Parlor City Payback: A Skid Row and Bullfrog Novel

By Michael Sova

Skid Row and Bullfrog, two world-weary down-and-outs, are doing their best to defy the odds and make something of their generally pathetic lives. As always, the deck is seemingly stacked against them. Carl, their unlikely benefactor, is missing in action, and Ricky Fixx, an old nemesis and near-constant source of fear and torment, is intent on revenge and will stop at nothing to get it. Meanwhile, a new adversary has entered the fray. At first, his objective is unclear even to him. That’s when he’s suddenly confronted with his past, an unforgivable betrayal, and a shocking glimpse of somebody he’d hoped to never see again. Paths begin to converge, and it becomes increasingly obvious they are all set inexorably for a collision course at the crossroads of bad luck and trouble.

Although circumstances are gradually improving, Binghamton, New York, the so-called “Parlor City,” was once recognized among the most depressing places in the United States. That makes it the ideal backdrop for another novel featuring Skid Row and Bullfrog. Forever striving to better themselves, each step they take forward is hampered by several stumbles back, much like the city they call home. Author of the high-octane thrillers Blind Switch and A Shot at Redemption, Michael Sova returns with Parlor City Payback, the first sequel to Parlor City Paradise. With his now characteristic blend of wit, humor, a keep-you-guessing plot, and a host of unforgettable characters, Parlor City Payback is a triumph of suspense fiction and Michael Sova’s strongest work to date.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Sova
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005871536

Michael Sova

My first career aspiration was to become a college English professor. I did major in English Literature at the State University of New York at Oswego and graduated with honors. I then began my post graduate work at the State University of New York at Albany. What can I say? I sort of hated it which prompted a disconcerting period of reflection and re-evaluation, and I found myself at a personal crossroads. Next thing I knew, I was sitting behind the control board at a country radio station in Kinston, North Carolina. I didn’t know anything about the broadcasting business in general, radio in particular, and about my only prior exposure to country music was when Hank Williams, Jr. sang the theme song to Monday Night Football. The first time I ever spoke into the microphone, at around three in the morning thank goodness, it was to intro a Suzy Bogguss record but I called her Suzy Bogus because I honestly didn’t know any better. Here’s a little more honesty for you. It all sounded pretty bogus to me. I grew up on rock and roll. What did I know from steel guitars and fiddles? Nonetheless, several years later, I was working the mid-day air shift, carrying the titles of music director and promotions director, and bounding up the corporate ladder. That’s when everything changed again.The Clint Eastwood classic, “Play Misty for Me,” surely overdramatized the danger, but my first rule of radio was to never meet any of the women that called in. I made one exception, and she turned out to be the love of my life. We’ve been married over two decades now. Along the way, we relocated to Upstate New York and had two wonderfully talented children. I traded in my microphone for a paperback copy of “Parenting for Dummies.” Here’s what I learned. Becoming a parent is far easier than it probably should be, but being a halfway decent one is an entirely different matter. I know because I spent years as a stay-at-home dad. I did my best for what that’s worth and hopefully left no lasting emotional scars. And, to preserve my own sanity, I started writing.My first novel, a racing themed thriller titled “A Shot at Redemption,” took an embarrassingly long time to complete but was very well received. “Parlor City Paradise” came next. I then took a short break from suspense fiction, instead pouring my heart, soul, passion, long-standing Minnesota Vikings fandom, and the subsequent years of torment into “21 Sundays of Fantastic Football Food: Celebrating the Foods and Follies of Professional Football.” It’s not only filled with great tailgate-type recipes, but I can promise it’s one of the funniest cookbooks you’ll ever come across. My third novel, a thriller titled “Blind Switch,” was published in the summer of 2018. I believe it is my best work to date. It’s also semi-autobiographical in that the protagonist and I have something in common. We are both legally blind. Unlike her, however, I’ve never had a trained assassin after me. I would prefer to keep it that way if at all possible.

Book preview

Skid Row noted the familiar footfall, the jangle of keys, and then he heard Bullfrog complaining even before he’d unlocked the door and entered the room.

A monkey could do it, he grumbled, unlacing steel-tipped boots and kicking them into a corner.

Trouble in paradise? Skid Row asked, never taking his eyes off the television screen or his game of Super Smash Bros.

Data entry, Bullfrog was saying. That’s what I was hired for. I’m supposed to be working behind a desk for the first time in my life. I was looking forward to that too.

Oh yeah? Skid Row scowled, only half listening.

Yesterday I was in the stock room counting and sorting nuts, bolts, washers, and all kinds of other crap. Eight hours I did that. And then today, Bullfrog collapsed into a scarred faux leather recliner, I used an electric drill and this weird brush thing to file rust out of hundreds of little metal tubes. I don’t even know why. And the best part is I didn’t finish, so I get to do it all over again tomorrow.

