Cheeks grunts.
“What I’m doing now, it’s better,” Mikey says. He fingers his shirt. “Silk. You shoulda come in with me. I got six guys working that I trained myself. We’re grossing ten, fifteen grand a night. I been clearing forty a week for six months, not counting what I get from you for the decks.”
Cheeks stops eating for a moment. “You got anything for me now?”
“I got eight desktops, three notebooks.”
“I’ll take ’em,” Cheeks says. “Something I can sell.”
“They’re in the truck. See that nice little Subaru out there? The weekend, I got a Porsche.”
Cheeks doesn’t bother to turn and look.
“Yeah, nice.”
Mikey leans back in the chair. “So, Cheeks, why you call me? You don’t want to get in on my thing now the money’s flowing?”
Cheeks’ small teeth crunch through crisp batter and into a prawn. “Nah. I just sell what people want to buy.”
“I don’t get it,” Mikey says. “You want to sell me something?”
Cheeks says nothing. Now Mikey notices that the only sound he’s hearing is what’s coming from the lips and nose of the fence as he’s eating. There’s not even any noise from the kitchen.
Mikey gets up, but so does Cheeks. His speed is surprising for a fat man, and he’s wider than the front door. Mikey backs a step away, turns toward the back, and freezes. He swallows and says, “Hi, Angie, how’s it going?”
Angie Tedesco comes out of the kitchen, a compact man with hands too big for comfort. The guy behind him, about the size of the Marine Building but made of harder stuff, has an aluminum softball bat. He’s rolling the wide rack of his shoulders to loosen them up.
“We need to talk about this new line of business you been starting,” Angie says, then adds, “...for us.”
Mikey turns to the fat man. “Jesus, Cheeks...”
The fence shrugs.
“Mikey, you bring me something I can sell, you think I’m not gonna sell it?”