leaned against a wall beneath an awning. Down the block, a lone streetlamp flickered to life. Ten minutes passed. No sign of Hadi, the Lancia, the Fiat, or the Corcel. He finished his Coke, handed it back to the vendor, then walked across the street and into the pool hall.
It wasn’t so much a hall as a double garage-sized room with two pool tables in the center, a bar on the right, and hard-back chairs lining the opposite wall. At the rear of the bar was a seating area with four round tables and chairs. In the corner, a set of three steps leading down to a door labeled “Exit” in Portuguese. Beneath plastic stained-glass hanging lights, he could see men clustered around the pool tables. The air was thick with smoke.
Ding took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. Five minutes later the back door opened and Dominic walked in. He walked up to the bar, ordered a beer, then took it to the back, choosing a table.
At five after seven, the front door opened and Hadi walked in. He stood near the door, nervously looking about. Dominic raised his beer bottle to shoulder height and nodded at Hadi, who hesitated, then headed in Dominic’s direction.
The front door opened again. The Lancia driver walked in. Like Hadi, he stood still for thirty seconds, scanning the interior. His shirt was untucked, and on his right hip Chavez could see a familiar-shaped bump. The man’s scan stopped suddenly as he saw Hadi, who was just approaching Dominic’s table. The man started after him. Dominic let him pass, then got off his stool.
“Where’s my money, asshole?” Chavez said in Portuguese.
The man spun around, fists coming up. Chavez raised his hands to ear height. “Easy, easy—”
He slapped his right palm down on the man’s face, shattering his nose. He staggered backward, and Chavez followed, delivering a thumb-punch to the hollow beneath his larynx. The man went down. The other patrons watched curiously but made no move to intervene. Debts were debts.
At the back of the room, Dominic was already out of his seat and marching Hadi out the back door.
Chavez walked up to Lancia and stepped on his gun hand, then jerked the gun from his belt. “You speak English?”
The man sputtered.
“Nod if you speak English.”
The man nodded.
“Get to your feet or I’ll shoot you dead right here.”
Dominic was waiting in the alley. It was fully dark now. To the left, the alley ended in a wall, into which was set a stairway leading up into darkness; to their right, twenty yards away, the mouth of the alley.
Hadi stood against the brick wall beside a cluster of garbage cans. Dominic had his gun out and tucked behind his thigh. Chavez shoved Lancia from behind, and he stumbled into the wall beside Hadi.
“Who are you?” Hadi asked.
“Shut up,” Dominic growled.
Chavez saw Dom’s fingers curling and uncurling on the butt of his gun. “Easy, Dom.” He picked up a wad of newspaper from the ground and tossed it to Lancia. “Wipe your nose.”
“Fuck you.”
The door burst open beside them. Silhouetted by the dim light from the pool hall, Chavez saw a figure standing a few feet back from the threshold. His hand came up, extended toward them. Chavez double-tapped him in the chest, and he fell back. Chavez kicked the door shut.
“Go, Dom.” He leveled his gun with Hadi and Lancia. “Move.”
At the mouth of the alley, a figure was running toward him. A gun muzzle flashed orange, then twice more. Chavez sidestepped behind the garbage cans and fired twice. The figure dodged to one side.
“Stairs,” Chavez ordered.
Prodding Lancia and Hadi along, Dom headed for the stairs. Chavez back-walked with them until he felt his shoulders bump into the wall, then turned and followed.
Charging up the steps on the heels of Dominic, Chavez reached the top and looked around. An alley stretched to the left and to the right; above them, overhanging balconies. Behind them and to the right, another rectangle set into another brick wall. Chavez gestured toward it. Dominic nodded and shoved Lancia and Hadi up the steps. Behind, Chavez heard the scuff of a shoe and looked back down the steps. Their pursuer was there, head peeking around the corner. Chavez pulled back, went still. After ten seconds of silence, the scuff of a shoe echoed up the steps.
Chavez tucked his gun into his belt, took two steps to the right, then reached above his head and snagged the balcony’s