"Just don’t cause a scene, okay? Wait in the car like a told you. I'll be five minutes max." Truth is even I don't have a clue what Frankie's done. All I know is that I've been sent to pay him a visit, and that only happens when someone has grade-A fucked up.

Charlie isn't exactly a lenient man, but he only brings out his most expensive toys for his most expensive problems. Miss a payment on a loan? Charlie sends Sam out to relieve you of a few fingernails. Lose a shipment of coke with the equivalent street value of a five-bedroom house and you get a visit from me. Horses for courses, that's what Charlie says.

We pull up outside Monterello Farm Markets and I slam the gear stick into neutral. It's raining. Surprise sur-fucking-prise. Welcome to Seattle. The windshield turns opaque, blasted by raindrops as soon as the wipers quit. For a moment it’s just me and Lace inside our own little, messed up world. “You hear me, right? Stay in the car.”

She gives me the three fingered boy scouts salute—the one that generally means she’s not feeling all that compliant but doesn’t want to argue. “Gotcha, Boss Man.”

She’s called me that since the day I started paying her to launder my money for me. I could have hired the Jews to do it but they’re already rich enough. Besides, Lacey needs a purpose, even if it is an illegal one.

“Be right back.” I jump out of the car, collect the black duffel from the back seat of the Camaro and head into Monterello’s without looking back. Doubt Lace will disobey me today, anyway; rain’ll wreck her perfectly straight hair. It really is fucked that I know girl shit like that.

Inside, Archie Monterello, Frankie’s brother, stands behind the counter double bagging for an old woman with a stooped back and perfectly styled white hair. Probably a wig. He drops the bag when he sees me, tomatoes bouncing out onto the counter and rolling away.

“Frankie ain’t here today, Zeth. He’s outta state with Cindy.”

I ignore the kid. He’s paid (barely) to keep the front of store charade respectable, believable, if you will, and that includes running interference when a member of the family’s in trouble.

Looks like I’m expected.

I head straight for the swinging doors to the rear of the store, while Archie scrambles over the counter, green apron twisted over his shoulder. “Zeth, I mean it, man. Frankie ain’t here.”

But when I slam through the office door hidden out back, Frankie most definitely is here. His beat up, junkie wife is on her knees, blowing him good. The black-and-white striped dress she’s wearing is hiked up so high I can see her ass cheeks. The look of surprise on Frankie’s face is priceless; he’s so stunned that it takes a minute for him to slap Cindy’s shoulder. Another minute still for her head to stop bobbing.

“Put your dick away, Frankie. We’re having words.” The last thing I need to see right after dinner is Italian cock. I roll my eyes to the ceiling while he zips up. Cindy stands, one hand balancing herself on Frankie’s desk, the other hand tugging her dress down. Her eyes are bloodshot, totally vacant. In other words, she’s baked.

“The fuck you think you’re doing, Zeth? You can’t just barge in here whenever you feel like it, y’know?”

Her husband slaps the back of her leg—crack. “Watch your mouth, bitch. Be careful how you speak to my business associates.” He might as well have thrown a bucket of water over her. A spark of life reignites in her eyes.

“Well fuck you, Frankie. I got better things to do than stand around defending you all day.”

“You were on your knees if I recall. Now get out of here. Zeth and me gotta talk.” He either has no idea why I’m here or he’s trying to ingratiate himself to me. It doesn’t matter. There’s no sweet-talking me, no point in brown-nosing. I curl a lip as Cindy storms out of the office. She shoulder barges me, and I raise an eyebrow at Frankie.

“Bad attitude,” I tell him.

“Bad everything,” he replies. Frankie and Cindy were like Bonnie and Clyde ten years ago but now he’s a two-bit womaniser and she’s a used-up whore. Frank still has his looks, though—the only reason Lacey looked at him twice. She’s shallow like that. It’s part of her charm. Frankie leans back in his leather chair, eyeing me.

“You know why you’ve been given this ticket, Zeth?” he asks.

“Am I supposed to?”

Frankie shrugs. “Most times people know why they’re killing a man.”

So he does know why I’m here. Hardly surprising; you don’t piss of Charlie to this degree without realizing you’re gonna reap the consequences. “I’m not what you’d consider…inner circle. I get an address and some instructions, nothing more.”

“And a suitcase full of cash, too, right?”

My turn to shrug. No point in being shy. “Right.”

“Well how ‘bout I offer you two suitcases full’a cash instead, Zeth? Hire you to go right back where you came from and put an end to this once and for all?”

“You want to hire me to kill Charlie?”

“Why not?” Frankie is one composed motherfucker. He’s richer than God—the eighties might be long gone but cocaine is still Seattle’s drug of choice—and I doubt this is the first time he’s offered to buy his way into someone’s good graces. No doubt he’s never had anyone tell him no before, though. See, the thing is I don’t have any good graces. And I don’t need his money. I dump the duffel I’m still carrying onto his desk. Unzip it. Pull out my go-to—my duster.