Welcome to the Game E-Book

Craig Henderson

• Herausgeber: Grove Press UK
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 464

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Having moved his family from England to Detroit and opened a car dealership, ex-rally driver Spencer Burnham's life was derailed by the death of his beloved wife. Now disconnected from his young daughter and losing control of the cocktail of drugs and alcohol that gets him through the day, he only just keeps Child Protective Services at bay while his business teeters on the edge of bankruptcy. Then he has a seemingly chance encounter with a charismatic but lethal gangster, Dominic McGrath. Feeling the squeeze from informants, the rise of tech surveillance and a hotshot detective who's made busting him a personal crusade, McGrath's been planning a last heist that would allow a comfortable retirement, provided he can find a very special type of driver - one who's capable, trustworthy . . . and naïve. Spencer quickly proves himself behind the wheel, with his innate sense of timing and precise, high-speed manoeuvres. And McGrath even pays cash, lots of it. But it comes at a price; Spencer finds himself playing in an arena where rookies don't last long. Wising up to the ruthlessness behind McGrath's charming façade, he tries to break free, but McGrath has too much invested to allow him to leave. As the city swelters in a heat wave, the two men apply their considerable talents to besting each other, while mistakenly assuming they have only each other to beat.

Leseprobe

Craig Henderson is a writer of crime thrillers and a presenter of the BBC’s ‘Books That Made Britain’ series. He gained an MA in Latin and Ancient History from the University of Edinburgh where he also won two scholarships. Scottish by birth, he has also lived and worked in the US. Welcome to the Game is his first novel.

First published in the United States of America in 2022 by Grove Atlantic

This paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2023 by Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove Atlantic

Copyright © Craig Henderson, 2022

The moral right of Craig Henderson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

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A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN 978 1 80471 025 8

E-book ISBN 978 1 80471 026 5

Printed in Great Britain

Grove Press UK

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WCIN 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.com

For Craig E.The best of friends, left for dead in Florida.

Fast, fast, FAST! Last night I cut the light off in my bedroom, hit the switch, was in the bed before the room was dark.

—Muhammad Ali

The Roman historian Arrian wrote of a mountaintop city in what is now southern Turkey. Termessos was the only city that Alexander the Great could not capture. Mysteriously and suddenly abandoned thousands of years ago, the place was almost forgotten.

1

Spencer

Spencer winced as his potential buyer made a rough shift. He tried to think of something else to say about the car. He had a feeling the guy wasn’t for real but hadn’t figured out what his deal was. Did he want a more unusual choice of car, or was he just flirting so he could tell the guys at work he tried all options before doing what everyone did these days: go German or prancing pony.

Spencer watched him in his expensively distressed jeans and tightly fitted T-shirt, wondering how long girlfriends had to wait before learning the meaning of the Chinese character tattoos adorning his forearms. He fancied himself a real Detroiter but said he lived downtown in Riverfront Towers, and that was luxury living for the hipsters moving in.

“So, what brought you to America?” the guy asked. The question had long been irksome.

“My wife’s from Detroit, born and raised.” He couldn’t resist dropping the insinuation.

They turned back toward Woodward. The guy had obviously decided he’d gotten the measure of the car.

“This is what confused me when I was trying to find you. You said you were in Oakland.”

“Well, we’re on the edge of Oakland so it’s easier just to say—”

“Dude, I get it,” the guy cut in. “I’m a Michigan man. You want to say you’re in the classy part of town, where the money is. I get that. Guy like you, with your accent, probably works better playing it like that. I mean, let’s face it, you’re selling expensive cars no one’s heard of.”

For a moment, Spencer had nothing, because it was true. When he’d set up Winchester Auto Specialists, he couldn’t afford Oakland. But the north edge of Detroit on Winchester, just on the wrong side of 8 Mile, that had been right for the budget. And Winchester had an English ring to it. Anyway, everything had been right then. He and Marielle were happy, and Abby, their seven-year-old daughter, had made the adjustment from European to US schooling without too many tears over left friends. America had seemed new and exciting.

“The cars I sell are for people who like to drive but don’t feel the need to follow the herd. Anyone can go out and buy a Porsche or a Beamer, but a TVR or a GT-R or this Lotus, they’re different.”

“That’s why I came to you. I checked you out. You used to race, yeah?”

“I was a rally driver.”

“Right, rally. That’s racing against the clock, right?”

“Racing against other drivers, against their times, but on narrow roads or forest tracks so you go one at a time. You have to drive to the max because you don’t know whether you’re ahead of the pace or behind. You can’t just ease up when you’ve got a lead like in Indy or F1.”

“Yeah, I knew that. People have told me I have the mind for it.”

“The mind for what?”

“I could race cars. I just need to talk to people with experience.”

You are a time-wasting motherfucker, and I want to kill you.

“So, look, man,” he continued, “we’re coming up on 9 Mile. What would you be thinking if you were in, like, race mode?”

Ask him what he does when people take two hours out of his working day.

You need this sale.

No shit, but he’s not going to buy.

He might.

They pulled up at the intersection. Spencer nodded at the light.

“I know the light on Woodward coming up to 9 Mile will stay yellow for exactly three point four seconds. The average before someone gets moving on 9 Mile will be one point five seconds. That’s the average. If it’s a truck nearer two, but if it’s a guy in a hurry then point seven. Worst-case scenario is a guy in a fast car who’s put himself so he can see my light start to change. He could be moving before my yellow has gone, but he’ll be watching harder for people like me. Power band in this Lotus in third gear at sixty goes from four thousand. That’s where it happens: you’ll get an extra fifty miles per hour in two seconds, fifty yards in one second.”

Michigan Man, hesitant, looked at Spencer. “So, I should go for it if I’ve worked all that out?”

