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Chapters (57)
  1. Welcome to the Game
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraphs
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Six months later . . .
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. Back Cover

So, this time, although the Yo-Yo had wanted to head back straight away, he was following orders. After blasting triumphantly around disputed turf, he dropped off the power and started working his way quietly north and then west through backstreets and vacant lots. His choices weren’t random. Every so often he would pull up and take out a piece of paper covered with directions. Soon he’d turn south, for the Rouge River. Probably only one other man had followed the exact same route. That had been Johnny Boy, a careful man with an eye for detail. CCTV, after all, was everywhere these days.

5

5

Rosso and Cal

Rosso was also heading for Rouge River. He drove a car the same way Johnny Boy researched things—carefully. Not carefully as in always observing the speed limit, although he did, or wearing his seat belt, which he also did. Rather, he followed certain procedures when he drove: constantly checking for tails, leaving then rejoining the same expressway, double backs, no GPS.

He did this while running the errands of his job, which was moving money. Picking up dirty cash from dealers and hangouts in west and southwest Detroit and exchanging it for laundered money from all sorts of business establishments in Midtown, Downtown, and the suburbs, wherever Detroit was starting to pick itself up. No electronic transfers, just good old A to B. And the stuff he couldn’t do, his employer, one and the same as Johnny Boy’s employer, had a courier company infiltrated too. It was kind of funny they were called AtoB.

Five or six of AtoB’s guys were on “extra pay.” They’d go into a Lebanese restaurant in Dearborn with an empty package, and as the owner was signing the paperwork, they’d be exchanging money underneath it. Real magician sleight-of-hand shit that would confound any Feds who might be monitoring things. Not that the Feds monitored much, or anything, in Detroit these days. That was about the level of excitement Rosso wanted. Leave the real hot shit to the likes of the Yo-Yo.

Rosso had other things going for him. His complete inability to make a visual impact wherever he went was right up there. He was a wiry guy in his fifties from Italian stock with thinning gray hair and a face people forgot as soon as they looked at it. He drove a nondescript Japanese sedan in old-man tan. Being another guy who’d done just enough time in the joint not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Rosso was also good at doing what he was told. He was clearing three times as much as he would if he worked six nights a week as a cabdriver.

He pulled up at a light on McGraw, opened his window, and dropped out his phone, barely a week old. He watched as the truck pulling up next to him squelched it into the hot tarmac.