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  When I finished, Chopper was laughing. Herzy said, “’Kay, you tell a good story, but goddammit, McKenzie.”

  “I’m not asking for a lot,” I said.

  “If everything goes ’cordin’ t’ plan it ain’t a lot. But if it don’t…”

  “I don’t know this Alejandro Reyes,” Chopper said. “Him or his crew.”

  “Would you?” I asked.

  “Man workin’ the drug trade here in the Cities for half a decade, yeah, you’d think I’d at least heard of ’im.”

  He has a point, my inner voice said. The man has more connections than Xfinity.

  “Tells me he know how to keep a low profile,” Chopper said. “Tells me he’s smart.”

  “I’m counting on him being smart,” I said. “Smart means he’ll listen to reason.”

  “I know a lot of smart people up at Oak Park Heights,” Chopper said. “Know a lot of smart people fuckin’ dead, too. Don’t you?”

  “When did you become so negative?”

  Herzy snorted at me.

  “I’m thinkin’, though, there might be another way t’ git rid of Alejandro wit’out takin’ the risk,” Chopper said.

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Drop a dime on ’im.”

  “I told you before, I’m trying to avoid police involvement.”

  “No, no, no, man. Not the po-lice. The Red Dragons.”

  “Your old friends—those Red Dragons?”

  “Dragons been dealin’ OxyContin for some time now. Got a lock on the local market. Alejandro’s heroin, though, it’s gotta be siphonin’ off some of the Dragons’ customers and vice versa. Some people will tell you that heroin and Oxy and horse be exactly the same, ’ceptin’ for the way it’s ingested.”

  “‘Hillbilly Heroin’ is what some call it, call Oxy,” Herzog said.

  “Average Oxy user, he’s spendin’ $70 to $140 per day for his pills,” Chopper said.

  “About the same for heroin,” I said.

  “So, Alejandro and the Dragons are chasin’ the same dollar, and the Dragons, I speak from experience when I say they don’t like competition.”

  “We should start a good old-fashioned gang war. Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “War already be waging, McKenzie. I’m just sayin’ it might be fun to let both sides know the face of its enemy.”

  I like it, my inner voice said.

  “Except it won’t get my friend clear,” I said aloud. “It might even have the opposite effect. Reyes would need resources to fight a war. It could force him to tighten his grip on Salsa Girl.”

  “I feel ya, man, but now that I got it in my head—I don’t mind seein’ some blood on the streets if it don’t belong t’ me or someone I care about,” Chopper said. “’Specially if it’s Red Dragon blood. Once you take care of your friend, I might drop a name here and there kinda incognito like. See if that don’t spark a confrontation.”

  “Feel free. In the meantime, knowing about the Dragons is another argument in my favor.”

  “We’re back to that?” Herzy said.

  I opened the gym bag and pulled the soft sides down so he could get a good look at the money inside.

  “Ten thousand for you,” I said. “Another five each for as many people as you think we might need, up to half a dozen.”

  Herzog stared at the money for a few beats, closed his eyes for a few beats more, and opened them.

  “Who’s runnin’ the show?” he asked.

  “You are,” I said.

  “Got a location in mind?”

  “You decide.”

  “How much time we got?”

  “As much as you need.”

  “You makin’ it hard for a boy to say no.”

  “Oh, Herzy, neither me nor anyone I know is dumb enough to call you boy.”

  Herzog turned toward Chopper.

  “How’d you git to be friends wit’ this asshole, anyway?” he asked.

  “Fuck if I know,” Chopper said. “I’m still wonderin’ where he’s gonna take us to dinner.”

  * * *

  Dinner had to wait for a more convenient date, because once he made up his mind, Herzog moved quickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to take some time to think about what he was doing; he didn’t want to give Reyes time to think. He went to his phone, his back to me; it made a helluva buffer so I couldn’t hear what was said or to whom. Chopper made small talk. Billy Joel was coming to Target Field, and he was sure that he’d make the score of the year scalping his tickets. I wasn’t sure if the man was a big enough draw to make scalping his tickets worth the effort.