“If you have to work all that out, you should never go for it.”

The Lotus turned the sharp, almost hairpin turn from Conant onto Winchester and then into the Winchester Auto Specialists lot. Spencer made one more last-ditch effort.

“You feel that? Legendary cornering ability. Their suspension won Lotus the Grand Prix right here in Detroit in eighty-six. Only cars that could cope with the bumpy roads.”

“No shit? They’ve been bad that long?”

They parked up next to Michigan Man’s SUV, shook hands over the roof, and he was gone.

Spencer scanned the lot. It was triangular, wedged into the shape created by the diagonal intersection on which it stood. There were a dozen cars. They needed to be spread out a little, so that it wasn’t so obvious stock was low. He needed a run of closing, maybe three or four in a week. Then the bank might be more forthcoming again with credit and he could restock. He felt a tiredness suddenly envelop him and, in cahoots with that, a car at the far end of the lot caught his eye.

He’d taken a deposit on that TVR. The guy was supposed to have come for it with the balance that morning. The TVR stared back at him, its gunport-like headlights glinting insolently in the sun.

The heat made just thinking arduous. He glanced around, checking he didn’t have an audience, before getting back in the passenger side of the Lotus. There was some residual coolness inside but it would be baking in another five minutes.

He opened the glove compartment, found a wrap, and tipped out a line on the owner’s manual. He rummaged around. There’d been a straw in there somewhere. He found Abby’s school report and rolled it tightly.

On the far side of Conant, three men in a silver Merc SUV with smoked windows watched.

2

Dominic McGrath

Johnny Boy sat at the wheel of the SUV, noting the reaction of the man sitting next to him. Not many people could wear a beautifully tailored suit every day without looking like they were trying too hard, but he’d known a few in his time in the Chicago law offices in which he’d spent the first thirty years of his working life, and Dominic McGrath rocked it as well as the best of them.

Neither Johnny Boy nor McGrath were men who felt the need to fill a silence. McGrath had employed Johnny Boy for moments just like these: a transaction of skills and time. McGrath would come to Johnny Boy with a problem or requirement. Johnny Boy would ponder and research. He’d speculate as to what exactly his employer wanted and then—and this is what put Johnny Boy in his own league—he would speculate what his employer might not even realize he wanted.

The guy in the back wasn’t as cool with silences. His foot began to drum lightly on the floor. Soon his head and hand fell in time, nodding and tapping to some imaginary beat. The movement caught Johnny Boy’s eye in the rearview. It irritated him. People who brought nothing special to the table always irritated him, jittery people even more so. The guy in the back saw Johnny Boy’s look in the mirror but misread it. He thought Johnny Boy was as bored as he was—a kindred spirit. He leaned forward.

“Yo bro, mind if I smoke in here?”

“I don’t mind if you smoke on the sidewalk, Zeb.”

Zeb flopped back with a sniffy huff.

McGrath sat with his elbow on the car’s windowsill, thumb under chin and forefinger lightly against his temple, watching—watching Spencer. He knew that if he was here looking at this man, in this place, then there was a very good chance it was because he needed to be.

“How’d you find him?” he asked Johnny Boy.

“Maintains his listing with the Auto Sport Association.”

“He still race?”

“Nope. Lets him say they’re buying from a real race driver.”

McGrath nodded. He scanned the lot, seeing the gaps where sold cars hadn’t been restocked.

“Foreign, you say?”

“Yep.”

“That was good thinking.”

And that was another thing Johnny Boy liked about McGrath. A man secure enough to praise—, but only when it was due.

McGrath looked around. Not the worst of Detroit but . . .

“So why didn’t he move somewhere better?”

“Other issues demand his attention.”

McGrath nodded again. “Heard from the Yo-Yo?”

“No. But I expect to anytime.” Johnny Boy glanced at the car’s clock. “Imminently, in fact.”

“You sure he’s up to it?”

“When has he not been?”

“I know he’s got no problem with the technical requirements of his job. It’s just, he ain’t no Robert Redford.”

“I made him practice the hell out of two sentences. Even a man of as few words as the Yo-Yo can manage that.”

“And Rosso?” McGrath asked the question quietly. Zeb wasn’t bright, but the last thing they needed was for him to figure out why he’d really been brought along.

“Rosso is coming here. So you need to go make the call on this guy,” said Johnny Boy, pointing across the road at Spencer, who was now heading, at sprightly pace, toward the doors of Winchester Auto Specialists.

Angela looked up from the reception desk as Spencer bounced in with a clap of his hands.

“Angela, I thought that TVR was supposed to have been gone by the time I got back?”

She knew attitude nostrils when she saw them, and she saw them often enough with Spencer these days. She’d decided only the previous night she wasn’t going to stand for them anymore. When he’d interviewed her, Spencer had spoken a bit like that British romantic comedy actor but with less stuttering. He’d said business was on the up after the downturn and he’d seemed really charming. Now, ten months later, she realized those last two selling points should have been considered under advisement.

“I’m not sure if you meant to say that like it’s my fault? The guy hasn’t called yet. But the . . .”

She trailed off as he walked straight past and into his office. He was doing that sort of thing more and more, too, these days, like his mind couldn’t stay focused on one thing for any length of time. No mystery as to why that might be, of course. She heard his seat thump against the filing cabinet after he yanked it out from under the desk.

While debating what to do, she looked around the Winchester Auto Specialists showroom. Floor-to-ceiling glass, a bunch of potted palms, four cars. Angela wasn’t that into cars, but the old Jaguar was beautiful in a feminine kind of way. The way its body flared out and over its wheel arches reminded her of a woman’s hips. It was dark green, officially British racing green. In her time there, she’d picked up stuff like that. Spencer hadn’t insisted on it, hadn’t even asked if she had any interest in cars when he interviewed her, but as his presence had become less dependable of late, she’d found herself talking to potential customers more often. In fact, the last few sales closed at Winchester Auto Specialists were more her doing than his, and no wonder: he went from hot to cold like the weather on Lake Erie.