Hey, that’s life in the fast lane, Skid Row said, grunting and slapping the Wii controller against his leg. Playing one of the final levels in All-Star Mode, the stage turned to ice, his Luigi tripped and fell, and Squirtle delivered the death blow.

"I told my boss that’s not what I’m there for. I can do more than manual labor. He informed me that, if I didn’t like it, I was welcome to seek employment elsewhere. Mimicking him, Bullfrog’s voice took on a grating, nasally tone. I may have to take him up on that," he concluded

Sure thing, dude, Skid Row swore and restarted his game. ’Cept you’ve been saying that for weeks.

And I’m gonna do something about it too.

Like what? You gonna run for President or something? I hate to break it to you, but you might be overqualified.

I’m serious, Bullfrog said.

About what, bitching? ’Cause that’s all I’ve been hearing.

I mean it. I’ve decided I’m going back to school.

Skid Row glanced over for the first time. You’re crazy, he said, slouching deeper into the couch cushions and reaching to tug at his hair, momentarily forgetting he’d cut most of it off months earlier. It used to fall well past his shoulders and now barely touched his collar. Bullfrog had assured him it was an improvement, but Skid Row despised it and thought it made him look like a monumental dweeb.

I want to go back to college, Bullfrog said. I want to get my degree.

Are you for real?

Yes! Why’s that so hard to believe?

Skid Row made a sound of dismissal.

Why? Bullfrog pressed. Why shouldn’t I do it?

How many reasons do you want? For starters, you’re broke. We’re both broke. If it weren’t for Carl letting us crash here, we’d probably still be camped out under a bridge or in the woods somewhere. That’s where I might be soon anyway, he thought but didn’t say.

I’ve been able to save a little.

Yeah? How much?

Bullfrog was silent.

How much? Skid Row asked again.

A few hundred dollars.

Mr. Big Time. He shook his head. With a financial portfolio like that, who needs education? You can retire now. Buy yourself an island. While you’re at it, get one for me too.

Bullfrog shot him a look but didn’t reply.

Reality check, dude. Your life savings isn’t enough to finance a semester of textbooks. You ain’t goin’ to college.

I had savings, Bullfrog said. his already beady eyes beginning to bug out even more. Or my parents did anyway. It was stolen from me.

I know, Skid Row said. You told me like fifty times. Your folks died in a car wreck and your lawyer uncle tricked you out of your inheritance. It’s tragic and my ass bleeds for you, but it’s history. Get over it and move on.

I’m trying, Bullfrog said quietly.

And even if you had the funds, Skid Row went on as if Bullfrog hadn’t spoken. What would be the point of going back? You were studying, what, music theory or some shit? What is that anyway? I can prove there’s music just by turning on the radio. I don’t need theory. And is there a lot of call for that in a slum like Binghamton? You gonna teach classes to all the poor and homeless?

It doesn’t have to be music, and who says I’ve got to stay here?

Not me. Skid Row Turned back to the television. Sayonara señor. I hate messy goodbyes so don’t let the door hitcha where the good lord splitcha. Best of luck in your future.

Bullfrog opened his mouth but then closed it again and jumped to his feet.

Uh-oh, Skid Row thought, flinching and immediately flashing back to that day months earlier when he and Bullfrog had met for the first time. He’d been running his mouth then too: standing behind the counter at McDonald’s and intentionally provoking his strange, disheveled, and curiously amphibian-looking customer. He’d gone so far as to call him Kermit which proved to be a fateful mistake. Bullfrog lost his shit in a serious way, and Skid Row had ended up flat on his back and out of a job. That was the inauspicious start to their friendship and a memorable introduction to Bullfrog’s violently short fuse. He’d witnessed it on a few occasions since and thought the little dude was about to explode again.

Bullfrog crossed the room to stand over him, or as much as his squat, stocky frame would allow. Skid Row managed to hold his gaze, but it wasn’t easy. He wasn’t a fighter and he knew it. Most of the time, Bullfrog wasn’t either. Depending on the circumstances, he might give in to fear-induced paralysis long before he built up enough nerve to throw a punch; but there was a trigger in there somewhere, and it made him both unpredictable and dangerous.

You really want me to go? he asked, sounding more confused than angry.

Whatever, Skid Row said, clutching his game controller in both hands as if he might use it to ward off an attack. I can’t stop you. Why would I?

Bullfrog looked at him. Then, without another word, he spun around, walked to the TV, and turned it off.

Hey, Skid Row objected. I was— But he stopped when he saw the worried expression on his friend’s face.

What’s going on? Bullfrog asked.

Nothin’, Skid Row mumbled, staring into his lap. What do you mean?

