A Long Walk Up the Waterslide by Don Winslow

map.”
    “Did you send your boy on his way?”
    “I did my job, knuckle-dragger,” Gloria snapped. “Do yours.”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    Gloria cradled the phone in her neck and poured herself a drink. “And tell your boss this settles my debt. The account is closed.”
    “Well, that’s between you and him.”
    “Just tell him.”
    Gloria hung up the phone. She sat down on the sofa and knocked back the drink. It would be tough getting to sleep tonight, tougher than usual. Maybe she should have let Walter stay. But he was lousy in bed, lousier when he was drinking, and he was always drinking these days.
    You’ve been going at it pretty hard yourself, kiddo, she thought. Especially since Joey Foglio bought out your debt from Sammy Black. You knew even then that something bad was going to happen.
    Chick nudged Sammy Black awake and pointed across the street at Walter Withers getting into a taxi.
    “About time,” Sammy said. They’d been sitting in the car on Fifty-seventh since following Withers back from the Plaza.
    “You think he got lucky?” Chick smirked.
    “Walter never gets lucky.”
    Chick smiled at him.
    “What?” Sammy asked.
    “Aren’t you going to say, ‘Follow that cab’?”
    “Drive the car.”
    Sammy had confidence in Chick’s ability to follow the cab. Helen Keller could follow Walter Withers at three in the morning. All she’d need would be directions to the Blarney Stone.
    “Don’t get too close,” Sammy said as Chick turned left on Third Avenue, behind the cab.
    “You slammed her a few times, didn’t you?” Chick asked.
    “Who?”
    “Gloria.”
    “No,” Sammy lied. “I wouldn’t have if I could have, which I could, because she owed me a bundle.”
    “Why did Joey Beans want the book on her, anyway? He wanted to slam her?”
    “I don’t know; I didn’t ask,” Sammy said. “When someone big as Joey Foglio—and don’t you ever call him Joey Beans again—reaches out all the way from Texas and wants to buy a piece of your book, you sell, not ask. Here we are.”
    Chick pulled the car over and they got out just as Withers finished paying the cabbie. To Sammy’s relief, Withers still had the briefcase. It would be just like him to leave it sitting at Nathan’s or someplace.
    “Walter!” Sammy called. “Hold on! Can I have a word?”
    Withers looked startled.
    “I’ll do you one better, Sammy,” he said. “I’ll give you a word and a drink.”
    “Not in there with Arthur ‘The Mouth’ Rourke,” Sammy said. “We need privacy.”
    But Withers had beat them to the doorway.
    “No problem,” Sammy said.
    He stepped inside. Arthur was wiping the bar with a wet rag. Withers was already on his usual stool. He was the only patron. Big surprise.
    “Arthur,” Sammy said. “You got to go pee.”
    “I don’t have to pee, Sammy,” Arthur said.
    “Yes you do.”
    Dumb harp.
    Arthur stopped the rag for a second and thought. It was an exhausting process.
    “I guess I do got to pee,” he said finally.
    “Yeah, a long one, okay, Arthur?”
    Arthur stepped out from behind the bar and walked into the men’s room in the back.
    Sammy sat on the stool next to Withers. Chick took the one on the other side.
    “Now, Walter,” Sammy said. “I want that money.”
    “I paid you your money, Sammy.”
    “I mean the rest of that money,” Sammy said, pointing to the briefcase. “In there.”
    “But it doesn’t belong to you.”
    This is a robbery, you dumb drunk, Sammy thought. Jeez, I have to draw you a picture?
    “Walter,” Sammy said, trying to keep his temper, “you know and I know that you’re just not capable of holding on to that money. You’re going to lose it to someone, and that someone should be me rather than some stranger. After all, I’ve put up with a lot of shit from you. So give it to me now so I don’t have to tell Chick to hurt you.”
    Withers considered this for what seemed like a long time.
    Then he said, “No.”
    Chick started to