Last night her husband had said her newfound salesmanship skills should at least have translated into a bonus. She’d laughed. Bonus? What a joke. Her paycheck was nearly two weeks overdue. When she let that slip, her husband had gone ballistic. As she watched him stomping around the room on her behalf, she found herself agreeing with his sentiment. She was being taken for a goddamn sucker.

As she heard the carafe bash back into the coffee machine in Spencer’s office, she realized she’d become scared of giving him bad news, and bad news had been coming in more and more of late. She’d been fending calls off. Not just from the bank, but from people whose cars Spencer was supposed to be selling and even a few debt collectors. Sometimes, when she was on her own at the showroom, because Spencer was God knows where, it felt like being the lone pioneer left behind to guard the campfire. And the lone pioneer left behind to guard the campfire always bought it in the movies. When she tried to tell him, it was as if the bad news were her fault. Angela hadn’t made a stand over anything in her life, but if she didn’t make a stand today, her husband was going to come down here. Her mouth was dry. She rose from her seat.

3

In the Circle of Wagons

Angela stood in the doorway of Spencer’s office, watching him as he watched the showroom through the office’s internal window. Trophies and pictures from his rallying days filled the wall behind him. Well, they didn’t fill as such—judiciously spaced around the Kentia palm they gave pretty good coverage. But they were dusty and unimpressive to her now. Most of them were from amateur events. No big cash payouts there—just promise. And the sponsors had long moved on in their quest for younger potential.

Angela had never run a business before so she didn’t know what people needed to do when the shit hit the fan. But as she looked at Spencer with his feet up on the desk it occurred to her that surely he should be doing something. Phoning? Tweeting? The needle on her sympathy tank bounced on empty, and more selfish reasoning colored her thoughts. She wasn’t ever going to get a bonus. In fact, something about the calls she’d been fielding that morning told her she should consider herself lucky if she got paid that month.

“As I was saying, Mister TVR Buyer hasn’t called yet. I’ve put one call in. You said not to put more than one reminder call in so we didn’t seem desperate. Ever.”

She saw Spencer give an almost imperceptible eye roll.

“In addition, Ron-at-the-Bank’s called. Twice. He’s not happy. He didn’t go into specifics because he said you’d know. I did get the impression he was pissed. He’s expecting a call today. That was today by the way, did I mention that already?”

Spencer leaned back in his chair and looked at Angela like he was waiting for her to finish so he could go back to doing whatever it was that was so much more important. It was the final straw.

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve obviously taken all that in stride. Don’t let me keep you from firing up your master plan for the business any longer. I’m outta here.”

And with that, she turned and left. Confused, Spencer checked his watch.

In the showroom, Angela had already picked up her bag and was heading for the exit.

“Where’re you going?” he shouted.

“Home, Spencer,” she yelled back, without even slowing up. “Husband? Kids? I don’t get paid for being there either, but at least it’s got cable.”

She barely acknowledged the well-dressed man with whom she nearly collided as she left.

Back in his office, Spencer reflected on the day’s progress. It had started with promise. The TVR was supposed to have gone and a test drive had been booked with a guy who Angela said had been just peachy on the phone. Both had been duds. And Ron-at-the-Bank seemed to have gone from being a staunch ally of Winchester Auto Specialists to a major-league pain in the ass.

Spencer supposed Ron had reason to take things personally. In their first-ever meeting, he knew within five minutes the guy was just loving Spencer’s play: the British charm, the racing stories, the pretty American wife with her genuine Detroit grit. The farthest Ron had traveled had been over the border to see Niagara. Ron had fought for credit for Winchester and taken genuine satisfaction in its first encouraging figures. But that was then. Now he was just one of the many Spencer had to keep sweet until the luck changed.

He stared at the door out of which Angela had just flounced. She’d calm down when she got paid. His mind began to churn. What the hell should he be doing? Was there a master plan?

Of course there is.

Run it by me.

Borrow more money, until the sales start coming in again.

What if they don’t?

Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer sensed movement in the showroom. He saw a tall guy in a sharp-as-hell suit. Short, tightly curled, mostly gray hair. He was looking at the Jaguar D-Type, the Jaguar D-Type with a ninety-five-grand tag, twenty-five of which would go straight in Spencer’s pocket.

Hah! As I was saying . . .

Well, don’t fuck it up by thinking all that negative shit.

Spencer pulled out the wrap and opened it under his desk without taking his eyes off the suit in the showroom. He dug his car key in the glistening white powder, bent over, felt the cold metal of the key against his open nostril and blam.

* * *

“See anything you like?”

McGrath turned from the Jag to see a slim guy in his mid- to late-thirties looking at him. Slim but not necessarily fit-looking. Good-looking—maybe, maybe a little ragged. Warm smile but a salesman’s warm smile; he could have lost his entire family in a plane crash and he’d still manage that smile.

“Spencer Burnham?”

“Yes, that’s me. Mister . . . ?”

“McGrath. Dominic McGrath.” McGrath leaned in slightly, offering his hand. Spencer shook it. Both gripped firmly.

The two men looked at each other, only one of them aware they had different agendas. Spencer sensed something about this potential buyer though. It was as if McGrath’s eyes just happened to have been resting on the Jag as he waited for Spencer. And now those eyes were on him—alert, mischievous, and all the while pulling in information. And if the smile was genuine, as it appeared to be, it wasn’t diverting one iota of dataflow from those eyes. There was a nonclassic type of handsomeness and a ka-ching of the charisma that often goes with it.