Bullfrog pushed a pile of jeans and sweatshirts to the far end of the couch, so he had room to sit down. I mean, he said, you’ve been acting weird lately. You’re always pissed off.

Me? Skid Row retorted. Were you listening to yourself when you walked in here? You were a complaint fucking factory. Are you the only one allowed to have a bad day?

Of course not, said Bullfrog, and I’m sorry, but it seems like you’re in a bad mood all the time. You hardly talk anymore, and if you do it’s sarcastic and mean. When you’re not at work you’re sitting here binge-watching Netflix or playing video games. It’s not healthy. You need to break out of that routine.

Yeah, well, I sort of took care of that already.

I don’t think I like the sound of that. What did you do?

Skid Row closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the couch. At the end of the day today, he said, I thanked Richard for the opportunity, and then I may have told him I wouldn’t be coming in anymore.

You were working for your dad and you quit? Bullfrog’s voice conveyed disbelief and, Skid Row thought, disappointment. Why? Did something happen?

Skid Row was quiet for a while and then he spoke. "Do you remember when I told you how I got my nickname?

Sure, Bullfrog said. Your dad didn’t think—

When I was a kid, Skid Row interrupted, his mind such a jumble of negative thoughts and emotions he wasn’t even aware Bullfrog had started to answer, I got into trouble all the time. I just did a bunch of dumb stuff. The school counselor said I was acting out after Mom took off. I don’t know about that, but I guess Richard must have gotten tired of it. He started calling me Skid Row because he said I was a fuck up and would never amount to anything.

But he was wrong.

No, Skid Row said, draping one arm over his eyes. I’ve been proving him right my whole life.

Don’t say that. So you went through a rough patch. That can happen to anyone.

You don’t get it! Skid Row said, his voice breaking. I’m twenty-seven years-old, and nothing’s changed. Nothing’s going to change. It’s who I am.

You can’t really believe that, Bullfrog said.

Skid Row sighed, sat up, and ran his hands over his face, hoping Bullfrog hadn’t noticed the tears. Give me one reason to believe anything else.

I— but Bullfrog wasn’t given the chance to say more.

Here’s something I bet you didn’t know about me. Before today, I was fired from every job I’ve ever had: Big Lots, Arby’s, Wal-Mart, Denny’s, a pawn shop, a gas station, a can and bottle redemption center, and of course, the all-mighty McD’s. I got kicked out of school too. Well, technically I dropped out, but I was expelled first. I’ve never been in a long-term relationship: not once. Hell, I couldn’t even hold a room at the Y.M.C.A. Do you think that place has unusually high standards? The answer is no, but they still didn’t want me.

It’s just a rough patch, Bullfrog tried again. It’ll get better.

After twenty-seven years? Come on. We’re not talking about a casual trend. I appreciate the optimistic sentiment and all, but my destiny is set. I’ll live up to my name until the day I die, and a dumpster will probably be my coffin.

That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think?

Maybe I would if I knew what you were talking about.

I’m just wondering if things are really as bad as you’re making out. What was going on with your job? Why’d you quit? I thought you and your da— uh, I thought you and Richard were getting along okay.

We’ve reconnected some, Skid Row said. That part’s cool enough. I got a chance to apologize for being such a tool all those years.

Well that’s good.

Yup. And when he offered me a spot on one of his crews, I thought I could repay him by doing a really good job.

That’s a great attitude. So what’s the problem?

The problem, Skid Row said, standing and walking from the couch to the door and back again, is exactly what we’ve been talking about. I’m a natural born failure. Richard’s a general contractor. He knows carpentry, masonry, plumbing, electric, whatever. I can’t do any of that stuff. I can’t even hammer a freaking nail.

You haven’t had the training.

I know, Skid Row snapped, reaching for his hair but then dropping his hand to his side. That’s why I haven’t been laying tile, wiring lights and outlets, or doing anything else that requires more than three or four active brain cells. Richard has been giving me what you’d call grunt work. Even that’s been more than I can handle. Last week, I accidentally dumped an entire wheelbarrow of bricks into this guy’s brand-new swimming pool. On Monday, I almost fell off a ladder and instead dropped a cordless drill through a window. And then today, I kicked a can of blue paint and spilled it all over this old woman’s new beige carpet.

You made some mistakes, Bullfrog said. That doesn’t mean you—

Would you stop already? What did I just tell you? I’ve been fired from every other job I ever had. I quit this one because I was costing Richard money and hassle every time I showed up for work. I was doing us both a favor. I’m just not cut out for… responsibility.

That’s baloney, Bullfrog said. You just need—

But Skid Row stopped him with a shake of the head. "You ever see the movie Caddyshack?

Well, yeah, Bullfrog said. Who hasn’t? But he was clearly confused by the sudden change of topic.

