Part 66 (2/2)

I didn't say anything.

”Well, you ain't. But for now, I'll play ball.” He tossed a brown paper bag on my lap. ”There's eight thou in there. This guy, he paid me ten to back you off.”

”So you've done business with him?”

”No. It was a straight job. Ten grand to keep you off his back. Never met the guy until Friday night. He approached one of my people, made his pitch.”

”Did he tell you to threaten Bubba to get to me?”

Stevie stroked his chin. ”Matter of fact, yeah. He knows a lot about you, Kenzie. A lot. And he don't like you. At all, motherf.u.c.ker. At all.”

”You know anything about where he lives, works, that sort of thing?”

Stevie shook his head. ”No. Guy I know in K.C. vouched for him. Heard he was stand-up.”

”K.C.?”.

Stevie's eyes met my own. ”K.C. Why's that bother you?”

I shrugged. ”It just doesn't seem to fit.”

”Yeah, well, whatever. When you see him, give him the eight Gs, tell him the other two Gs are for my aggravation.”

”How do you know I'll see him?”

”He's got a real hard-on for you, Kenzie. Like diamond-cutter hard. He kept saying you 'interfered.' And Vincent Patriso might be able to back me off, but he can't back this guy off. He wants you dead.”

”No. He wants me to wish I were.”

Stevie chuckled. ”Maybe you got something there. This guy? He's smart, speaks real well, but in there with all that brain power, there's disease, Kenzie. Personally, I think he's got rocks in his head, and the rocks got little birds flying around in 'em.” He laughed, brought his hand down on my knee. ”And you p.i.s.sed him off. Ain't that great?” He pressed a b.u.t.ton on his door console and the locks popped up. ”See you later, Kenzie.”

”See you, Stevie.”

I opened the door, blinked in the sun.

”Yeah, you'll see me,” Stevie said as I stepped out of the car. ”After the old guy's funeral. Up close. In Technicolor.”

One of the beefy guys handed me my gun. ”Take it easy, comedian. Try not to shoot off your own foot.”

My cell phone rang as I walked back across City Hall Plaza toward the parking garage where I'd left my car.

I knew it was him before I even said, ”h.e.l.lo.”

”Pat, buddy. How are you?”

”Not bad, Wes. Yourself?”

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