They started pushing the Ducati toward the edge. The sound of an approaching car caused them to hesitate. Rosso tensed.

“Cops?”

“Relax, Rosso.”

Rosso felt the burn of humiliation. Was that it? Did everyone think he spooked easy?

As they watched the far end of the lot, a gleaming white sports car appeared. It stopped for a moment, seeming to hesitate before venturing onto the lot’s broken surface—modern automotive technology in all its beauty scared shitless by the vicious ruins of the Motor City. It took the plunge and began to pick its way across the lot. Every so often it would back up and try a different route.

Rosso’s heart sank a little. If the Yo-Yo could be intimidating, Cal could be a real pain in the ass. Nothing pleased the guy. He ran the books and signed the checks. Running the books meant making sure there weren’t any but that people got paid. Cal was a tough guy who’d boxed for a while before he put on a suit and decided to use his head for numbers. “Cal the Calculator.” Unlike the Yo-Yo, everyone had to know Cal was tough. It was like anger simmered underneath his apelike face with its buzz-cut helmet. Even when he dished out the dough at the end of what everyone knew had been a great time for business, it was like he resented folks for taking it. And sweet Jesus, they’d all had to say something kiss-ass about his new Porsche, even though everyone knew a Boxster was the chicks’ Porsche.

Cal didn’t bother saying hello either.

“How’d it go down?” he said to the Yo-Yo.

The Yo-Yo nodded.

“You left one of ’em?”

“If he checked out, he had time to talk.”

For just a second Rosso thought Cal might say well done. The Yo-Yo’s report had obviously put him in a good mood, because he started speaking in a fake newscaster’s voice as Rosso and the Yo-Yo wheeled the Ducati to the water’s edge.

“Did you know seven out of ten murders in Detroit go unsolved?”

“Nooooo, really?” called the Yo-Yo over his shoulder.

“Oh yeah. So if you wanna kill somebody . . .”

Rosso and the Yo-Yo had built up to a run and, laughing as they sent the bike into the Rouge River, replied in unison: “Come to Detroit!”

Rare of late, the shared jackassing relaxed Rosso.

Cal opened the trunk of Rosso’s car and clocked a black sports bag. He unzipped it. The bag was full of cash. He closed the bag, shut the trunk, and banged it with his hand, like he was sending out a rodeo rider.

“Rosso, head up to one block south of 9 Mile. East Winchester and Conant. Pick up Dom. He’s goin’ with you for this one.”

“Sure,” said Rosso as he got in his car.

“And Rosso, you got a phone?”