There’s this one scene, Skid Row said, sitting down again, when that Danny kid is caddying for Judge what’s his name…

Judge Smails.

Sure. So he’s carrying his golf bag, talking to the asshole judge, and trying to convince him to give him this scholarship so he can go to college. He says he won’t be able to go otherwise because his parents can’t afford it. And you know what the judge says?

I don’t remember, Bullfrog answered, but Skid Row had a feeling he did.

He says ‘the world needs ditch diggers too.’ Well guess what. He’s right, and I’m the ditch digger he was talking about.

That’s only a movie, Bullfrog argued. What’s it got to do with you?

Skid Row stared at him. Life imitating art, dude. Not everyone is meant to do great things. You’re ticked off because you’re not working behind a desk. I won’t work behind a desk as long as I live. That’s just the way it is. I’ll be using a spatula, or a broom, or a toilet bowl brush.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

I think it does, Skid Row said, feeling like dirt but also feeling like a weight was being lifted off his shoulders. His real problem, he believed, was that his expectations had been too high. He was always dreaming about getting a better job, moving to a different city, getting his own apartment. It took way too long to figure it out, but he now knew those were unrealistic goals. Bullfrog may be planning on returning to college. Skid Row needed to think small picture. If he could get enough to eat and keep a roof—any roof—over his head, that was probably about the best he could hope for. It was a grim reality, but he’d be a lot better off if he could learn to accept it.

So, what? Bullfrog asked, giving a palms-up shrug. You’re gonna stop trying then? Do you have to be that fatalistic? Maybe you just haven’t found your calling.

Dude, Skid Row said, a hand on Bullfrog’s shoulder. I don’t have a calling. I think we both know that. Hell, the last time I even had an idea I almost got us killed. By the way, I saw Ricky today. He was talking about Ricky Fixx, the very small-time crime boss with whom he and Bullfrog had tangled some time back.

You saw him? Bullfrog asked, stiffening, his eyes automatically flitting towards the door. What happened? What did he say? Did he try to—

Chillax, Skid Row said, suddenly wishing he had some weed. He’d been trying to quit and succeeding most of the time, but every once in a while…

There was no confrontation, he said. No conversation either. I don’t think he even saw me. I was down around Clinton Street, and he drove past in that silver Lexus of his, one finger on the steering wheel and looking like he thought the whole world owed him a blowjob.

Some things never change, Bullfrog said.

No, Skid Row agreed, but some do.

He regretted the words the second they were out of his mouth. After all, he wasn’t entirely sure what—or more precisely who—else he’d seen with Ricky. He had his theory which, thinking back, was already bordering on conviction. Sharing his thoughts with Bullfrog now would inevitably lead to speculation, then fear and doubt, and then the paranoia would set in. He figured Bullfrog would ask the obvious question, but he apparently had other things on his mind.

So what do you think he was up to?

Who, Ricky? Skid Row remembered how’d he’d felt when he first saw and recognized the car. He’d been scared as much as he might try to pretend otherwise, but he was really more repulsed than anything.

Who cares? he said. He’s a catfish, a bottom feeder, a scum sucker. He slithers around in the muck, gobbling up anything foolish enough to get in his way."

I hope we don’t get in his way again, Bullfrog said, and Skid Row noticed how his eyes kept tennis-balling between the door and the window. It was like he thought Ricky was about to burst in on them, making threats and demanding his money.

You don’t gotta worry about that, Skid Row said. The matter was settled. Carl told us so.

Okay, but when’s the last time we heard from him? If he doesn’t come back and Ricky starts to think he’s gone for good… Bullfrog shook his wide head as if trying to clear whatever disturbing image his mind had conjured. He might decide there’s nothing to prevent him from—

Stop! Skid Row said, his voice a bit higher pitched than he’d intended. How would Ricky know whether Carl’s been around or not? It ain’t like they’re partners anymore. Carl doesn’t want anything to do with him. We got nothin’ to worry about.

He believed that but Bullfrog had planted some seeds of doubt and they were growing fast, choking out his calmer and more rational thoughts. He wondered just how long it had been since they had heard from Ricky’s former enforcer. Two weeks? Skid Row thought. Maybe longer?

He looked around at the small apartment: his clothes on the couch, Bullfrog’s boots kicked carelessly into a corner, a pizza box and a few take-out containers on the kitchen counter, video games—some in their cases and some not—scattered on the floor in front of the TV. They’d had enough time to make the place their own. In short, it was a mess, very unlike the almost military level of tidiness Skid Row had observed when they’d first moved in. We need to clean this up, he thought, wondering what Carl would say if he’d walked in right then. And where the heck was he anyway?