“Beautiful car,” said McGrath.

Spencer was about to launch into his spiel.

“What do you drive, Spencer?”

“Uh, at the moment, the Lotus.”

McGrath nodded. His smile both discomforted Spencer and yet welcomed him into something wayward. It was the smile a teenager got from a teacher who knew what had gone down but was going to make it seem like he didn’t—because he’d done worse.

“Then how about you show me what a Lotus can do?”

Moments later, McGrath was sitting in the passenger seat of the Lotus, engine running and air blasting. As Spencer locked up the doors of the dealership, McGrath opened the car’s glove compartment and rummaged through. He’d seen everything he needed to—school report, hip flask, antidepressants—and closed it before Spencer joined him.

“My receptionist had to go to the dentist,” lied Spencer as he put the bunch of showroom keys in the side pocket of the car door. “You sure you don’t want to drive?”

“I’ll learn more from watching you.”

4

Lessons in Spanish

On the west side, the Yo-Yo was discovering that hooking up with an old flame could be quite the hot thrill. He hadn’t ridden a motorbike for at least twenty years, but whatever had kept him alive back then, he sure as hell hadn’t lost it. That bike had been a stolen one, just as this one was. Flicking the red beast from side to side, he weaved through some slow traffic on Warren. Power. Speed translated into distance almost instantly—Ducati power. A twist of the wrist and zip he was somewhere else. It made him smirk, which was pretty amazing even for him, considering what he was on his way to do.

He eased a right onto Junction Street. The road was already shimmering in the building heat of the morning. It was going to be another hot one, in more ways than one. Ahead, the lights on two intersections turned green. The road was clear. He could really open this baby up, just for a couple of seconds. It was tempting, but the Yo-Yo was following orders from the only guy he’d ever paid mind to, and that meant not drawing any attention—for the time being anyway.

He turned off Junction into the backstreets between Michigan Avenue and Grand Boulevard: Latin King territory, or so they claimed, seeing as of late some Black City Disciples had been mooching on down from Tireman Avenue and selling here. They didn’t come alone though, which was fine as far as the Yo-Yo was concerned, because he was looking for more than one of them.

Pulling up at a stop sign on Lovett, the Yo-Yo noticed a gray Impala curbside down the block. There was something about it. He carried on across the intersection but stopped behind a semi in an overgrown parking lot. He inched forward so he could watch between the rig and its trailer.

The Impala had its back to where Lovett dead-ended onto Michigan Avenue. There were three Black guys inside. One would be for dealing, two for lookout. But he had to be certain, so he waited. In case he was being watched, he took out his phone and made it look as if he were checking something. But his phone was off because phones logged movements.

He glanced up when an old Ford pickup clattered past him and made a right onto Lovett. It pulled up next to the Impala, driver’s side next to driver’s side. An arm came out of its cab. The guy in the front of the Impala reached out and took its offering. Deal done. Deal done and, for the Yo-Yo, target acquired. Next, he needed witnesses. As he waited, he took out a small piece of paper with a line of neat handwriting. He started mumbling to himself, mantra-like, as he practiced the words on the paper.

“Hijos . . . No, heejos. Yeah, that was it. Heejos. Heejos a Tireman . . .”

He heard voices from behind and glanced in his mirror. A heat-wilted Black woman with her two kids, a boy and a girl, were going to pass him by. The boy was about thirteen. Perfect. The Yo-Yo placed the phone against his ear, engrossed in an imaginary voice mail, hiding his face as he waited for them to pass—hiding his Caucasian face.

They’d be at the stop sign in twenty yards, and the Yo-Yo figured that would give them a swell view of what was about to happen. He did a quick 360 for any cops, took out the Ruger from his jacket pocket, flicked its safety off, and tucked it behind his back in the waistband of his pants. He pulled his visor nearly all the way down and hit the engine start. Time to go to work.

He made it to the stop just as the family was about to cross. They had to wait as he turned onto Lovett. As he approached the Impala, he saw three pairs of eyes zero in on him. Three guys who were trusted and experienced enough to be sent to claim territory from the enemy.

The Yo-Yo gave a small nod to the driver, who ignored it. They watched him warily as he pulled up. He killed the engine and made a two-finger sign—two G. Then he resisted the temptation to watch them in the car, sensing the tiny movements of hands cosseting guns, fingers caressing triggers. Instead, he made as if he were nervously checking around for cops—just a local Joe looking to score, the scariest moment in his day. Behind them, a refinery train clanked over the concrete bridge spanning Michigan Avenue.

When he looked back, a hand was out of the Impala, hanging loosely. One of them at least had decided he was legit.

“Two ten.”

The Yo-Yo nodded and reached absentmindedly behind him. Suddenly the driver found himself staring down the barrel of the Yo-Yo’s gun. Its noise was dulled by the train. The driver’s head snapped back without time to register surprise. Guns on laps were guns that were too far away to be of use. The Ruger moved instantly to the front passenger and fired. The Yo-Yo didn’t even see pieces of skull and brain spraying out the opposite window. His aim was jumping onto the backseat dealer whose gun arm was nearly up. But the Yo-Yo’s Ruger was already covering his face and in that split second he knew he’d won, as he’d done many times in his nearly forty years. This favorite microsecond would replay in his mind. Victory, jungle law, whatever. It was pretty much the only thing worth getting emotional about, that and the next Lions game.

Orders.

The word penetrated the haze of adrenaline, not even as a thought—rather, the essence of a thought—and the Yo-Yo adjusted his aim to the man’s shoulder before firing, twice. The gun fell from the dealer’s hand as invisible fingers of fire nailed him to his seat, robbing him of his power to think. Two more rounds slamming into the upholstery by his head gave him back some wits and he half fell, half threw himself down across the back seat. More rounds thudded into his dead friends.

