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look for Nickersons over his shoulder for the rest of his life, so instead he decided to pay them off entirely and start life somewhere with a clean slate—well, as clean as his slate could get.
    “All of it?” Non-Chatty said. “The whole hundred thousand?”
    “That’s what I said.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “Jesus Christ, I said I have it. Do you want it or not?”
    “You better not be lying.”
    “I’m not lying.”
    “Why should we believe you? Maybe we should just take you behind the old shoe plant and work you over a bit, like we were planning to do in the first place. Find out if you’re lying.”
    “Well, shit, Carl, or Chet,” Stokes said, “or whichever one you are, you can take me behind the old shoe plant and kick the shit out of me, or you can take me to where I’m keeping the money and I’ll give you what I owe your dad. All of it. Every penny.”
    Non-Chatty thought about that for a moment. He looked at his brother. Chatty looked back at him. Then Chatty looked back at the road, which was a good thing because they were going fifty miles an hour now. Non-Chatty looked back at Stokes.
    “Where’s the money?”
    Stokes told them where to take him. After a moment, Non-Chatty said, “Yeah, all right. But if you’re lying, it’s not gonna be a fun afternoon.” Then he added, “For you, I mean. My brother and I will enjoy ourselves just fine.”
    Stokes had understood exactly what he meant.
    They traveled in silence the rest of the way—well, not silence, really, not with two thugs chewing gum with their mouths open. The bus station wasn’t far from the center of town, where Stokes had led them, so they arrived at their destination in just a few minutes. Chatty pulled the Escalade to a stop in a no-parking spot beside a fire hydrant in front of a Chinese restaurant. “Too Good Food” glowed in red neon in the front window. Stokes ate there now and then and was never sure if this was the name of the establishment or a testimony about the quality of its food.
    “The money’s in there?” Chatty asked, frowning.
    “Yeah, it’s in there. I’ll go get it.”
    “Hold it,” Non-Chatty said. “What’re we, stupid? I’m going with you.”
    Stokes figured that would happen. He shrugged and got out of the car, taking the backpack with him. Fortunately, they let him.
    “It better be here,” Nickerson said as they walked toward the restaurant, the powerful aromas of the food that Stokes had to admit was indeed “too good” washing over them before they were within twenty yards of the place.
    Inside, a little old Asian lady with a huge smile came forward to greet them, but Stokes walked right past her. Nickerson followed closely. Stokes walked between the tables and pushed through a swinging door, into the kitchen. A chorus of Chinese voices rose from the various cooks and servers, but he ignored them, scanning the room, then walked toward what looked to be an office in the back. He had no idea. He’d never been back there before. All the commotion drew an elderly Asian man from the office. He shouted in Chinese. Stokes held his hands out in what he hoped was a calming gesture. Nickerson watched him closely.
    “It’s OK, Pops,” Stokes said. “Settle down. I’m back for the money you’ve been holding for me.”
    The wrinkled old man kept up a stream of agitated Chinese as Stokes brushed past him and stepped into the office.
    “What the fuck’s he chattering about?” Nickerson asked behind him.
    “No idea. I don’t speak Chinese.” And, as Stokes already knew, the old man didn’t speak English, which was one of the reasons he’d chosen this place. He crossed the office to an old desk against the back wall and opened a drawer. Acutely aware of Nickerson’s eyes on his back, Stokes snuck a hand beneath his leather jacket and started removing bundles of cash from the waistband of his jeans, bundles he’d surreptitiously slipped out of the backpack and into his pants while he was in