  “Man’s old,” I said. “I mean, I love him, but he’s been singing the same songs for decades.”

  “Pretty good songs, though,” Chopper said.

  “Do you think the millennials are going to line up to hear him? Think the man can sell out a forty-four-thousand-seat stadium?”

  “Yeah, I do. Easily. And you know, millennials aren’t the only ones going to outdoor concerts. Plenty of ol’ farts like you, McKenzie, wanna relive their childhoods.”

  Herzog finished with his phone and turned toward me.

  “You parked somewhere your car won’t be towed?” he asked.

  “Yes, in the surface lot down the street.”

  “’Kay. You ride with me, then. And, ah”—he waved a finger at the gym bag—“bring the money.”

  “Should I contact Alejandro?”

  “Not till I tell you.”

  * * *

  If you look it up on a map, you’ll see that the City of West St. Paul is actually located due south of the City of St. Paul, albeit on the west side of the Mississippi River. I suppose they could have called it “South” St. Paul, except the name was already taken by the City of South St. Paul, which was more or less east of the capital city.

  Garlough Park is located in the bottom half of West St. Paul; I have no idea who it was named after or why. I did know that it had a nine-hole disc golf course with a B+ rating. I’d never once played the game, so I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  Herzog and I were sitting in his SUV on Marie Avenue bordering the park. It was nearly six forty-five with a bright, cloudless sky; the sun wouldn’t set for another seventy-five minutes, yet I was unable to see inside the park because of the trees. Traffic drove past us, but there wasn’t much of it. We hadn’t spoken while he drove me there from Minneapolis, but my curiosity wouldn’t allow me to remain silent any longer.

  “I notice this isn’t much of a public place,” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “What are we doing here?” I asked.

  “Waiting.”

  “Uh-huh. After we’re done waiting, will we then be going to a public place, you know, with lots and lots of people?”

  “We’re where we’re supposed to be.”

  “I don’t want to tell you your business…”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Humor me.”

  “West St. Paul has a solid Hispanic and Latino population; this is where most of the Cinco de Mayo events are held. ’Kay? So the man’s gonna feel more comfortable; less like he’s rollin’ into an ambush.”

  “Yes, but why here, exactly?”

  “I know the ground. McKenzie, did you think I didn’t?”

  “You’ve done something like this before, is what you’re saying. I thought you were out of the life.”

  “You ain’t the only friend tryin’ to drag me back in.”

  “Now I feel bad.”

  “You should feel bad corruptin’ a brother what’s tryin’ to become an upstandin’ citizen.”

  A few seconds later a second SUV rolled to a stop behind us.

  “They’re here. Stay until I call,” Herzog told me.

  I stayed.

  Herzog left our vehicle and moved to the driver’s side window of the second vehicle. I angled the sideview mirror to watch him. A few moments later, he returned.

  “Get out,” he said. �
�Bring the money.”

  I opened the door and stepped out of the SUV. The gym bag was on the floor. I scooped it up by the handle and moved to the back of the car. Herzog was now standing there with three other African Americans. All of them were bigger than I was. None of them looked young.

  “Gentlemen,” I said.

  Herzog spoke before I could say anything more.

  “Open the bag,” he said.

  I opened the bag. The men glanced inside. None of them seemed surprised by what they found there.

  “This is the money,” Herzog said. Only he wasn’t speaking about the cash. He was speaking about me. “Nothing bad happens to the money. We clear?”

  The men nodded.

  “’Kay. You know what to do.”

  The men moved to the back of their SUV, popped the trunk, and removed three gun cases. They carried the gun cases into the park.

  “You ready to call Reyes?” Herzog asked.

  “Sure.”

  He told me what to say.

  “He’s not going to like it.” I waved at the park. “Hell, I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t care what he likes.”

