2. Tink
TINK
Krye’s place is set back a ways, up a few winding switchbacks that get my bike growling with effort.
The Hills is all gated yards and stucco walls and big castle-like houses, the kind of place where people might actually call the cops for us being too loud.
But mention we’re here for Krye and we’ll be fine.
By the time we reach the mouth of the driveway, Pan’s in front, and he’s first to stop, a skidding circle at the end of the drive that spits a little gravel into the fountain burbling in the middle as he kills the engine.
He yanks off his helmet just as the rest of us pull up, giving his head a shake. The effect makes his hair look more like a firework than ever.
“How do I look?” he asks. “How’s my hair?”
“Stupid,” Blue says, killing his own engine.
“Great,” I say, without thinking. “I mean, fine.”
“Huh?” Fox is too busy staring at the house, which is huge and has that part Taco Bell, part Olive Garden look—terracotta roof tiles and beige walls and all that. “Oh, uh. Fine. Is this gonna take long?”
“Better not,” Kit says, flipping his visor and eyeing the thick-armed, gold-chained guy who answers the door before Pan’s even had a chance to knock. “But I don’t think that’s up to us.”
“That hair looks fucking stupid, Pan.”
Pan scowls and smooths his hair defensively. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
Krye just laughs. He’s middle-aged, mid-50s, maybe, but in good shape, not even really balding. Only the craggy face and the silver tufts of chest hair peeking out from his half-open black button-down give him away.
“Probably because it does.” He stubs out his cigar.
It took a full two minutes just for the guy who let us in to even find Krye in the first place, and now we’re out the terrace, by the pool but under the overhang.
The sun is hot on all the sand-color walls and tiles, but we’re in the shade: Krye sitting on the sectional, us standing.
Pan looks totally at ease, and I’m a little less so.
I don’t have an official role in the transaction.
Not exactly. Just here to do what I usually do: make sure Pan doesn’t get himself killed.
Not in the heavy muscle way. Obviously. We have Fox and Blue for that, if it comes to it. More in the “don’t say anything stupid” way. That, and note down details, directions, dates, the kind of things that Pan never pays attention to.
Right-hand man shit. That’s me, all right.
“It looks cool,” Pan says, to no one really. No one but me.
I just snort.
“Yes, see?” Krye indicates me. I step back a little. I didn’t mean to get his attention.
“I don’t care about cool. I care about low profile. And this…” He sweeps a hand up and down through the air. “This is not low profile.” His eyes swivel to me, and he points. “Why you not be like him? Normal boy here, is this…”
“Tink,” I supply for him. And nod, for good measure. Respect, agreement, I don’t know. We’ve met, but there’s no reason he’d remember my name. Honestly, I try hard not to be memorable.
“Tink.” Krye bobs his head approvingly. “No tattoo drawings. No flashy hair and clothes. Normal boy.”
Pan skims his gaze over me. Eyes intent.
I lift my chin a little. Swallow. Pretend I don’t notice my heart beating a little faster.
“Not my style,” Pan concludes. “No offense, Tink.” He shrugs. “Anyway. What’s up?”
“What’s up? You ask me what is up?” Krye chuckles. “Where have you been, mik? It’s been, what, weeks now?”
“Well, you know.” Pan kicks at an uneven chunk of the patio, hands in his pockets. “Little bit of this, little bit of that.”
He fucking forgot, I think, but same difference.
Krye scoffs. “Little this, little that. You don’t need to earn my money no more?”
Pan’s eyes flash. He cocks his head. “You think this is some kind of social call? Of course I need your money.” He presses his gloved hands together at his chest. “I’m at your beck and call. Anything you want.”
Krye rumbles, but it’s an amused kind of sound. “You know, in Albanian we have word for someone who does anything for money.”
“Yeah, well, if the shoe fits.” Pan shrugs. “Besides, some of my best friends are whores.” Krye glances at me, quizzical, but I shake my head vigorously—don’t look at me, dude.
