He leaned against the wall, catching his breath and watching the lock dubiously as the door vibrated from multiple impacts.

Time to get some law down here.

He dug in his pocket and found . . . nothing. He’d left his phone in the car, out of sight in the door in case he got jacked again. What a joke. What a shit-forsaken joke.

Suddenly a hole appeared in the door. Instantaneously part of the sink fell to the floor.

“I’m calling the cops, mate,” shouted Spencer. He started a fake call but Pistol Pete interrupted the lame charade.

“I’m gonna kill the old guy out here. He your friend? He all wet up now, man. Think he gonna bleed out if you don’t give me the key, man. We ain’t walkin’ home.”

Fuck Johnny Boy’s forty grand. And Cal. Milt’s outside with those three.

Spencer slid his key under the door. He heard muttering and shuffling.

Thirty seconds later he heard a single gunshot.

Then a screech of tires.

Then silence.

Spencer pressed his ear to the tiny gap between door and frame. A knot of helpless anguish was tightening around his guts. He opened the door a hair’s breadth and looked out. Tomato juice leaked out of the shot-up cooler. He could just see the convex antishoplifting mirror. Nothing moved.

Spencer rushed to the counter and leaned over. Milt lay on his front, motionless in a sea of gum, condoms, and pill packets. His uniform denim shirt was dark crimson, peppered with darker little slits where he’d been stabbed. There was a dime-size hole in his shoulder blade. Blood pooled on the floor around his chest. One of his fingers twitched.

Spencer clambered over the counter. He went down on one knee, put his hand on Milt’s shoulder, and gave it a gentle shake. “Milt?”

Milt groaned.

He patted Milt down and found a phone in the front pocket of his pants. It was a real retro model, but at least it wasn’t locked. He called 911.

He needed to call Johnny Boy, but he didn’t have any numbers. He cursed the strict number-changing etiquette McGrath’s crew insisted on, unless it was Spencer. They didn’t seem to mind if he didn’t change his phone. The thought bothered and distracted him.

Suddenly he remembered the ride home with Johnny Boy the day the dealership died. Johnny Boy had given Spencer a business card.

He dialed the one number he always knew by heart.

A groggy voice answered. “Hi Dad, sorry, I meant to switch it off but Sam’s cat’s gone missing and—”

“Abby—”

“Chris said I could keep it on in case. Sam’s not my boyfriend though.”

“Abby! Look, I’ve got—”

“Problems at work.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got problems at work.”

“Why are you calling this number?”

Spencer gave Johnny Boy a rehash of what had gone down.