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“Why did you stop?”

As he came up to his truck, Van looked into his driver’s side windshield. He was not surprised that the pale-haired man had come after him. “I don’t answer to fans, buddy.”

“I’m not a fan.”

Their eyes stayed locked together on the flat surface of the glass. “Then why you been coming to my fights so much?”

“Because I have a proposition for you.”

“I don’t want a manager.”

“I’m not one of those either.”

Van looked over his shoulder. The guy was big and carried himself like a fighter, all jacked shoulders and loose arms. Iron-pan hands on this one, the kind that could crank into a fist as big as a bowling ball.

So that was the deal, huh. “You want to get into the ring with me, you arrange it over there.” He pointed to the money man.

“Not after that either.”

Van turned around, thinking the twenty-questions thing was for shit. “So what do you want?”

“First I have to know why you stopped.”

“He was down.”

Annoyance flashed over the guy’s face. “So.”

“You know what? You’re beginning to piss me off.”

“Fine. I’m looking for a man who fits your description.”

Oh, that narrowed the field. Busted nose in a regular joe face with a military haircut. Snooze. “Lotta men look like me.”

Well, except for his right hand.

“Tell me something,” the guy asked, “did you have your appendix removed?”

Van narrowed his eyes and put his truck’s keys back in his pocket. “One of two things are about to happen and you get to pick. You walk away and I get into my ride. Or you keep talking and shit goes down. Your choice.”

The pale man got in close. Jesus, he smelled funny. Like…baby powder?

“Don’t threaten me, boy.” The voice was low and the body that backed up the words was coiled for action.

Well, well, well…what do you know. A real contender.

Van pushed his face even closer. “Then get to your fucking point.”

“Appendix?”

“Not anymore.”

The man smiled. Eased back. “How would you like a job?”

“I have one. And this.”

“Construction. Knocking strangers around for cash.”

“Honest work, both of them. And just how long have you been nosing around my biz?”

“Long enough.” The guy stuck out his hand. “Joseph Xavier.”

Van let that palm hang out there. “Not interested in meeting you, Joe.”

“That’s Mr. Xavier to you, son. And surely you wouldn’t mind listening to a proposition.”

Van cocked his head to the side. “You know something, I’m a lot like a whore. I like to get paid by jerkoffs. So how about you palm me a benji, Joe, then we’ll see about your proposition.”

As the man just stared, Van felt an unexpected shot of fear. Man, something about this guy was not right.

The bastard’s voice was even lower as he spoke. “Say my name properly first, son.”

Whatever. For a hundred bucks, he’d flap his gums even for a freak like this. “Xavier.”

“That’s Mr. Xavier.” The guy smiled like a predator, all teeth, no jolly. “Say it, son.”

Some unknown impulse had Van opening his mouth.

Right before he let the words fly, he had a vivid memory of when he’d been sixteen years old and had taken a dive into the Hudson River. In midair, he’d seen the massive underwater stone he was going to hit and knew there would be no change in course. Sure enough, his head had made contact as if the collision had been preordained, as if there had been an invisible string around his neck and the rock had pulled him home. But it hadn’t been a bad thing, at least not right away. Immediately after the crack of impact, there had been a floating, a sweet, satisfied calm, as if destiny had been fulfilled. And he’d known instinctively that the sensation was a forerunner of death.

Funny, he had that same spacy disorientation now. And the same sense that this man with the paper-white skin was like death: inevitable and fated—and coming specifically for him.

“Mr. Xavier,” Van whispered.

When the hundred-dollar bill appeared in front of him, he reached forward with his four-fingered hand and took it.

But he knew he would have listened without the