“Whatcha got?” Pan concludes.
“Drop-off.” Krye motions at the glass doors, to someone inside. “Errand. You know, little Doordash run.” He chuckles at his own joke.
“Better pay more than Doordash,” Pan mutters, staring at his fingernails.
“Yes, yes.” Krye sighs. “I give you one thousand.”
At that, Pan’s eyes light up. But just as quickly, he furrows his brow. “Two.”
“Two? Ncuk.” Krye swipes the air, a single shake from his head. “One.”
“One-five,” Pan counters. “Paid up front.”
Krye frowns as his henchman from before strides in, beckoning him closer so they can whisper it out. Pan doesn’t bother eavesdropping, just looks over his shoulder, through the sliding doors to where the driveway lies on the other side of the house.
“Think they’re behaving themselves?” he asks, craning his neck as if he can actually see the other three.
“Nah.” I don’t have to see them to know, but I follow his gaze anyway, even though all I can see is the dark interior of Krye’s living room. “Probably pissing in that fountain.”
Pan laughs, a bright, deep sound, and gives me a shove in the shoulder. “See, that’s why I need you. Someone who’s housebroken.”
“Yes,” Krye says, louder now, and in English. He nods at his guy. “Go.” To Pan, he nods, too. “All right. Fifteen today.”
Pan, arms folded, doesn’t say anything, just lifts his eyebrows, as if he’s waiting for a psych-out. But nope, nothing.
“Deal.” He relaxes and leans over to offer Krye a hand—which Krye shakes, rolling his eyes.
“Ncuk. Yes, yes.” Krye settles back in his seat, sharpening his look at us. “I make exception for you, Pan. For besa. You know what besa is?”
Pan looks at me. I shake my head—like I speak Albanian?
“It means…” Krye spins a hand in the air.
“Trust. Oath, perhaps. But more than that. Deeper, like blood. They say, an Albanian gives you his word, he gives you his son. Or daughter, in my case.” He smirks.
“Without besa, we have nothing. I work with you, I pay you now, because I feel this for you. You understand?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure.” Pan grins. “Because you’ve got just so many crews with the bikes and the guys to run this stuff for you. And are dumb enough to do it,” he adds.
Krye just chuckles. “Okay, okay.” He doesn’t seem angry. Not really. That’s the thing with Krye and his guys. They don’t do gang wars, turf fights. It really is like the Olive Garden, actually: when you’re here, you’re family. “You are like son to me, is all I mean. And—”
Krye’s phone pings, interrupting. He pauses, pulling a pair of cheaters from his breast pocket to read, and smiles.
“My daughter. Zusanna.” Glasses on the end of his nose, he taps out a reply. “She runs a business, you know. Azucena Boulevard, by the Marina.” He looks up. “Kickboxing gym.” He mimes a punch at Pan. “Teach bone and skin like you to be strong.”
“I’m strong,” Pan objects, but Krye ignores him as he types out a reply to his daughter, then removes his glasses to take two packages—plastic, duct tape—from his guy.
But he doesn’t hand them over.
“There is more to story here, I think,” he muses. “Why you need my money so bad now?”
Pan shrugs. “Oh, you know. Owe some guys. Nothing big. I’m fine.”
I snort. Krye looks at me, curious.
“Oh, he’s been whining for days,” I explain. “They took his favorite jacket as collateral.”
“It’s a good jacket!” Pan cries. “That thing retails for two grand.”
At the mention of the total, Krye’s eyebrows raise. “You had better not double-time me, Pan. You in some kind of trouble?”
Always, I think. But not the kind of trouble Krye means.
Not this time, anyway. Just two guys we sort of know—Mike and JD, out of Kensington, borderline dirtbags—who happened to get lucky in hold ‘em when the house—meaning Pan—was out of cash. And Pan being Pan, the most valuable thing he owns is a leather jacket. It’s stupid, all told, but most of the things he gets himself into are stupid.
