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work?”
    â€œGo with something that sparkles.”
    â€œJewelry?”
    â€œI don’t mean fireworks.”
    They had hocked her nicest jewelry trying to save the restaurant—another reason not to have her party there. He hadn’t bought her a piece since the foreclosure. “I’m going to make that happen,” he said.
    â€œShe’ll be happy.”
    Claudia went to the kitchen. Ruban crossed the dining area, toward the liquor stockroom. He needed to check the inventory and make sure his new bartender wasn’t robbing him blind, but a knock on the front window got his attention. It was Pinky, the other new millionaire in Ruban’s family by marriage. He was right outside the restaurant, standing on the sidewalk.
    Ruban went to the front door and unlocked it, but he didn’t let Pinky in.
    â€œLet’s walk,” he said, and he took Pinky around the side of the building. They talked as they walked down the alley.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he asked.
    â€œYou said no cell phones. All I have is a cell.”
    Pinky was old school, the opposite of his drug-addicted nephew. With Pinky, if you receive an order, you follow it; you disobey it, you die.
    â€œThis better be important,” said Ruban.
    â€œI can’t get in touch with Marco. Have you talked to him?”
    They stopped at the alley’s dead end in front of the Dumpster. Funny, a restaurant could serve the most unique cuisine in south Florida, but all garbage smelled alike.
    â€œNo,” said Ruban. “You’re the one who’s supposed to give him his cut.”
    â€œI’ve been to his apartment twice. No sign of him.”
    â€œDoes he have a wife, a girlfriend?”
    â€œNah. Marco’s a loner. The only thing I could think of was to check where he works.”
    â€œShit, Pinky! You went back to the tile depot?”
    â€œWhat was I supposed to do? I need to track him down. I don’t want him to think we’re stiffing him.”
    â€œWhat’d they tell you at the tile place?”
    â€œNobody’s seen him all week.”
    Ruban started to pace. He did that whenever stress kicked in. “You think the cops got to him?”
    â€œI don’t know. That’s why I came here. I was hoping you knew something.”
    â€œYou and Marco should have worked out a time and place to meet before we did the job. That’s what I did with Alvarez. He knows exactly where and when—”
    â€œI know, I know. Third Tuesday after blah blah blah. Marco and me didn’t do that. So it doesn’t help for you to tell me what we should’ve done.”
    Ruban stopped pacing and drew a breath. “You’re right. No more ‘shouldas.’”
    â€œSo what do we do?”
    â€œFirst off, don’t ever go back to the tile warehouse again. Don’t go to his apartment, either.”
    â€œThen how am I supposed to find him?”
    â€œYou do what I told everyone to do Sunday night: keep your normal routine, go to work, and go home every day just like before. You let Marco find you .”
    â€œWhat if he doesn’t come?”
    â€œWe owe him a million dollars. He’ll come.”
    â€œWhat if he doesn’t?”
    Ruban looked him right in the eye. “If we don’t hear from him, we got much bigger problems than finding Marco.”

Chapter 7
    O n Saturday morning Ruban picked up his brother-in-law in South Miami. It was time to spend some money.
    Week one was in the bank, so to speak. Still no word on Marco, but otherwise it had gone without a hitch. Ruban had followed the news coverage on television, and he’d overheard a couple of customers at the restaurant talking over Cuban mojitos made with Russian brandy— Hey, did you hear about that airport heist?— but that was it. The FBI had no leads, at least none reported in the media. Ruban still dressed the same, still acted the same, and still drove a