He had been off on an errand of which Bullfrog knew nothing... or did he? He hadn’t asked many questions anyway, which Skid Row now supposed was somewhat odd under the circumstances. Maybe Bullfrog knew or at least suspected more than he’d let on. Regardless, if things worked out, his return to college would be far simpler than he probably thought possible. Carl seemed so sure it would work out that Skid Row hadn’t properly entertained any other possibilities. Now, though, he was starting to wonder. How long could it possibly take to track down one individual, especially for Carl? Tracking was what he did. He’d found Skid Row and Bullfrog repeatedly, and they’ll all but dropped off the grid. His current mark was high profile, by comparison anyway, and should have been bagged and tagged in no time flat.

Of course, Carl wasn’t interested in merely finding the man. He’d known how and where to do that before he’d ever left Binghamton. He didn’t have a residential address, but Google had provided other pertinent information. Steven Jeremiah Brock, Esq. was a partner at Tyler, Seidelberg, Price, and Hobbs; a mid-sized law firm just north of Portland, Maine.

Jeremiah, Skid Row remember Carl saying as he pointed a sausage-sized finger at the screen of the laptop. Isn’t that Bullfrog’s real name?

Yep, Skid Row had replied. Jeremiah is indeed a bullfrog, but don’t tell him I told you so. It’s a sensitive subject.

That scumbag. Carl clinched his fist so tight his knuckles began to pop and crack. I’ll shove his nuts up his nose.

Woe! Skid Row had been confused, easing away from the big man as far as he could without making it obvious. Carl was so mad a vein in the center of his forehead was visibly pulsating, and the way he was working his jaw made it look like his bushy, untamed beard had taken on a life of its own. Its intent was unknown but clearly malicious.

But why’s he angry with Bullfrog? That was the part Skid Row couldn’t figure out. He hadn’t chosen his name, or his nickname, and it certainly wasn’t his fault that he really did kind of resemble a frog. Maybe if he let his hair grow in? Skid Row mused, thinking that might divert attention from Bullfrog’s dinner platter head, and small, nubby, somewhat protruding ears. Then again, he’d been bald as a bowling ball from the day they’d met, and Skid Row was having trouble picturing him any other way.

He’s a step uncle? Carl had asked, and Skid Row realized with relief that it was the immoral attorney with whom he’d gotten so angry.

Something like that, he replied. I don’t know the exact… lineage if that’s even the right word. I think Bullfrog said he was his ma’s half-brother. "

But they must have been close. It seems like he was sort of named after the guy.

Skid Row had shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the laptop so he didn’t have to look at Carl. He still felt like he was sitting next to a ticking time bomb but one that puffed pent up rage with every heavy breath.

He cheated his nephew and his namesake, Carl muttered, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. What kind of person does that?

He was gone the next morning, as were his truck and a lot of his personal belongings. He hadn’t completely cleared out, but it was obvious he’d been prepared for more than an overnighter. He’d left a couple blank checks and a note that said ‘the boys’ were welcome to use the apartment as long as they wished.

Very early on, Skid Row had received a few texts from him—brief communications lacking in detail. lately, though, there’d been nothing. He checked his text history and discovered that the most recent thing from Carl had come in nine days earlier.

Damn! That again got him thinking about Bullfrog, and his sudden anxiety, and Ricky Fixx. Just what had he been up to after all? Skid Row wondered, but immediately pushed that thought aside. A jerk like Ricky, he’d probably been out rolling drunks or shaking elementary school kids down for their lunch money. It wasn’t their problem.

That made sense, but the mental reassurance didn’t help because Carl had been gone too long. Whatever that implied, it couldn’t be good. And what would Ricky do if he learned of his absence? Skid Row didn’t know and didn’t want to find out. He made a small sound in his throat, and Bullfrog immediately picked up on it.

What? he asked, staring.

Nothing, Skid Row replied. I just… I gotta hit the head.

He stood but didn’t know if he could trust his legs to carry him across the floor. What if—Skid Row’s head was reeling—what if Ricky had something to do with Carl’s prolonged absence? What if he’d found some way to exact his revenge? Ricky was a coward by nature. Skid Row knew that much. But Carl held damning evidence against him. If presented with an opportunity, how far would Ricky go to settle a score and eliminate that threat? And with Carl out of the way, would he come after him and Bullfrog too, just to clean the slate? Among his many other charms, Ricky was a sore loser and he definitely knew how to carry a grudge. That didn’t bode well for any of them.

We gotta get out of here, Skid Row thought, taking a lurching step.

You alright? Bullfrog asked, rising.

That’s when they both heard the slam of a car door. Skid Row spun around, and Bullfrog froze, his butt a few inches above the couch cushions. No, he mouthed, and Skid Row knew exactly what he was thinking.