The Yo-Yo watched for a moment to see if this last one had any fight left in him. He knew where the gun had fallen—out of reach of where the guy now lay, playing dead, hoping for a miracle. Well, he was about to get one.

The train passed, disappearing with a mournful blast on its horns. In the distance, a railroad crossing bell jangled before silence descended. Then the Yo-Yo started shouting in Spanish, at the car, at the street, at the guy cowering and bleeding on the back seat of the Impala.

“Regresense a Tireman, hijos de la chingada! Regresense a Tireman!”

Go back to Tireman, motherfuckers!

He yelled it again and again. People would be listening. Eyes would be peeping through curtains. They’d hear, they’d talk, word would get around. Job done. He started the bike, U-turned, and roared back up the street. At the stop, the family had crossed the road but were frozen on the sidewalk. He stopped right by them. The mother shielded her kids with her arms, wide-eyed with terror. The Yo-Yo pointed back at the Impala.

“Regresense a Tireman, hijos de la chingada!”

What the fuck, he was actually starting to enjoy this. He’d been a little nervous about the Spanish thing, but now? Well hell, it was kinda fun, kinda like a character in a Wild West movie! He moved the bike right into the middle of the intersection. Drivers who were waiting to cross ducked behind steering wheels when they saw the motorcyclist stand astride his machine and pull out a handgun.

Bellowing in Spanish, the Yo-Yo emptied the mag in the air. Then, with a manic laugh, he roared off so hard the Ducati’s front wheel didn’t touch the tarmac for twenty yards.

For the next five minutes, he lit up the streets in the neighborhood, carving turns as lean angle, approach speed, and braking made their visceral transactions. When the enjoyment of speed and elation at completing the hit dropped off, he wanted to head back to the depot. Michigan Avenue had been right there behind the Impala. He could have gone east straight back to Detroit. Could have been back in time to catch the game. Then, as the Lions sent the Packers to shitland, he’d relive his own moment of triumph. And back in the day, he would have done just that. He would have turned and burned, straight back to the D, his direction noted by witnesses, his bike recorded by CCTVs. And they’d have caught him.

A while back, the Yo-Yo had been looking at twenty-five without parole at Carson City Correctional. He’d done three years and those were enough for him to realize he wasn’t that clever, but at least he was clever enough to realize it. So when Lady Luck sent him a visitor, he’d been more than ready to pay attention. That visitor had taken the form of a portly guy with glasses and a beard who looked like an undertaker—Johnny Boy. Johnny Boy had been a lawyer for the Chicago mob until he was disbarred. It didn’t stop him advising someone else though. New boss, new city. And Johnny Boy’s boss wanted someone just like the Yo-Yo, someone who could kill in all manner of ways with neither qualm nor hesitation, who was already staring into the abyss, someone who’d be loyal and attentive in exchange for a break.

Johnny Boy had brought it to the Yo-Yo’s attention that some evidence used in his trial had been garnered by inadmissible means. His state-funded defense should hang their heads in shame. Correctly handled, an appeal against his conviction would have a near-certain chance of success. Did the Yo-Yo wish Johnny Boy’s employer to go ahead with the organization and financing of his appeal? And if so, would he be prepared to work solely for, and obey unquestioningly, the same employer?

Six weeks later he’d walked free. A week after that, the unfortunate death of one of the prosecution’s key witnesses had made the chances of a retrial unlikely. Said key witness had inexplicably fallen twenty-eight floors from the west-side tower in which he lived. His apartment had been on the fourth floor.

So, this time, although the Yo-Yo had wanted to head back straight away, he was following orders. After blasting triumphantly around disputed turf, he dropped off the power and started working his way quietly north and then west through backstreets and vacant lots. His choices weren’t random. Every so often he would pull up and take out a piece of paper covered with directions. Soon he’d turn south, for the Rouge River. Probably only one other man had followed the exact same route. That had been Johnny Boy, a careful man with an eye for detail. CCTV, after all, was everywhere these days.

5

Rosso and Cal

Rosso was also heading for Rouge River. He drove a car the same way Johnny Boy researched things—carefully. Not carefully as in always observing the speed limit, although he did, or wearing his seat belt, which he also did. Rather, he followed certain procedures when he drove: constantly checking for tails, leaving then rejoining the same expressway, double backs, no GPS.

He did this while running the errands of his job, which was moving money. Picking up dirty cash from dealers and hangouts in west and southwest Detroit and exchanging it for laundered money from all sorts of business establishments in Midtown, Downtown, and the suburbs, wherever Detroit was starting to pick itself up. No electronic transfers, just good old A to B. And the stuff he couldn’t do, his employer, one and the same as Johnny Boy’s employer, had a courier company infiltrated too. It was kind of funny they were called AtoB.

Five or six of AtoB’s guys were on “extra pay.” They’d go into a Lebanese restaurant in Dearborn with an empty package, and as the owner was signing the paperwork, they’d be exchanging money underneath it. Real magician sleight-of-hand shit that would confound any Feds who might be monitoring things. Not that the Feds monitored much, or anything, in Detroit these days. That was about the level of excitement Rosso wanted. Leave the real hot shit to the likes of the Yo-Yo.

Rosso had other things going for him. His complete inability to make a visual impact wherever he went was right up there. He was a wiry guy in his fifties from Italian stock with thinning gray hair and a face people forgot as soon as they looked at it. He drove a nondescript Japanese sedan in old-man tan. Being another guy who’d done just enough time in the joint not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Rosso was also good at doing what he was told. He was clearing three times as much as he would if he worked six nights a week as a cabdriver.

