For the next five minutes, he lit up the streets in the neighborhood, carving turns as lean angle, approach speed, and braking made their visceral transactions. When the enjoyment of speed and elation at completing the hit dropped off, he wanted to head back to the depot. Michigan Avenue had been right there behind the Impala. He could have gone east straight back to Detroit. Could have been back in time to catch the game. Then, as the Lions sent the Packers to shitland, he’d relive his own moment of triumph. And back in the day, he would have done just that. He would have turned and burned, straight back to the D, his direction noted by witnesses, his bike recorded by CCTVs. And they’d have caught him.

A while back, the Yo-Yo had been looking at twenty-five without parole at Carson City Correctional. He’d done three years and those were enough for him to realize he wasn’t that clever, but at least he was clever enough to realize it. So when Lady Luck sent him a visitor, he’d been more than ready to pay attention. That visitor had taken the form of a portly guy with glasses and a beard who looked like an undertaker—Johnny Boy. Johnny Boy had been a lawyer for the Chicago mob until he was disbarred. It didn’t stop him advising someone else though. New boss, new city. And Johnny Boy’s boss wanted someone just like the Yo-Yo, someone who could kill in all manner of ways with neither qualm nor hesitation, who was already staring into the abyss, someone who’d be loyal and attentive in exchange for a break.

Johnny Boy had brought it to the Yo-Yo’s attention that some evidence used in his trial had been garnered by inadmissible means. His state-funded defense should hang their heads in shame. Correctly handled, an appeal against his conviction would have a near-certain chance of success. Did the Yo-Yo wish Johnny Boy’s employer to go ahead with the organization and financing of his appeal? And if so, would he be prepared to work solely for, and obey unquestioningly, the same employer?

Six weeks later he’d walked free. A week after that, the unfortunate death of one of the prosecution’s key witnesses had made the chances of a retrial unlikely. Said key witness had inexplicably fallen twenty-eight floors from the west-side tower in which he lived. His apartment had been on the fourth floor.