He looked toward the rear of the apartment which occupied the ground floor of a two-story house. There were no windows on the right side because of an adjoining home. The windows on the left opened onto a small lawn and anyone trying to exit that way would be in full view of the street and anybody standing near the front door. The front window was obviously out of the question too. That left the back. They could go out that way, hop a low fence, and be blocks away in no time. Even if Ricky gave chase, he’d be dressed in one of his cheap suits and that would slow him down, not that they wouldn’t be able to outrun him anyway. Then Skid Row remembered the other person he’d seen in Ricky’s car. He could be in Carl’s back yard right now: head cocked, muscular arms folded over his chest, a sly smile on his face as he waited for them to drop right into his lap.

Shit, he thought, feeling like they were trapped no matter what they did. What made it even worse was the realization that Bullfrog had been right. Ricky Fixx had come back, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Skid Row took another step. At the same time, Bullfrog managed to get himself into a fully upright position, and he tried to move a few feet in the opposite direction. They nearly collided in the center of the room—a picture of fear and bewilderment. They both tried to speak but neither seemed to know what to say. That’s when the door flew open and crashed against the inside wall. It was Carl, his massive body somehow appearing even larger than the doorframe in which he stood. His eyes were wide with panic, and his skin looked a few shades paler than normal.

I’m in trouble, he said, practically falling into the room. You gotta help.

-2-

By Ricky’s most conservative estimates, the dimensions of the pool house far exceeded the combined square footage of his apartment, his new office, and the old, dilapidated, mold-infested trailer that used to pass for his place of business. He sat, occasionally stroking his chin, and he made a point of not looking impressed. He instead focused on his generously proportioned new client—perspective client anyway. There was nothing conservative about him.

Ricky put his height at a couple inches shy of six feet, and he looked like he had to be at least that far around and then some. Dressed in white shorts and a white, button-down, short sleeve shirt, he resembled a marshmallow, in thick-framed glasses and a shrinking patch of gray hair. He was soft, sallow-skinned, and ugly, and Ricky wondered how someone like that had achieved a position of power and affluence. It didn’t seem fair.

As I explained on the phone, Mr. William Pruitt said, heavy jowls jiggling. There’ve been a number of thefts at my plant.

Did you report the incidents to the police? Ricky knew he hadn’t but asked the question anyway, because he wanted to hear how Pruitt would respond.

Not yet, he offered, clearing his throat and looking away. The work I do is… sensitive. I’ve got a number of competitors, all of whom would be very interested to know how I run my operation. Contacting law enforcement would bring unwanted attention. The fewer people involved in this the better. I’m sure you understand. He sniffed then as if knowing full well that Ricky didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, and going into any more detail would be a waste of everyone’s time.

So you’re asking me to do what exactly?

You’ve got to make it stop.

Got to? Ricky thought. Who does this bloated bozo think he’s talking to? You must have a security staff, he said. Why aren’t you using them? My services will undoubtedly be more expensive.

William Pruitt frowned, giving the appearance that the lower half of his face had just caved in on itself. It is possible this is an inside job, he said. I need to find out and I’ve been told you’re a man who can get things done. I’m counting on that. He peered over his glasses then, as if he believed Ricky might be qualified to jump start a car or change a tire but little else. He seemed to make no effort to hide his distain.

Ricky thought about his new employee, at that moment cooling his heels outside. One quick text and he could be inside, and it would take him no time to rearrange the features on Pruitt’s fat face. That would teach him some respect. Of course, it would also put an immediate end to what could be an extremely lucrative arrangement.

The problem, Ricky judged, was that Pruitt thought he was in charge of their negotiations. He was the one in trouble. He was asking for help. That should have made him more conciliatory, more… deferential. Instead, he was acting like he had a minor issue with termites and Ricky was nothing more than the local exterminator. He’d dealt with that attitude before. In fact, ever since he started targeting a higher level of clientele, it had become an occupational hazard. Why were rich people so pompous anyway? He could work with William Pruitt, but Ricky knew they wouldn’t get anywhere until he demonstrated which of them was actually calling the shots.

Got any more of this stuff? he asked, smacking his lips as he drained his glass and placed it on an ornate, marble-topped table.

Sure, Pruitt said with a pout. Help yourself. He waved a flabby arm towards a bar setup at the far end of the room.

Woops, Ricky thought. That’s strike two. Definitely need to teach this guy some manners. He wants my assistance. He should be fetching my drink, making me lunch, and asking if there’s anything more he can do.

This is pretty good hooch, he said, fingering the glass that had previously contained a generous amount of sixty-five dollar a bottle Milagro. The thing about tequila, Ricky went on, is that it tends to go right through me. Will you excuse me for a moment?

Of course, William Pruitt said, starting to stand but then settling back in his chair as if concluding there was no need to go to so much effort. There are changing rooms over there. He gestured with his chin. Facilities are inside.

