“But what? You’d have cleaned yourself up sooner? You did the best you could, Spence. You were always in there somewhere, trying. But here’s the thing: Marielle died four years ago. That’s when this train started rolling. It’s time to get off it. Your mourning’s done.”

A great claw clutched at Spencer’s heart. He started his engine. Before he took off, he said, “Chris, thank you.”

“Same. You both kept my life interesting.”

In the rearview he looked at Chris, standing in a shitty Detroit alley in his boxers, watching him go. He wiped his eyes roughly with his sleeve to stop the tears from blurring his vision.

Johnny Boy strode down the loading bay walkway. He was on his way upstairs.

On his way . . .

It was time to count money. He thought about the rich people he’d known. Admittedly, most of them had been happy to handle the heat of operating on the wrong side of the law. But even those who’d made their money legit, they all seemed to have one thing in common: some jittery times. Little bankruptcy here, little court action there, some close-but-no-cigar moments. Hell, he’d had them himself. He’d been making bank working for the guys in Chicago. Thought he’d been on his way then, about to jump aboard that gravy locomotive, but then, boom. Had to consider himself lucky just getting his ass disbarred. But after the small-balled ones had had enough and dropped out of the Game, the guys who stuck at it, they claimed the prize: comfortable retirement, electric gates, no missing your grandkids’ birthdays. Dom had been right about going for a big payoff. Risky, yeah, but so was staying in the Game with its snitches and wiretaps.

He heard a phone ring and it wasn’t his. He looked around and saw Cal’s phone on the floor. Cal had gone to clean himself up. Christ on a pony but the guy could be a jerk sometimes. He would have killed Burnham if Johnny Boy hadn’t turned up. If anything, if he’d been Cal, he’d have been keeping a lower profile. After all, Eddie had only gotten in because of Cal’s buddies up in Pontiac. That didn’t make Cal look good.

Johnny Boy picked up the phone. He looked at the screen: number withheld. He looked around before pressing Answer.

“Hello.”

“Hey. You alone?” asked Scott.

Johnny Boy only hesitated for a second. “Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?” asked Scott.

“No. Do you know who I am?”

“Sure. You’re the guy stupid enough to sign AtoB receipts for what your boss stole. I’m looking at them. Either that or you’ve been real clever and made sure you had something to offer me if it all went to shit.”

Johnny Boy started walking up the stairs.