  Or you either, my inner voice said.

  * * *

  After making the call, I locked the gym bag inside the SUV along with the sling—there was no reason to let Reyes know I was hurting. Herzog and I entered the park. We followed a narrow footpath until we emerged from the woods into a clearing. At the top of the clearing was a hill.

  “Up there,” Herzog said.

  I followed his lead to the top of the hill, where I discovered that it wasn’t a clearing after all, but rather a fairway of the disc golf course; the fifth hole, to be exact. At the top of the hill the fairway sloped dramatically downward toward a metal basket target. I found two green benches angled toward each other. They were surrounded on three sides by thick brush and trees. Herzog’s people could have been ten feet away and I wouldn’t have seen them. ’Course, the same could be said of Reyes’s people.

  It was not an unusual setting in the Twin Cities. There were dozens of these miniature forests, some surrounding parks, some surrounding lakes, some of them just there—giving people a refuge from the asphalt and concrete, allowing them the feeling that they were “up north” even though there was a Taco Bell three minutes away. But instead of solitude, I was feeling isolated; I was feeling like a target.

  “Are you sure about this?” I asked.

  “Don’t look for my crew,” Herzog said. “They can see us fine.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “What time is it?”

  I glanced at my multipurpose watch—7:22 P.M. We had told Reyes to be there at seven thirty exactly because at seven thirty-one we’d be gone.

  “He won’t have time to position his people, make sure it’s safe,” Herzog said. “Instead, he’ll come with an army; try to intimidate us with sheer numbers.”

  “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

  “You’ll be doin’ all the talkin’ when the man gits ’ere. I won’t be sayin’ a word. Just gonna stand ’ere lookin’ bored. ’Kay? If I do talk, though, man, you best you do what I say.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Nervous, Dyson?” Herzog said the name as if he were making fun of it.

  “Who?” I said. “Me?”

  By using the name Dyson, Herzog told me that it was time to get into character. Despite what could be described as an occasional bout of moral ambivalence, McKenzie was more or less a nice guy. Dyson, on the other hand, was a sonuvabitch with no moral code at all. With him, it was all about self-preservation. To become him, I told myself how lousy life was, how unfair. I listed in my head all the crimes that had been committed against me going back to my childhood. The teacher who accused me of cheating even though I hadn’t. The criminals I arrested who went free because of some county attorney’s incompetence or the brain-dead stupidity of a jury. I thought of my mother who died of cancer when I was twelve and my father who died when I was thirty-six. I thought of the cops who refused to talk to me because I accepted the reward on the embezzler to give my father a cushy retirement before he died. I thought of the men who had tried to kill me over the years and the ones that I had killed. I thought of those friends I’d helped and those I failed to help. By the time Reyes showed, I was pretty angry.

  He and his people emerged from the forest at the bottom of the fairway near the disc target. He started climbing the hill toward us. I counted seven gunmen with him.

  I’m supposed to be impressed? my inner Dyson said. Fuck that.

  I reached behind me and adjusted the Taurus, making sure I could reach it in a hurry.

  As they climbed the hill, Reyes’s men spread out until they were approaching in a skirmish line. I noticed they were all dressed as if they were going to a ball game. No gang colors, no flags. When they came closer I also noticed—no tats. Chopper was right. They knew how to maintain a low profile.

  Reyes—I assumed it was Reyes—was in the center of the line. When he got into shouting distance I called to him.

  “You’re late.”

  Reyes didn’t reply until he was near enough to where I sat that he could speak without raising his voice. His voice was relaxed, nearly as relaxed as Salsa Girl’s, but not quite.

  “Did you bring my goods?” he asked.

  “No. Did you expect that I would?”

  Reyes motioned with both hands. His men closed in a tight semicircle. I wondered if they started shooting how many of them I would get before they got me. Not enough, I decided. I glanced at Herzog. He stood behind me and to my left. He was dressed in black. His weapon was hidden under his jacket—if he had a weapon. Truth was, I hadn’t even bothered to ask. His hands were folded over his belt buckle. As promised, he looked as bored as death.