Great. Ricky got to his feet, nodding in the direction his host had indicated. He even moved a few steps that way before abruptly changing course, unzipping his fly as he approached the edge of the pool. He started to urinate, leaning backwards so he could achieve maximum arc. He was aiming for a red and white striped beach ball floating slowly by but came up a foot short. He was still successful in getting Pruitt’s attention.

Hey! he protested, his chair scraping on the tile floor, but Ricky could tell he hadn’t gotten up. What do you think you’re doing?

Pruitt’s tone demanded a response, so Ricky gave none, ignoring the man and going so far as to hold up a hand to indicate he was not to be interrupted.

If Pruitt had any balls—which he clearly didn’t—he would have yelled, threatened, taken some sort of aggressive action. Instead, as Ricky fully expected, the guy just sat there, stewing mutely, waiting for him to finish. Ricky did so in dramatic fashion: jiggling, bouncing a few times on his heels, and sighing with satisfaction.

Much better, he said, returning to the table.

Pruitt glared but stayed quiet.

I’ve offended you, Ricky said. I’d apologize, but here’s how I see it. You got a hell of a spread here: huge pool, tropical plants all over the place, nice bar, sauna, hot tub, speakers everywhere so you must have a killer sound system. You’ve also got enough seating in here for at least, what, thirty people?

That’s about right, Pruitt grumbled, looking at Ricky but plainly having a hard time meeting his eyes. His scowl had deepened to the point that his face resembled a deflated potato.

And I’m guessing you didn’t build this giant green house or whatever it is all for yourself.

What’s your point?

Just this, Ricky studied Pruitt with practiced indifference. "You use this place to entertain. Isn’t that right?

Sometimes.

Bullshit, Ricky barked, and Pruitt drew back. I bet you throw parties here every other week. People come over. They drink your booze. They eat your food. They take advantage of your hospitality. And you know what else? They pee in your pool. Look, he added, pointing. You have bar stools in the water. A pool full of piss is pretty much a guarantee. I bet you’ve pissed in it yourself. Did you think you were the only one?

Instead of responding, Pruitt looked at the water and shook his head.

Yeah. You’re not arguing because you know I’m right. May as well hang a sign that says public toilet. The thing is, your toilet is by invitation only, and I’ve never made it onto one of your guest lists. I never will either, because you don’t think I’m good enough for you and your tight ass friends.

That’s not—

Even today, Ricky interrupted. Even though you are depending on my skills and abilities to bail you out of a mess, you didn’t invite me here as an equal. You didn’t say ‘Hey Ricky, bring your trunks. We’ll go for a dip, talk business, and have a few laughs.’ You don’t want to socialize with my kind.

That’s not— Pruitt tried again.

It’s fine, Ricky cut in. I get it. But when I am here, don’t you think I should be allowed the same privileges as your other guests? They’re in the water when they piss in your pool. I did it from the side. What’s the difference? And if you have a problem with it, go ahead and say so and we will conclude our negotiations right now.

That… um… Pruitt looked trapped. That won’t be necessary.

Ricky coughed and had to bite his tongue hard to keep from laughing out loud. Sure, he wanted to make a point, but he’d never imagined he could get away with something so outrageous. He hadn’t planned on using Pruitt’s beautiful swimming pool as a urinal. When he stood up, he honestly hadn’t been sure what he was going to do. He just knew he needed to send a clear message that he wouldn’t be pushed around or treated like dirt. He’d acted on impulse and it seemed to be paying off.

Just so we understand each other, he said, his serious businessman face firmly in place. What’s going on at your plant isn’t ‘sensitive’ as you put it. It’s illegal. You don’t want to call law enforcement because you can’t—because you’ll be shut down faster than Donald Trump can pay off a porn star.

In truth, Ricky wasn’t sure what Pruitt had been up to. He’d done his research, observed, asked around, and in the end, jumped to one monster of a conclusion. If the dough boy’s suddenly ghostly pallor was any indication, it appeared he’d hit the bull’s eye.

Yes! Ricky thought, mentally pumping his fist. I’ve got you. He turned away then, so Pruitt wouldn’t see the wide grin that had spread across his face.

Listen here, the man said, once he’d found his voice. You might have some interesting theories, but you can’t prove anything.

Maybe, Ricky replied, strolling to the bar and taking his time refilling his glass. But I don’t have to. I didn’t come here to blackmail you or to try to extort money. I mean, I suppose I could. He turned back around then, biting a knuckle as if giving the idea serious thought. Probably wouldn’t be that hard either. How much do you think my silence is worth?

Pruitt’s eyes narrowed and his jaw worked but no sound came out.

Relax, Ricky said. He returned to the table but, instead of sitting, he propped a shoe on a chair. I’m an honest man. That’s why you called me, right?

William Pruitt gaped at him and then managed a small nod.

