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“You're approved for that.”

“So why can't I transfer money?”

Stanley avoided the question. “What are they for?”

Jack erupted, shouting into the phone. “I told you, it's none of your fucking business. Now call the bank and tell them to release the money.”

“Not until you tell me what they're for.”

“I can't.”

“Then write nineteen thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars and ninety-six cents' worth of checks.”

“It has to get there today.”

“Why?”

Jack calmed down. He tried to be reasonable. He tried to sound like a father.

“Son. Just approve the transfers.”

But Stanley had the upper hand, one of the few times
in his life he ever did, and he wasn't about to relinquish his power.

“Sorry, Dad. I'm not going to do it until you tell me what it's for.”

Jack looked at the phone. He looked at his coffee. He looked out the kitchen window at the swimming pool sparkling in the backyard. He looked at his walker. He heard some squeaking from the phone and turned his attention back to it. And then, like Mount Saint Helens, he blew his top, unleashing a furious diatribe of profanities, bile, and rage into the phone. All the anger-management classes in the world couldn't have calmed him down; at one point he screamed and shouted so much so fast that he forgot to take a breath and almost passed out.

But despite all his rage, there was nothing he could do. Stanley had the last word.

“No.”

And that's when Jack realized that he was fucked. He hung up on Stanley and dialed a number. A woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Forget it.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I met the guy. Yesterday. At the Paris casino.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.”

Jack hung his head. Of course she's not going to say anything on the phone.

“Could you give a message to someone for me?”

“This is not a message service. I'm sorry.”

“I want to call it off.”

“I don't know what you're referring to.”

“Just tell the guy, okay?”

“Perhaps you have the wrong number?”

Jack couldn't take it. He lost his temper. “I can't pay.”

There was a long pause. “We do not accept cancellations at this number.”

“Okay. Tell me who to call. I'll cancel with them.”

“We do not accept cancellations.”

Jack smacked his palm against his forehead. What is with this chick? “I can't pay. Okay? I'm broke. It was all a big mistake. End of story.”

“If you ordered the product, it will be delivered.”

“Tell him to fuckin' stop. Why can't you do that?”

“I'm afraid I can't help you. Good-bye.”

And she was gone.

Jack tried another number. He dialed Paul Rossi at the Teamsters local. It took some finagling; Jack had to tell the assistant that it was an emergency, a life-and-death situation. Which, he realized, it was.

After sitting there stewing for a good five minutes, listening to Bachman Turner Overdrive's classic “Takin' Care of Business” and half of a song by Foreigner or Journey or Boston—he couldn't tell them apart—on the classic rock station they played when you were on hold, Jack was patched through to Paul's cell phone.

“This is Paul.”

“Jack Lucey. I got a situation.”

“How can I help you, Jack?”

Jack bristled at the obsequious tone. “I called that number you gave me and worked something out with the guy. Now I want to cancel, but he won't let me.”

Jack listened as there was a long staticky pause on the other end of the phone.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Jack.”

“The number you gave me. In the Steak House.”

Another pause. More white noise drifted down the line.

“Sorry, Jack. I don't remember giving you any number. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else?”

Jack didn't want to be bullshitted. “Fuck that, Paul. The guy's a nut. I want to cancel the deal. Fucking call him and tell him it's off.”

“I'm sorry. I'm in a bad cell zone. I can't hear you.”

“I said to call him and cancel the fucking deal.”

“You're breaking up.”

Jack screamed into the receiver. “Cancel the fucking job!”

“Look. I'll call you back next week.”

And then he was gone.

Jack looked at his phone for a beat, then hurled it against the wall. “Fuck!”

...

They stuck a tube in him. He could feel it. Sticking some kind of needle into his arm like he was oblivious to the pain, jabbing it in a few times until they were satisfied.

“Ouch.”

“Doctor, he's coming around.”

Francis wanted to ask the nurse if she was good at spearfishing, because that's what it felt like to him. Standing motionless out on the reef, watching little black-and-yellow striped angelfish darting under the water, waiting, adjusting for parallax, and then—
bam!
—shooting the spear right through the wriggling little thing. That's what it felt like. But
he couldn't say that—he wasn't feeling so well—so he did the best he could.

“Bitch.”

“He's awake.”

“Sir? Can you look at me?”

Francis tried to open his eyes, but it was difficult. Then someone opened his eyes for him and shined a searing bright light in them. You might as well throw his retinas in a microwave.

“Aahh! Fuck!”

“How much Thorazine did they give him?”

The nurse held up two fingers, indicating that they'd given Francis a solid dose.

“Sir? Can you hear me?”

Francis tried to nod. Weird. His head wasn't moving. Had he broken his neck? Was his head still attached to his body?

“Yeah?”

“Sir? Your penis. How long have you had the priapism?”

Even if Francis had been completely lucid he'd have had no idea what the doctor was talking about. He searched his brain for some kind of response that might make sense.

“It's a rental car.”

The doctor nodded. “That's nice, sir. Do you remember what kind of drugs you were taking?”

“Sure.”

Francis was tired, and whatever had happened to him or whatever they were doing to him, whatever it was, it was beginning to hurt like hell. Why weren't they giving him something for the pain? Wasn't he in a hospital?

“Did you take cocaine? Amphetamines?”

Francis nodded. “A little.”

“How much did you drink?”

“I wasn't driving.”

“We know that, sir. Did you drink any alcohol?”

“Mai tai. I had mai tai.”

Francis wanted to go to sleep. Couldn't he answer all this in the morning? What was the emergency?

“Did you take any sildenafil citrate?”

Francis was starting to get annoyed. What was with these questions? He wasn't a doctor.

“Speak. . . fucking. . . English.”

That took some effort. He was exhausted. He hoped that would be the end of the questioning.