  “If you don’t return my product, I’ll kill you,” Reyes said.

  “I figured you might take that attitude.”

  Reyes smirked. He nodded at the man next to him. The man slipped a Hi-Point .45 out from the waistband of his pants. A cheap handgun, I thought. He’s planning to use it and then dump it.

  At the same instant, three red dots of light from three different laser sights mounted on three different rifles centered on Reyes’s chest. His first thought was to brush them away with his hand. His second—“Para, hombre!”

  The hombre stopped moving.

  I glanced at Herzog. He hadn’t budged an inch. I would have smiled at him but I knew he wouldn’t like it. I gestured at the semicircle.

  “They might kill me, Alejandro,” I said. “But you won’t. Do you understand my meaning?”

  Reyes regained his balance.

  “What’s your play?” he said.

  “Are we done posing for each other?”

  “It’s your meeting.”

  I noticed that his accent was very slight, and I wondered, Where is he from, anyway? Instead of asking, I said, “Tell your crew to put its guns away and keep their hands in plain sight. You.” I pointed at the hombre next to the Reyes. “Drop the Hi-Point on the ground.”

  He did, but only after Reyes gave him a nudge in the ribs with his elbow.

  Reyes sat down on the bench across from me. The red dots disappeared.

  “Talk to me, what?” he said.

  “First, you gotta know I’m not interested in your business.”

  “I didn’t think so, a professional heist artist like you.”

  “Ahh, you looked me up. I’m flattered.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m here to have a conversation and that’s it. You listen while I say what I was hired to say and everybody goes home.”

  “What about my product?”

  “We’ll get to that.”

  “Better get to it quick,” the hombre said.

  “Be quiet,” I said. “Adults are talking here.”

  The hombre bent at the waist and reached for his Hi-Point.

 
The three dots returned to Reyes’s chest. He spoke so quickly that my high school Spanish wasn’t good enough to translate. The hombre must have understood his meaning, though, because he froze, his fingers scant inches from the butt of the .45. Slowly he stood up and folded his arms across his chest.

  Herzog still hadn’t moved.

  “What I’m trying to say, Alejandro,” I said. “May I call you Alejandro? What I’m trying to say is that I’m not your problem here. I’m just the guy who’s trying to explain your problem.”

  “What’s my problem?”

  “Your problem is that you made a deal with that dipshit Randy Bignell-Sax. I mean, why would you want to work with some rich dick doesn’t know which end is up, some thirty-year-old who’s still got snot coming out of his nose, pretending he’s a gangster? You had to know that sooner or later he was going to fuck up. It was as inevitable as the sun rising in the east. Instead of taking the loss in stride—every business has its ups and downs, am I right? Instead of dealing with it, though, what did you do? You cut him, man. What? Did you think that would scare him? Well, it did. Scared him to death. Only when rich assholes like Randy get scared, they go running to Mommy and Daddy. And what did they do when they discovered that their baby had been led astray by a bunch of immigrants? They started making phone calls.

  “It ain’t white privilege, pal. It’s all about green privilege. You got a lot of green, you got a lot of friends who are happy to do your biddin’. Randy’s folks, they know people who know people who know people like me who’ll take care of their issues for a price. They want this one, meaning you, to go away with a minimum amount of muss and fuss.”

  “Pendejo habla demasiado,” the hombre said.

  I pointed at him but spoke to Reyes.

  “Did he really just call me an asshole?” I said. “Did he really say I talk too much?” I turned my eyes back on the hombre. “Fuck you, pal.”

  “Nicholas,” Reyes said. “We have business to discuss.”

  I liked it that Reyes used Dyson’s first name. It meant he was attempting to defuse the situation. But Dyson wouldn’t let it go.