He pulled up at a light on McGraw, opened his window, and dropped out his phone, barely a week old. He watched as the truck pulling up next to him squelched it into the hot tarmac.

Rosso’s car bumped down a potholed road underneath the concrete supports of the Rouge River Bridge and into the empty lot of a derelict warehouse. He stopped in the far corner, by the water’s edge.

He took out a new phone and downloaded the messenger app Johnny Boy insisted on. He then sent his new number to the people who needed it.

He did it carefully. Because he didn’t want to screw up. He’d been feeling tense these last couple of months. A few times he’d been stopped by the cops for bullshit reasons. Seeing as spotting and avoiding the cops was part of his job, he should have given more thought to how they managed just to come out of nowhere. On both occasions, he nearly had his employer in the car. It was an oversight not to put the two things together. Especially when it happened a third time.

The next mistake he made was not telling Johnny Boy. Sure, he could have waited a little while, maybe until the next time the Bears beat the Lions, which would put a Chicago man in a more forgiving mood, but not much longer. Everyone knew word always got back to Johnny Boy.

Rosso heard the noise of a motorcycle. He watched as the Ducati picked its way round the concrete debris and grassy lumps strewn across the old lot. The Yo-Yo sure looked comfortable on a mode of transport he’d claimed to be out of practice on. He bulged powerfully in his jacket. And he was at least 6'3"—a regular enforcer type. Yep, thought Rosso, leave the work with the high pucker factor to the likes of him. Live a quiet life. Another five or six years and he’d buy a nice house up in Anchorville. Johnny Boy would help him do it without the IRS asking where the hell he got the money. Besides, all this time sitting on his ass wasn’t helping his hemorrhoids.

The Ducati pulled up by Rosso’s car. The Yo-Yo killed the engine, dismounted, and walked toward the concrete-edged river. He took off his helmet and threw it in the water. Next, he dismantled his gun and threw the pieces in too.

“All good?” asked Rosso, getting out of his car.

“Help me with the bike,” said the Yo-Yo, ignoring the question

This kind of thing wasn’t helping Rosso’s state of mind. It just seemed like he wasn’t especially popular these days, like he’d said something really bad without knowing it. Well, fuck them. They should try driving dirty money all over the goddamn place without ever getting stopped. Anyway, the Yo-Yo had always been a man of few words. Everyone knew it. He only ever said hello when he was going to waste someone and even that wasn’t guaranteed.

They started pushing the Ducati toward the edge. The sound of an approaching car caused them to hesitate. Rosso tensed.

“Cops?”

“Relax, Rosso.”

Rosso felt the burn of humiliation. Was that it? Did everyone think he spooked easy?

As they watched the far end of the lot, a gleaming white sports car appeared. It stopped for a moment, seeming to hesitate before venturing onto the lot’s broken surface—modern automotive technology in all its beauty scared shitless by the vicious ruins of the Motor City. It took the plunge and began to pick its way across the lot. Every so often it would back up and try a different route.

Rosso’s heart sank a little. If the Yo-Yo could be intimidating, Cal could be a real pain in the ass. Nothing pleased the guy. He ran the books and signed the checks. Running the books meant making sure there weren’t any but that people got paid. Cal was a tough guy who’d boxed for a while before he put on a suit and decided to use his head for numbers. “Cal the Calculator.” Unlike the Yo-Yo, everyone had to know Cal was tough. It was like anger simmered underneath his apelike face with its buzz-cut helmet. Even when he dished out the dough at the end of what everyone knew had been a great time for business, it was like he resented folks for taking it. And sweet Jesus, they’d all had to say something kiss-ass about his new Porsche, even though everyone knew a Boxster was the chicks’ Porsche.

Cal didn’t bother saying hello either.

“How’d it go down?” he said to the Yo-Yo.

The Yo-Yo nodded.

“You left one of ’em?”

“If he checked out, he had time to talk.”

For just a second Rosso thought Cal might say well done. The Yo-Yo’s report had obviously put him in a good mood, because he started speaking in a fake newscaster’s voice as Rosso and the Yo-Yo wheeled the Ducati to the water’s edge.

“Did you know seven out of ten murders in Detroit go unsolved?”

“Nooooo, really?” called the Yo-Yo over his shoulder.

“Oh yeah. So if you wanna kill somebody . . .”

Rosso and the Yo-Yo had built up to a run and, laughing as they sent the bike into the Rouge River, replied in unison: “Come to Detroit!”

Rare of late, the shared jackassing relaxed Rosso.

Cal opened the trunk of Rosso’s car and clocked a black sports bag. He unzipped it. The bag was full of cash. He closed the bag, shut the trunk, and banged it with his hand, like he was sending out a rodeo rider.

“Rosso, head up to one block south of 9 Mile. East Winchester and Conant. Pick up Dom. He’s goin’ with you for this one.”

“Sure,” said Rosso as he got in his car.

“And Rosso, you got a phone?”

Rosso patted his pocket, started up, and took off slowly across the lot. If he’d seen the way Cal and the Yo-Yo watched him go, he’d have felt even more stressed than he already did.

Rosso slowed up as he approached the Conant and East Winchester intersection, but saw no sign of Dom or his car. When he spotted Johnny Boy’s SUV, he parked up behind and got out to get the lowdown.

Johnny Boy dropped his window. “How much did Cal give you?”

Rosso leaned against the car. “Twenty-nine seven hundred.”

“OK, take it west: the parking structure near Telegraph and Jeffries. You know the one. AtoB will meet you there. This load’s for around Livonia way. Zeb here’s coming with you. Make sure you’re clear of anything before you hit the changeover.”

Rosso was taken aback. Make sure you’re clear? What the fuck did that all mean? As if he didn’t know the AtoB handovers were a big deal. He hesitated, not sure how to play it. All of a sudden he felt awkward, stiff.

