NINETEEN

Say what you will about the Jamaican, Micky Duka thought (and people did say plenty about him, not when he was around, of course; nobody had that big a death wish), but the guy had without a doubt the best herb around.

Micky took a last hit off the spliff and passed it back to Loopy.

“That’s good stuff, Loop,” he said. “God, I needed that.”

“Yeah.” Loopy smiled back. “I can see. You don’t look happy, Mick. That’s for sure.”

“Who could be happy in a monkey suit like this? Can’t even get comfortable.” Duka tugged on the valet captain’s uniform as if he could stretch it to fit, as if it was part of his skin. Which he sometimes felt it was—these days, it seemed like no sooner had he gotten home from the job than he was back on it, wavin’ cars forward, trying to move cars that were double-parked out of the way, trying not to piss off the wrong person at the wrong time . . .

“One thing I don’t get, Mick. Why’d you take this job, anyway? I never figured you for somebody who wanted to work a job like this.”

Duka shook his head. “Listen, Loop—when Howard Saint suggests you do something, you do it. Am I right?”

“Yeah. I guess.” Loopy’s face clouded over for a second as he considered the question. Big galoot. Guy was dumber than a pile of rocks, but Micky liked him just the same. Not just because of the joint, but because of what he’d done for his mom after the old man’s funeral. Loopy had really stepped up then, helped them through some hard times. For a while there Micky had even stopped calling him Loopy, called him Lou (Lou Palisano, his given name) ’cause he thought the guy was probably tired of being reminded that he was a little slow. But that didn’t work out; his friend just got confused (“Lou? C’mon, Mick, use my name, all right?”), so Loopy it was. Sometimes Loop.

The two of them were sitting on a curb, around the corner from the entrance to Saints and Sinners, sharing the spliff and a few hits off the flask Micky kept in his back pocket. They’d been sitting ever since Micky had gotten off work—almost an hour ago now, he realized.

And he had to be up in the morning tomorrow, on account of Mrs. Saint was having one of her lunches at the club. Which you know who had to valet for.

God, even the Jamaican’s herb couldn’t relax him these days.

Duka stood up.

“I gotta hit the hay, my friend.”

“Come on, Mick. Night’s still young.”

“But I ain’t.” Duka shook his head. “Thanks for bringin’ the spliff, Loop. I’ll see you around.”

“All right.” Loop waved the spliff at him. “See you around.”

Duka saluted his friend with the flask and walked off down the street.

Truth was, he wasn’t that old. It was this job. It really was killin’ him. All he did these days was “yes, sir,” and “no, sir”—there had to be some way he could ask out of it. How to do that without seeming ungrateful, that was the tricky part, because you did not want Howard Saint to think you were ungrateful.

Maybe he could ask for another job in the organization. Something that required a little more brainpower. A job a little farther up the ladder. Though even as he thought about that, Micky realized he wasn’t sure he wanted to go any farther up the ladder, because, after all, his old man had been about as high up that ladder as you could get, and look what happened to him.

He turned the corner toward his car, unbuttoning his jacket the rest of the way as he walked.

At least he could ask Saint’s permission to wear something a little more stylish on the job. This uniform . . .

“Why do I have to wear this?” he mumbled to himself, turning the bright red jacket over in his hand. “It’s so . . . undignified.”

All at once, headlights flared at his back.

Micky turned, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the glare, and saw a car had come down the street behind him. It was stopped now, in the middle of the road, blocking him in. A big old, rusted hunk of junk. He didn’t know anybody with a car like that.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Who’s that? Loopy?”

The driver’s side door opened. Footsteps sounded. A big man’s heavy, slow footsteps. Loopy, then, playing some kind of trick on him.

Except, he remembered, Loopy didn’t drive.

“Hey!” Micky yelled again. “Whoever that is, shut those lights, huh?”

There was no reply.

He was getting a little nervous. Not too nervous, because he worked for Howard Saint now, and there was one good thing about working for Howard Saint: Nobody fucked with you. Nobody who wanted to live, at least.

He squinted into the light and saw a man walking toward him, silhouetted in the light. A big man, just like he’d guessed. He couldn’t see his face.

“I don’t know who you’re lookin’ for,” Micky squeaked. “But I work for Howard Saint.”

The footsteps stopped.

“I know.”

Micky almost wet his pants. The man’s voice, whoever he was, was all raspy and thick, as if he had something coating his throat. As if he was using his voice for the first time in a long, long while.

“Well . . .” Micky squeaked again. “Then what’s the matter with you? Buzz off, unless you got a death wish.”

In response, the figure started forward again.

“Hey,” Micky began. “Didn’t you hear me? I said . . .”

His voice trailed off, then, as the man stepped in front of the headlights, and Micky, at last, saw his face.

“Oh, shit.”

“Death wish.” Frank Castle smiled. “That’s it, Micky. That’s it exactly.”