“Viagra. Did you take any Viagra?”

Francis nodded.

“Okay, good. That's what I wanted to know.”

The doctor leaned close, talking directly to Francis's face.

“Francis. Can I call you Frank?”

Francis was too weak to tell the guy that his name was not Frank, had never been Frank. No Frank. But he didn't say anything. At least he didn't say anything that resembled language.

“Frank? We need to do something about this priapism. Your penis.”

Francis batted his eyes, blinking up at the doctor, who he now noticed was a fairly handsome young Asian man.

“We need to deal with your erection.”

Although he'd been drugged and beaten and drugged again, Francis smiled.

...

Joseph stood in the kitchen doorway, drinking a cup of coffee and looking around his little house. He saw a design magazine on the coffee table in the living room and moved quickly to pick it up and throw it in the trash. He stopped himself, because he hadn't finished reading the article about gourmet kitchens, and because everyone knows that one design magazine does not make a person homosexual.

...

She couldn't help herself. She hadn't been this close to any male anatomy in years and she wasn't going to let it get away without an encore. She wasn't about to go another four years without this. No way. You can keep your crystals and Pilates classes and clothes made out of hemp. Yuki had no use for those anymore. What she wanted was right here. She remembered what her life coach had told her: When you find something you want, grab hold and don't let go. So as Lono lay next to her, breathing deeply, all snuggled and relaxed, she began stroking his cock.

It responded. Like she had trained it herself.

...

The stripper with the gorgeous blue-black skin and giant tits with nipples like Hershey's kisses turned around. She lowered her G-stringed ass right onto Jack's crotch and ground into him in hard, slow, circular movements. She was tired, he could tell. Sweat flew off her forehead as she danced and humped and did the slip 'n' grind. Her body was shiny and
slick with moisture. She'd been at it for almost forty-five minutes, and still Jack couldn't come. She twisted her head back and looked at him, gasping, like she needed oxygen.

“You get your nut yet, baby?”

It's not like he didn't want to. He'd been tense all day. He needed this.

“Not yet.”

She slipped into overdrive. Moving to the beat, letting her body slap against his in big, moist thrusts.

“You close? Are you gonna do it for me, baby? You gonna make Momma proud?”

Suddenly Jack had heard enough. He pushed her off of him. “I guess I'm not in the mood.”

The stripper stood there, hands on hips, her extra-jumbo, man-made breasts heaving as she tried to catch her breath, and looked at him.

“You're what?”

Jack felt a little sheepish. He handed her two hundred-dollar bills.

“I'm pooped. I've been traveling.”

He noticed a river of sweat running down her head, collecting around her neck, and waterfalling between her breasts.

“Pooped?”

“Sorry.”

For a brief second it occurred to Jack that she might just kick the living shit out of him. He handed her another hundred-dollar bill.

“Maybe next time?”

She snatched the bill from his hand and walked off. “I'm gonna take a shower.”

Jack hung his head. He'd never had a failure like this before. Well, he'd come up short a few times in his life, once or twice, almost always due to massive scotch intake. But he hadn't had that problem since the air bags had been installed. Normally he was an ejaculating machine. But tonight, even with his permanent boner, he just couldn't get it up. This whole hitman thing was weighing on him.

Leaning heavily on his walker, Jack raised himself up and slowly started toward the door. Today, for some reason, he felt old.

Baxter was there and, as always, he opened the door for Jack.

“Thanks, Baxter.”

“Mr. Lucey. Hold up a sec. You gotta thing on your—um, on your pants.”

Baxter was coming around, trying to help. Jack looked down and saw what he was talking about. The front of his khakis were wet. Soaked. A big sweaty butt print smack dab in the middle of his crotch.

“Shit. Looks like I pissed myself.”

“Come on.”

Baxter helped him and led Jack off to a little side office by the front door.

“Here you go. I keep some towels in here.”

Jack sat down and looked around the tiny little room. It must've been a coat check before the building had been converted into a strip club. Baxter reached into a cubbyhole and pulled out a towel.

“What a fuckin' day.”

Jack began drying himself. Baxter smiled.

“Happens to the best of us.”

Jack looked at Baxter and realized he didn't have the energy to explain what really happened. That he'd made the poor girl work so hard. It was easier just to let it slide. If the doorman thinks I pissed myself, big fucking deal.

“I must be gettin' old.”

“Don't sweat it, Mr. Lucey. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff I've seen.”

“Yeah?”

Baxter swelled with self-importance. He ran his fingers over his bushy mustache, smoothing it out.

“Oh, yeah. We get all kinds in here: drug dealers, Mafia guys, regular joes, frat boys—you name it.”

Jack thought about that for a minute.

“Listen, maybe you know something about this kind of thing.”

Baxter leaned in. “What's up?”

“I've got a friend who may have got himself into some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, he—” Jack stopped. He changed his mind. “I shouldn't be talking about this. If he found out I'd told you we'd both be in the fuckin' soup.”

“It's cool. Just you an' me. Doorman–client privilege.”

Jack nodded. He looked Baxter in the eye. “Promise?”

“Absolutely.”

Jack finished wiping his pants and threw the towel in the corner.

“My friend had a problem, so he hired a hitman.”

Baxter couldn't help himself; he grinned. “Cool.”

“Not so cool. Because he realized he couldn't pay the guy and the hitman doesn't know that yet because he's undercover or whatever.”

“So he's gonna do the job and then find out he's not getting paid?”

“Yeah.”

Baxter shook his head in amazement. “Wow. Your friend is dumb. He's gonna have a pissed-off hitman coming after him.”

Jack nodded, though the pissed-off hitman should really go after Stanley. “So what would you do?”

Baxter was obviously enjoying himself. “You wanna stop the guy?”

“My
friend
wants to stop the guy.”