“I thought Dom was comin’?” he said.

“He’s busy.” Johnny Boy nodded over at Winchester Auto Specialists, where Spencer’s Lotus was waiting to pull out of the lot. “You got a problem with it not being Dom?”

Rosso wasn’t sure whether it was the question itself or the tone in which it was asked that rattled him. Did Johnny Boy know there was something Rosso wasn’t telling him? He debated whether to bring it up now and clear the air.

“No,” said Rosso. “I just—”

“And ditch your phone,” cut in Johnny Boy.

“This one’s pretty clean, man.”

“I don’t give a damn. Matter of fact, give it to me. Zeb here’s got one. Get going, both of you.”

6

The Interview

The Lotus pulled onto Conant. McGrath nodded at Johnny Boy as they passed by. Johnny Boy followed, keeping his distance.

Spencer headed east then north into Macomb. He was going to take McGrath up Sterling Heights way, maybe around Palmer Woods, to find some curves to show off the car’s cornering abilities.

McGrath watched him drive. Fluid, expert—and hungover. He’d known that from his breath back in the showroom, when he’d leaned in close to shake hands.

“Long way from home, Spencer.” It took Spencer a moment to note that it hadn’t annoyed him.

“American wife?” continued McGrath. Spencer glanced round at him, and McGrath nodded at Spencer’s wedding ring.

“She wanted to come back here because her mum was ill.”

“You married a Detroit girl? Good for you. What does she do?”

There was something about the way he asked that almost made Spencer inclined to be totally honest.

“She raises money for museums. Looks for sponsorship by tying up events with companies.”

Spencer’s mind flashed back to the first time he met Marielle. It was at a car museum in Beaulieu, a sleepy village in England. The museum was hosting some joint show with the Henry Ford Museum in Detroit and a couple of the rally drivers had had to show up to keep the sponsors happy. Spencer was one of them. Marielle had stood in line to be driven on a muddy little circuit set up in the grounds of the manor house. Most of the time the car had been sideways and Marielle had nearly died laughing. Spencer was smitten with her laugh. He’d taken her around three times, pissing off all the other people waiting in line, just so he could hear it some more.

“So how’d your cars keep selling while the Motor City’s finest went under?” asked McGrath.

“Because we have corners where I come from?”

McGrath laughed. “I’ll tell you why.” A Buick drove by in the opposite direction, followed by a Caddy. “You see that? And that? Twelve hundred bucks of every one of them went to the unions. Handout, handout. Killing this country’s chances.”

McGrath spoke like a man from the streets, but one who’d traveled, climbed, and refined himself—just not so much that his roots weren’t evident. But if he allowed them to show, he did so by choice, when it suited or amused him. Spencer suspected McGrath could move in the best and worst of circles yet would take shit in neither.

McGrath leaned forward and picked a small straw off the floor. “Amazing what people leave in their cars these days.”

Spencer feigned bemusement. “Don’t worry, all cars are fully valeted before going to new homes. So, uh, what line of work are you in, Dominic?”

“Dom, please. I run a . . . a profitable niche business you might say. Currency movement, that kinda thing.”

Zeb looked at the bag of money now on the seat beside him. He was tense. He had no idea why he was supposed to come on this one or why Johnny Boy had told him to keep an eye on Rosso. Rosso was a bore. Slick driver but a bore.

Rosso turned into a parking structure and headed down the ramps. Most of the lights were out below ground. AtoB liked it that way.

At the bottom level, they slowed and looked for the distinctive green-and-white AtoB livery. They saw it on a little truck tucked away at the far end. As they headed over, its cab door opened and a man got out.

They pulled up a few car lengths back. Zeb grabbed the bag, got out, and walked to meet the AtoB guy. As soon as the bag changed hands, their dark and quiet environment detonated. Lights, sirens, revving engines. A dark sedan, red light flashing on its dash, lurched out from the parked cars and barred Rosso’s way. Up ahead, a blue-and-white plunged down the up ramp and raced toward the courier truck, stopping with a little screech, bull bars touching the truck’s radiator grill, hemming it in.

Zeb knew what this was. This was a ten-to-fifteen stretch for him. He was carrying dirty money and a buddy’s unlicensed weapon, which could be linked to God only knew what, all with two months of parole still to run. But most of all, Zeb knew this was a setup. And as far as he was concerned, the guy at the wheel was responsible, because even though Zeb had just dived back in the car, Rosso was just sitting there, doing nothing—a man hired for his ass-kicking driving hots. The blue-and-white’s bullhorn echoed around the gloom, battling the sirens.

“You in the car. Switch off your engine and put your hands outta the window! Now! Do it now!”

Rosso froze, weighing the stakes, the house in Anchorville, until he felt Zeb’s gun poke him hard in the side.

“Go, Rosso! Go, you motherfucker!”

Rosso glanced in the rearview. Zeb was serious, alright. And he was right. Rosso was in enough trouble with Johnny Boy as it was. The glance in the rearview told him their back was still clear. Good old DPD with its shitty little budgets. He threw it in reverse, put his hand on the back of the passenger seat and they took off. Fast and smooth. Oh, Rosso was good. No panic in his driving, however hard his heart was beating, however much he was thinking about Zeb sticking a gun in him. They went backward up the down ramp without even skimming the curb.

Going too fast to turn and with no space to do it anyway, they raced backward along the next level up. They turned onto the up ramp so fast Zeb had to scrabble with a handful of gun against Rosso’s seat to stay upright.

Rosso had found his flow. They hit the next level. The sound of the police sirens had fallen away. One more turn, one more ramp, and then they were flying out into the blinding sunlight, wheels barely touching the ground.