Yeah, so I’m not about to screw you over. You got a problem. I’m here to fix it. That’s what I do. The extortion, Ricky thought, will come later. He looked at Pruitt and spread his hands wide, sloshing a little of his drink in the process. The main thing, he said, slurping tequila off the back of his hand, is we gotta trust each other. You gotta stop snowing me. You understand what I’m saying?

I believe so, and I resent your implication.

Really? Ricky smiled. And why’s that? You were less than upfront the first time we spoke. You said you deal with smart phones and tablets, and you made it sound like your whole business was replacing screens and batteries. I think we both know there’s more than that going on.

You can’t prove—

Come on, Ricky said. Do we have to go through that again? Take a look around. By Binghamton standards, you live in a fucking palace. Do you expect me to believe you paid for it all with batteries? And before you answer, he went on, "I know you have some other business interests.

Let’s see. He began ticking things off on his fingers. You own an antiques store. You have a controlling interest in that Asian Fusion restaurant over on the east side. You have a smaller stake in one of the new craft breweries downtown. You’re also the owner and founder of Pruitt Fine Gifts and Collectibles. Am I leaving anything out?

He shook his head, sullen.

Very diversified, Ricky observed. impressive too. There’s just one problem. None of your other businesses earn shit. You know where you get your bread and butter, and that’s the information you’re trying to keep secret.

Now hold on, Pruitt blustered. I may not have told you the whole story, but I don’t have any secrets.

Ricky chuckled. You told me you couldn’t call the cops because you were afraid of... what, corporate espionage? I’ve seen your so called ‘plant’. He made quote marks in the air. It was a tire center before a fire forced them to relocate. You bought the building cheap, moved in, and set up shop. I’ve been by there. Did you even bother cleaning the soot and grime off the windows? That place makes my neighborhood crack house look like the Taj Mahal. You don’t even have a sign out front. And why is that? Clearly, you don’t want the attention. Am I supposed to believe you’re doing super high-tech work inside, and the Koreans and Chinese will try to spy on you? Ricky made a face he hoped relayed equal measures disappointment and doubt. Just how stupid do you think I look?

Pruitt started to respond, but then seemed to think better of it. He stared at the ceiling, the floor, and then became fixated on a clunky gold ring on his left hand.

I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position, Ricky said. I can appreciate that. You planned on blowing sunshine up my ass and you didn’t expect me to know the difference. If you want, we can pretend your business is nothing more than what you told me, but we’ll never get anywhere unless you admit what’s really happening there.

Pruitt stared at him for a long moment, and to Ricky his expression was that of a man standing on a precipice and trying to decide whether or not to jump. He drummed his fingers on the table and then got up and moved stiffly to the bar. He had been drinking club soda and lime, but he set that glass aside, got a fresh tumbler, and filled it halfway with Knob Creek. Ricky noticed that Pruitt took his bourbon neat, throwing it back in a single swallow. He reached for the bottle again, paused, shook his head, and finally let his hand drop to his side. Can I really trust you? he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

Ricky offered a thin smile. Pardon me for saying so, but that’s an odd question coming from you. I’m sure there are plenty of people that would say neither one of us should be trusted. We are both businessmen, but we don’t operate in the normal business world. We are in the shadows and under the radar, and that’s how we want to keep it. I don’t run ads in the Yellow Pages. If you found out about me it’s because somebody told you about the type of work I do. They must have given a good enough recommendation, or you wouldn’t have called. If you trust them then you can trust me too.

He had given a version of that same speech a dozen times before and thought he was getting pretty good at it. He was also aware he hadn’t actually answered Pruitt’s question, but it was a stupid question anyway, because anyone would answer it the same way whether they were trustworthy or not. Could he be trusted? Sure, the same way you can trust a plate of burritos to give you gas. If William Pruitt played fair—if he provided accurate information and paid on time—Ricky would do everything he could to solve his problem. And after that? Well, he’d just have to wait and see what transpired.

Pruitt appeared to be on the ledge again, weighing the pros and cons of getting into bed with someone he knew to be dirty. Ricky understood his predicament. It wasn’t like the guy could check his references. He and Pruitt moved in very different circles and most likely had just one connection in common, and it was the person who’d provided Pruitt with a phone number. Ricky thought he probably knew who that was, but he wouldn’t volunteer the information, and Pruitt wouldn’t and couldn’t ask. Instead, with almost nothing in the way of verifiable information, he had to decide if he should open up about his illegal activities to a man who was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger.

For what it’s worth, Ricky said, I know what you’re thinking.

Pruitt stared at him. Oh yeah? And what is that?

Ricky walked a short distance from the table, his hands clasped behind his back. Let me ask you something, he said. When I rang the bell a while ago and you opened the front door, what was the first thing that crossed your mind?

Pruitt hesitated. "I don’t