Chapter 2
I leaned back in the sagging leather chair, the grain pressing into my spine. Joanie sat across from me, elbows braced on her knees, eyes burning like embers in the dim lamplight. Her crimson nail polish was still glossy, but the chips around the edges gave her away—someone accustomed to command, not to being overlooked. A swirl of her perfume—jasmine softened by something almost feral—floated across the desk and pricked at my memory, dragging me back to that rain-slick motel lot where we’d parted ways. I still saw it when I closed my eyes.
“The man you saw Harry clean out tonight,” she said, voice low enough to rattle the shuttered windows, “wasn’t playing with his own money.”
Her words landed like a bullet in my gut. My stomach tightened, that old knot before every job unraveled. Outside, the radiator hissed, fighting back the December cold that seeped through cracked paint and warped wood.
“Some men gamble what they can’t afford,” I said, tasting stale whiskey and old regrets on my tongue. “Others gamble what isn’t theirs. Either way, the house always wins.”
Joanie’s lips curved, but her eyes stayed hard. The lamplight glinted off a tiny scar above her mouth—one she’d never mentioned on warm nights in Paris. “This wasn’t pocket change, Percy. Seventy-five thousand dollars. Belonged to a man who doesn’t forget being shorted.”
Behind me, Winnie shifted. The leather of her bomber jacket sighed like a warning. “Your friend’s picked the wrong mark,” she said, voice flat as a grave. Her loyalty was a blade: sharp, unyielding.
Joanie’s gaze darted to Winnie, irritation flaring, but she held her ground. She uncapped a cigarette with a soft click I hadn’t heard coming. The smoke curled into the lamplight like ghost fingers. “The gambler was naive—thought he could bluff his way out. The money had an owner, and your Harry walked off with it.”
My jaw clenched. Harry’s scams usually left us bruised, not burned to ash. Seventy-five grand was more than a mark; it was an inferno waiting to ignite. I’d warned him after Reno that his luck was thinner than pawn-shop gold.
I watched Joanie’s fingers drum a slow tattoo on her knee—an old habit she’d never kicked. “And what part do you play in this…production?” I asked, voice tighter than a noose.
She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and exhaled a plume of smoke that hung between us like all the words we’d never said. “The man who owned that money… is mine.”
Silence pressed in, thick enough to choke on. The radiator’s hiss grew tinny, like a stalled engine. Winnie broke the quiet.
“She’s not here to rescue you, Percy. She’s here to free her man.”
Joanie’s smile sharpened—white and deadly. “Let’s not pretend this is charity. Harry’s life is on the line. If he doesn’t return that cash, the owner will carve him up and feed the pieces to the vultures.”
I rubbed the faint scar beneath my collar, remembered its burn. “Harry’s been a dead man walking since we met. He’s too stubborn to lie down.”
She ignored my remark. Her gaze pinned me like a butterfly, pale confidence undercut by something colder. “This isn’t about me, it’s about him. And unless you want to watch your oldest friend bleed out, you’ll help get that money back.”
Joanie leaned forward, as if the chair were hers. Smoke drifted off her cigarette in lazy spirals, stinging my throat with each inhale. The sweet-tart tang of tobacco crowded the cramped office—faded wallpaper, scuffed floorboards, and that ever-present layer of dust settled over every hard-boiled conversation we’d ever had.
“Seventy-five thousand isn’t a debt you shrug off,” she said. “Not in our city. My man wants it back. And he’s not known for patience.”
Winnie shifted again, the wool of her sleeve brushing my shoulder—a silent promise I wasn’t sure I wanted. “Translation: if Harry falls, she’s washing her hands. Your friend can take the fall for this one.”
Joanie’s smile faltered, then reformed like steel under pressure. Behind her eyes, I saw winter streets haunting new moon nights. “Call me mercenary. But truth is truth: Harry’s sitting on someone else’s fortune. If he holds onto it, he’s a corpse waiting to be identified.”
I closed my eyes against the memory of Harry’s grin, the scent of his after-shave that used to mean trouble in the best way. He’d dragged me into more fires than I cared to count—and pulled me out of nearly as many.
“You always had a knack for slicing through the bullshit, Percy,” Joanie said, tone almost flirtatious in its danger. “So don’t act like you don’t see it. It’s family on the line.”
Family. The word coiled in my chest like a rattler. I let it hiss a moment before answering. “Harry bounces back from worse. He always does.”
Joanie leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper that rattled my bones. “Not this time. The man he stole from isn’t just anyone. His name is Victor Moretti.”
The name landed like a fist to my sternum. My heart pounded against ribs slick with sweat. The radiator hissed or maybe that was the blood roaring in my ears. Moretti—Chicago’s phantom, ledger-burner, man with a fuse so short the world evaporated when it hit ground zero.
Winnie’s hand found my arm again, firmer this time, fingers cool against my overheated skin. “You know him?”
I stared at the wisp of smoke drifting above the ashtray, memories clawing out from under years of ice—warehouse jobs, oil-stained floors, men who disappeared without a trace. Moretti kept ledgers in his head. Those who crossed him didn’t live to close the books.
Joanie leaned forward, eyes black as obsidian. “See now why this is your problem? Harry’s got Moretti’s money. Moretti’s got a score to settle. And you’re the closest thing he has to a hostage.”
The room throbbed with tension. A distant siren wailed like a wounded animal. I kept my hand just inches from the Ruger under the desk—old habits die slow.
I flicked a match, lit a smoke. The sulfur snapped, and I breathed in deep, using the acrid bite to steady my nerves. “Harry’s always picked the worst enemies.”
“You’re not hearing me,” Joanie said, voice trembling around steel. “This is bigger than Harry. Moretti’s been waiting for an excuse to come after you. Your name’s on his list.”
The walls closed in, the single-pane window rattling in its frame. I pinched the bridge of my nose, taste of copper dancing on my tongue. My mind reeled back to nights when we were young, invincible, before debts took on lives of their own.
Joanie stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray—an echoing click that sounded like a verdict. She smoothed the crease in her skirt, stance unflinching, as if the rest of my fate was hers to decree.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, the click of her heels on concrete a death knell.
The door swung shut, swallowing her silhouette and leaving me with nothing but the hiss of the radiator and the curl of stale smoke.
Winnie stayed close, arms folded like armor, glasses swinging from their chain. “She’s poison,” she said finally, blunt as a bone saw. “And she’ll drag you into the grave if you don’t watch your step.”
I stared at the ashtray—two smoldering cigarette butts twisted together like a pair of lovers who couldn’t let go, even in the fire. The room stank of old smoke and unfinished business.
“She might be poison,” I said, voice rough, “but poison’s still a cure in the right dose.”
Winnie shook her head, lips pressed thin, but didn’t answer. Her silence was its own verdict.
Outside, the night pressed against the window, hungry and restless. Somewhere in that dark, Harry was laughing—bright, careless—with seventy-five grand in his pocket and Victor Moretti’s hand already reaching for his throat.
I poured another drink, the glass sweating in my hand. The ice clinked once, sharp as a gun cocking. It didn’t sound like relief. It sounded like the clock running out.