a good kick. I mean, instead of kicking you I could kick my nicotine habit.” He paused to light up a Craven “A.” “So tell me, what will it be? Money or kick-up? Kick-up or money? How many kicks you think de money worth? I think about seventy-nine. What do you think, Fire?”