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shaking his head.
    Another hard-on met him at the side door, this one in a strappy T-shirt showing slabs of muscle, and stared at him while he stepped out of his overshoes. The guy frisked him thoroughly, then led him downstairs to a thirty-seat home theater where Copeland sat alone, sipping a cocktail and watching a Jackie Chan movie.
    He saw Ed come in and waved him over, muting the volume as Ed took a seat next to him. Copeland was a big man in his late fifties with the imposing thickness of one who still possessed great physical strength but, through a life of continual excess, had managed to insulate himself in a layer of fat that seemed dense enough to deflect bullets. In Copeland’s case this was almost literally true. A couple of years back, in the can at one of his favorite restaurants, a rival crime boss had pumped three .38 caliber rounds into his belly and Copeland had still managed to break the man’s neck before walking back to the bar to call an ambulance.
    “Ed,” Copeland said now, his tone, like his expression, unreadable. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice. It’s about your brother.”
    Ed said, “Yeah, Mister Copeland, I know.”
    Copeland leaned closer, touching Ed’s knee, the rings on his beefy fingers worth more than Ed’s house.
    “I hate to have to say this to you. If anybody understands about family, it’s me. But Ed, he fucked me, and I can’t let that slide. Number one, it’s bad for business. And number two, it hurts.” Copeland sighed, a sound of immeasurable weariness. “I got a tattoo on my ass, know what it says?”
    “No.”
    “Exit only.”
    Copeland looked up at the screen now, turning the volume back on, saying, “This is my favorite bit.” On the screen Jackie Chan laid out a couple of bad guys with the splintered halves of a pool cue. “What an athlete.”
    Ed tensed as Copeland muted the volume again and shifted his dull gaze back to him. The way it was going, Ed figured he had about a fifty-fifty chance of walking out of here alive.
    Copeland said, “Now here’s the situation the way I see it. That little cocksucker’s got my money and he’s got my smack. I’m giving you twenty-four hours to drop them both right back here in my lap. That’ll get your brother’s dick partway out of my ass.”
    “I understand, Mister Copeland.”
    “The rest, handle it any way you like. Neat. Humane. I don’t give a shit. Because if I’ve got to do it, it’s going to be slow, it’s going to be messy, and I’m going to handle it personally.”
    “I’m glad you see it that way, sir,” Ed said, relaxing a little, “because Sanj and Sumit are on their way to him right now.”
    “Really?” Copeland said, grimly amused. “You bastard. Those two Punjabs give me the creeps.”
    “I apologize for acting on my own here, Mister Copeland, but like you said, it’s family.”
    Copeland smiled. “Ed, as always, it’s a pleasure doing business with you. You anticipate my every need. I can’t believe you came out of the same nutsack as that piece of shit brother of yours.”
    Then the smile was gone, the volume was back on and Copeland had returned his attention to the film.
    On his way out, Ed glanced back startled as Copeland barked laughter at something on the screen. Muscle-shirt met him at the door and followed him to the exit to retrieve his overshoes. Ed didn’t breathe again until he was in his car.

13
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    The storm front rolled over the laboring Cessna like an avalanche, sheering winds broadsiding the small aircraft, forward visibility dropping to almost zero in the whiteout. Tom angled that last gut wrenching drop into a steep descent, leveling out at five hundred feet, trying to maintain visual contact with the ground. Under normal circumstances his best option would have been to double back, put down at the cabin and wait it out there. But the engine was running rough now, almost stalling as he fought to stabilize the light-weight