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Photographs showed the body of the young girl. She wore the same schoolgirl outfit and high heels. The white top was tied up tight, revealing her midriff and accentuating her breasts. The black and white checkered skirt also was tight on her curves, and short enough to reveal the bottom edge of her buttocks. There were close-up shots of her youthful hands and thighs and chest. Everything but a photograph of her face.

“I wrote here ‘I like what I do and so will you. In call, out call.’ And that she loves to travel and to please. That’s true, too.” He grinned. “Anyway, she said she’s from Bucks County, and out on her own. Tried to get in that flophouse up in Frankford. Lighthouse Life? They were full up and I got the call from Tony. Cost me a hundred bucks for that. Now, a little of Cuzzin Héctor’s hydro, at worst some coke, and she’s good to go.”

Gurnov bristled at hearing Héctor’s name and the hydroponic weed. He already regretted fronting Ricky any money. And he really was pissed when Ricky loaned Héctor—who really wasn’t Ricky’s cousin; he was a Ramírez from Cuba—the twenty-five grand to set up the house in Kensington. Growing pot indoors, using artificial lighting, guaranteed a steady nearby supply of the highly potent marijuana to move. Gurnov recognized that it also was one more thing that could blow up in his face. Héctor was already on the run after someone ratted out the grow house he’d worked near Miami.

“The girl looks sixteen,” Gurnov said.

Ricky shrugged. “I got ID saying she’s eighteen.”

The bastard never learns, Gurnov thought.

This is what caused the problem in the first place.

They’re too damn young—and too stupid to not talk.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “What’re you on? You look like shit, Ricky.”

“A little blow. And some E to stay awake. Last night was rough.”

Gurnov thought Ramírez looked like he’d need at least Ecstasy to have been up the whole time.

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; “Look, I’m serious. You need to be careful. Tell me what happened last night.”

Ramírez’s expression changed.

“I’m . . . I’m really sorry, man. I thought I had that fuckin’ thing under control. Really!”

What?

“What do you mean by that?” Gurnov said, his tone ice cold. “You take care of it or not?”

Ramírez avoided making eye contact.

“I shot that puta Krystal, man,” he said, nervously kicking his shoe tip against a desk leg. “In the back of the head, behind the ear, just like you said to.”

“What about the other . . . ?”

Looking at his shoe, Ramírez slowly shook his head.

He then said: “Damon thought Krystal was it, man. So he threw the Molotovs. We had to get out.”

“Damn it, Ricky!” Gurnov blurted. “Tell me you got the books back. I don’t care about the other shit.”

Ricky silently shook his head.

Gurnov inhaled deeply, then exhaled, trying to keep his composure.

“You know there’s gonna be hell to pay for this,” he said. “Mr. Antonov does not like surprises. Especially one like this.”

And that’s why I never told him about any of it.

I knew better than to let Ricky drag me into his running drugs and girls.

The damn money was just too easy to pass up. . . .

Ramírez looked up. There was terror in his eyes.