“Nah, nah.” Pan swipes the air. “Nothing like that. Little underground game is all.”
“Underground game?” Again, Krye looks at me.
“Uh, poker,” I explain. “Cards. Gambling. We run games sometimes for fun.” Well, Pan runs them. But still.
“Pan!” Krye shakes his head slowly, throws up his hands for good measure. “Why? This is bad idea.”
“Yeah, maybe if you don’t know how to play.” Pan shrugs, grinning. “But I know what I’m fucking doing.”
Well, so much for not running his mouth. I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets and try to move things along. Get the cash, get the delivery, go. “So—”
“It is bad idea.” Krye doesn’t hear me, his voice hard and serious now. “And you know why, mik.”
“Yeah?” Pan chuckles. “Why?”
Krye’s response is one word.
“Hook.”
That.
That, I am not expecting to hear.
That’s a knife, right in the stomach.
Pan bursts out laughing. But I see it more than hear it. My ears are ringing, all the sound thinned down to just a whine and my vision gone wiggly.
“Like he even cares,” Pan says. “I’m not worried about him.”
I’m drowning. I have to—I pretend to scratch my neck, dig nails in harder than I need to, and the pain grounds me.
“He does,” Krye says evenly. “And you should be. Especially now.”
“Why?”
I didn’t mean to speak up.
But I did.
“I just…what makes you say that?” My voice is rough. Maybe that’s for the better.
Krye looks at me. “End of month,” he says simply. “Casino revenue is down, I hear. Hook is on warpath.” He stares at Pan, points with a ringed finger. “And he does not like our friend Pan. Find out he’s cleaning up off-the-books games, and…”
He makes an explosion sound with his lips.
Pan folds his arms. “Weren’t you in a rush?”
Krye laughs, but he finally hands the packages to Pan.
“Here. Take. Small one is money for you. Second one, hold on for now and I will text you address when it is time.” He pats his pants pockets and pulls something out: a cell phone, gas station burner, the prepaid kind.
He holds it out to Pan, but not all the way.
“And you answer phone, okay, mik? It will always be me, this one.”
Pan holds three fingers in the air, the bundle under one arm. “Scout’s honor.”
Krye frowns. He lifts the phone a half inch closer to Pan, and then, and then, at the last second, holds it out to me.
“Me?”
“You.” Krye nods. “You, I trust not to lose, normal boy Tink. Right?”
“Sure,” I croak. I take it, slip it into my jacket pocket. And then, because I think it’ll piss Pan off, I add, “Besa, right?”
“Yes!” Krye beams. “Besa bese.”
Back in the big round driveway, Pan stows the packages with a scowl.
“Lecturing me like I’m a damn kid,” he mutters. “I know what I’m doing.”
A few feet away, Kit snorts. “Do you?”
“What kind of question is that?” Pan says, straightening up. “Of course I do. Krye was just being a dick.”
He looks at me, like I’m supposed to confirm for him.
And I would, but…
I hang on a moment, helmet in my hands.
I have to ask.
I have to.
I find my voice.
“You’re not worried about what he said?”
I keep my voice really low, really even. But I do ask it.
Now Blue sidles up. “What did he say?” There’s just the faintest hint of alarm to his voice. As much as I can hear it under the helmet, anyway.
But Pan just laughs. “That old bastard? No. Not even close.” He jams his helmet on, revs, and circles around before I can even get my bike going, spitting gravel into the fountain at the center of the driveway.
“Hey!” I yell, not sure if he can hear me. Or if he’s even listening. “Wait—where are you going?” I look down at the phone—nothing. “We don’t even have the address yet.”
No point in waiting for an answer. The other three are already moving, I stuff my own helmet on to follow.
Pan does glance back at me, though.
He was listening.
“Where?” he says, crackling over the mic. “To celebrate, duh.”