Krye rumbles, but it’s an amused kind of sound. “You know, in Albanian we have word for someone who doesanythingfor 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. Forbesa.You know whatbesais?”
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. “Withoutbesa, 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 justso manycrews with the bikes and the guys to run this stuff for you.Andare 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.”
