BooksBarbecue
Back Welcome to the Game Save as PDF
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

“‘This Max Petrovsky thing’? You think I want to branch out? Black City Disciples on the west side, Latin Kings pushing in from the other? The only reason we’re still here is ’cause they can’t run a cleaning op on the lowdown. That mess just now up on Telegraph? Lowdown?”

“Well, thanks to the Yo-Yo’s Spanish lessons they should be a little too preoccupied to think about handling their own laundry.”

“For a while. Sooner or later one of them’s going to come who can clean like us and stay out of trouble. And look at that.”

McGrath pointed at a bank of new CCTVs lining the MGM Grand. “That’s what’s going to get us, and these.” He pulled out his phone. “You know that better than I do. One big job, Johnny Boy. I don’t want to be working at your age. Max Petrovsky? He’s going to see to it that I don’t have to.”

9

9

A Man Worth Knowing

Spencer sat in Chris’s old sofa. In, because too many springs had given up the ghost for it to perform a fully supportive function. That’s why it now resided on the fire escape. The fire escape stoop was large enough to stand in as a porch for Chris’s second-floor apartment. On a hot-as-hell evening it was the only place to be. There was even an old fridge—for beer and Abby’s Kool-Aid. If it was stolen, the beer would be more of a loss than the fridge. And Spencer could smoke out here. When Abby went to bed he’d switch to weed.

The small three-story block that housed Chris Wilcox’s apartment was the last on McLean as it dead-ended onto Brush Street. Scattered spruce and hawthorn trees threw patches of shade over the grassy area that separated the two roads. Chris had somehow made the place feel like it had been home for a long time even though it hadn’t. It was where he’d landed after his life flight got rerouted by corporate downsizing and divorce. The latter left him with just enough to buy the apartment outright. Chris was Marielle’s uncle on her father’s side.

The sounds of industrious activity wafted out the open window behind Spencer’s head. Abby had gone mad for the Romans of late and everything that took her fancy had to be printed off.