Rosso’s car bumped down a potholed road underneath the concrete supports of the Rouge River Bridge and into the empty lot of a derelict warehouse. He stopped in the far corner, by the water’s edge.

He took out a new phone and downloaded the messenger app Johnny Boy insisted on. He then sent his new number to the people who needed it.

He did it carefully. Because he didn’t want to screw up. He’d been feeling tense these last couple of months. A few times he’d been stopped by the cops for bullshit reasons. Seeing as spotting and avoiding the cops was part of his job, he should have given more thought to how they managed just to come out of nowhere. On both occasions, he nearly had his employer in the car. It was an oversight not to put the two things together. Especially when it happened a third time.

The next mistake he made was not telling Johnny Boy. Sure, he could have waited a little while, maybe until the next time the Bears beat the Lions, which would put a Chicago man in a more forgiving mood, but not much longer. Everyone knew word always got back to Johnny Boy.

Rosso heard the noise of a motorcycle. He watched as the Ducati picked its way round the concrete debris and grassy lumps strewn across the old lot. The Yo-Yo sure looked comfortable on a mode of transport he’d claimed to be out of practice on. He bulged powerfully in his jacket. And he was at least 6'3"—a regular enforcer type. Yep, thought Rosso, leave the work with the high pucker factor to the likes of him. Live a quiet life. Another five or six years and he’d buy a nice house up in Anchorville. Johnny Boy would help him do it without the IRS asking where the hell he got the money. Besides, all this time sitting on his ass wasn’t helping his hemorrhoids.

The Ducati pulled up by Rosso’s car. The Yo-Yo killed the engine, dismounted, and walked toward the concrete-edged river. He took off his helmet and threw it in the water. Next, he dismantled his gun and threw the pieces in too.

“All good?” asked Rosso, getting out of his car.

“Help me with the bike,” said the Yo-Yo, ignoring the question

This kind of thing wasn’t helping Rosso’s state of mind. It just seemed like he wasn’t especially popular these days, like he’d said something really bad without knowing it. Well, fuck them. They should try driving dirty money all over the goddamn place without ever getting stopped. Anyway, the Yo-Yo had always been a man of few words. Everyone knew it. He only ever said hello when he was going to waste someone and even that wasn’t guaranteed.