Straight into the police tow truck waiting at the exit.

Rosso had seen it at the last instant but too late to do anything except brace against the wheel. But as Zeb’s head went through the side window and hit the doorsill, his gun fired, through Rosso’s seat. Blood sprayed the windshield.

Across the street a guy in a little green-and-white truck watched it all. He made a call.

7

Buckle Up

“So how is rally so different from Nascar or Indy?” asked McGrath.

“Nascar, Indy, they go round in circles, always on tarmac. Same with Formula One. In rallying, we had to use production models. We could upgrade and modify, but we have to use cars the man on the street can buy. And we have to be good on gravel, snow, mud.”

“Why rallying?”

“I’m a farmer’s son. Lived miles from anywhere. Dad said if I stopped sliding cars around the farm, he’d take me karting. I had talent. Qualified for the senior British team when I was still a junior.”

“So why’d you stop? Why come here and sell cars?”

“I got married, had a kid. When you’re sliding upside down on your roof with a split gas tank pouring fifty gallons over you with no fire and rescue nearby . . . it’s not a family-friendly job.”

He knew he had to try and take more control of the situation, to ask McGrath about himself, to make the customer feel special. “You always been in the same line of work?”

Stick with the old faithfuls.

Dominic McGrath watched the gates of the Detroit Arsenal go by on 11 Mile. It made him pause before answering. He was at an age when a man reflects on the choices he’s made. Whenever he saw an army base or convoy on the freeway, it took his mind back to the only time he’d ever worked for someone else, if Uncle Sam could be called someone.

He’d signed up when his criminal activities were catching up on him in Detroit. Vendettas were closing in. But he’d joined just in time for the first Gulf War. That was some badass frying-pan-fire luck. And yet he’d excelled and still maintained his illegal sidelines. Black market ops. Staff Sergeant “BeeMO” McGrath: drugs, guns, import, export.

A war on, you say? I’ve always been at war, you stupid little farm-boy hobos. Now put those Berettas in that coffin and worry about spending the money we’re making before you’re in one too.

By the time he’d made it back to Detroit, things had changed. All the people who’d had it in for him were either dead or in the pen. And the cops had even less money than they had before. And when he thought how pitiful an army pension was, he knew he’d made the right decision to get the hell out.

It was the thought of a pension that had brought him to Winchester Auto Specialists and the man driving, north now, into the comfortable golf clubs and picket fences of the suburbs.

McGrath became aware of Spencer looking at him, clearly wondering if he’d heard the question, wanting to get the conversation skipping along. The question, after all, had been one of the salesman’s throwaways.

“Yep. Always,” McGrath replied.

Spencer drove faster than average. And it was obviously his normal thing to do so, slipping in and out of gaps, changing lanes. It was as if he couldn’t help himself but make progress, like he was in a car for a different reason than all the other knuckleheads clogging up the highway. And yet it didn’t feel rushed or flashy. No one was honking at being cut up. Nor did it feel like McGrath was getting some kind of a show. Spencer just seemed to drive fast—but not get noticed. He didn’t know it yet, but his passenger had a list of very specific requirements and moving fast without getting noticed was right at the top.

McGrath glanced in the side-view mirror and saw Johnny Boy’s SUV several cars back. He smirked to himself, knowing the Chicago man would be working hard to keep up.

Johnny Boy was having more trouble than McGrath knew. He was taking a call. And he wasn’t on speakerphone because he didn’t like his calls piping through loud and clear for any recording devices, although he accepted he was possibly being a little overcautious on that score. Chicago PD might be able to afford that kind of shit, but Detroit PD spent their time racing from one 911 to the next. That’s why basing an outfit in Detroit but milking the suburbs made so much sense.

Right now, though, as he tried to converse and change lanes at eighty, not being on speaker wasn’t hanging together all that well. And to say the caller was severely bent out of shape would be an understatement. Johnny Boy was having to hold the phone some distance from his ear.

“I know, we’re on this,” he said when the other guy paused for breath. “No, we are. I just didn’t think they’d wait and get your guy too. Sonsabitches. Your guy got any previous? Will he talk? . . . OK, then just keep him tight. I’ll get to him. I’ll make him happy.”

Johnny Boy finished the call and then took his life in his hands by sending a text.

Up ahead, the phone in McGrath’s jacket vibrated. He took it out and read Johnny Boy’s message: “Hunch proved. Messy & expensive. Job vacancy.”

McGrath sighed and put away his phone, disappointed for a moment, then back in the moment. He glanced in the side-view mirror. About five cars back, there was a DPD car with no light bar on its roof.

“Show me,” he said suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Get me to the MGM Grand in fifteen minutes, and I will give you four thousand bucks. Take it as a down payment on this faggy European car.”

“What’re you . . . Why?”

“I have a boring life? I’m an American. Straight roads and Nascar? Enfuckinglighten me.”

He put a wad of bills down by the gearshift.

Spencer looked at the money and thought about Ron-at-the-Bank, the rent he owed, Angela’s pay, a few grams of coke. He thought about the thirty minutes the drive to the MGM Grand Detroit Casino would normally take from where they were.

Four grand. The Grand. Fifteen minutes. Three fifty brake horses. Zero to sixty in four point nine seconds. Ron, rent, Angela, the Grand, fifteen minutes.

“Alright.”

He checked his mirror.

“Hadn’t you better get going?” asked McGrath.

“Yeah, I will as soon as that cop without the roof lights disappears, the one you clocked before you put that money down.”

“Those are a pain in the ass, aren’t they?”

And without knowing it, Spencer had just ticked another box.

They watched the cop car turn off. Spencer downshifted. The revs jumped, but the speed of the car stayed the same. He turned to McGrath.

“You sure about this?”