TINK
Krye’s placeis 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 theheavy muscleway. 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 aboutcool. I care aboutlow 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 tobememorable.
“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? OfcourseI need your money.” He presses his gloved hands together at his chest. “I’m at your beck and call. Anything you want.”
