Spencer felt sick. He thought about the forty thousand cash in the trunk. Two casements. Twenty thousand in each. He could give this guy one load. Twenty thou, not as bad as losing everything. “Dude, let me give you more money. I’ve got a lot more in the back. If you let me—”

The barrel of Biggy Freak’s harmless pistol felt as if it would punch through the soft flesh between Spencer’s Adam’s apple and his jaw. He was in instant agony, lifting off the seat to try and lessen the pressure.

Biggy Freak showered him with spit as he shouted in his ear. “Last chance, motherfucker!”

Spencer scrabbled his watch off. Biggy Freak snatched it out of his hand and was gone before Spencer could catch his breath. Up ahead, the light changed and the guy in front pulled away. Spencer watched him go. He felt sick.

Spencer had hours to kill before meeting the AtoB guys. He couldn’t settle. He wanted to do something about what had happened but couldn’t think of anything viable. Anger and frustration grew as he aimlessly cruised the streets. When a guy in a Lexus cut him off at a red light on Van Dyke, Spencer went vector compound. He drove right up the guy’s ass while revving his engine and yelling insults. Lexus guy ignored it. Spencer, out of control and ready to rumble, opened his door. Lexus guy took off before the light changed, unnerved by how insanely pissed this guy was over a minor beef.

In the small streets south of McNichols and just north of Hamtramck, Spencer coasted past empty houses with smoke-blackened window frames and small, dilapidated apartment blocks with sagging realtor signs. Up ahead, cop cars and a crowd of bystanders blocked the road.

Shouting, radio squawk, and the smell of the hot, sweaty crowd filled his car. A woman cried, cops held shotguns. Over their heads he could see the top of a house in which all things bad had probably happened.

The car shielded him from the reality that was going down but didn’t exonerate him; he’d done pickups not far from there. He turned, punched the gas, and headed east to nowhere in particular.

After a while he found himself in an abandoned industrial area. It was strangely peaceful. A light wind moaned amid the desolation. Dust devils danced.

A plane flew low overhead, across the falling sun.

Spencer cruised slowly through the Detroit that was: the arsenal of democracy that fueled the American war machine, helped to bring down the Japs and the Krauts, then filled the country with cars and the music the workers listened to while building them. And now he was viewing these skeletal behemoths in a Japanese car. He drove on, killing time.

His work phone pinged. He ignored it.

Another plane flew very low overhead: freight, not passenger.