Danny Esposito's house, like all the smaller models, boasted of a one-car garage and a short driveway. The larger residences had two-car garages and sat back about ten feet farther from the road. I parked in front of the house past Danny's. No car sat in his driveway, yet there was the garage. Two lights shone from the first floor. I would take my chances he was home.

  I couldn't be as reckless as usual here. It was early enough for people to be awake and nosy, and there were enough houses on the street for the odds of a nosy neighbor to approach one hundred percent. I walked up to Danny's porch, used the knocker to bang on the door, and covered the peephole with my thumb. A few seconds later I heard footsteps move toward the door, then stop. Danny would be looking through the peephole, seeing nothing, and getting curious.

  Sure enough, two locks disengaged, and the door opened about a foot. Danny's head appeared. "Hello, Danny," I said. He frowned. I surged forward as he tried to close the door.

  I slammed into the door shoulder-first. The force of it staggered Danny back into the living room. The door flew open. I walked in and closed it behind me. By then, Danny recovered. Instead of doing anything useful, he stood there and glared at me. "What are you doing here?" he said.

  "Danny, you're so rude to your guests," I said.

  "You're no guest. Why shouldn't I call the cops?"

  "Because I know you know where your brother is," I said. His glare softened for an instant, confirming it. "If you call the cops, I'll make sure they know, too."

  Danny kept glaring at me. At least he was consistent. "I guess you came here to find out where he is," he said.

  "I did," I said.

  "I'm not telling you."

  "Why not?"

  "You're gonna kill him," Danny said.

  "Actually," I said, "I think I'm the only person looking for your brother who doesn't want to kill him."

  My reasonable response softened his glare again. "Really?"

  "Really."

  With the glare gone, Danny just stood there looking at me. The whole thing was kind of pathetic. "We should probably talk," I suggested.

  "Right," said Danny. "Yes. In here."

  He led me into his living room. Tan laminate flooring covered every room in view. A few rugs were spread out in the living room, mostly under things like his boxy black coffee table. It didn't go with anything else in the room. The furniture was about two shades darker than the flooring. Danny's plain entertainment center was white. The coffee table stood out for the wrong reasons. Danny noticed me looking at it. "You like the coffee table?" he said.

  "It's, um . . . very modern," I said. I tried to play it down the middle. If I insulted Danny's ugly coffee table, he could refuse to help me in a fit of pique. If I sounded like I liked it, he might offer me the hideous thing.

  Danny nodded, then said, "Yeah, I like it." Bullet dodged.

  "Where's your brother, Danny?" I said.

  "You promise you're not going to kill him?"

  "I can't promise."

  "You said you didn't want to," Danny said, frowning.

  "I don't," I said. "But if he pulls a gun on me, I'm not going to stand there and be a handsome target."

  Danny pondered my words a moment. "OK," he said, "I guess that's fair."

  "It's a lot more fair than he'll get from Tony Rizzo's men."

  "A house our mother owned," Danny said, "is where he is."

  "I'm surprised the police haven't found him," I said.

  "It's not in her name. Her grandmother left her the house. I don't think our mom did much with it. Before she died, she set up a trust. It's not named after her or any of us, but the trust owns the house. Alberto's always had a key."

  "Where do I find it?" I said.

  "I'll write the address down," Danny said.

  He jotted it and passed it to me. I looked at it. "Where the hell is this?" I said.

  "Southern Maryland."

  "At least I'll have a scenic drive."

  "You want me to call my brother?" Danny said. "Tell him you're coming?"

  "No," I said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because your brother is an asshole, Danny. You can grimace all you want. It's true, and you know it. He also doesn't like me and is likely to have me shot on sight."

  "Maybe I'll call him anyway," Danny said, crossing his arms under his chest.

  "You could," I said. "I could stop you, but I won't. I don't think you should make the call, though."

  "Yeah? Why's that?"

  "Because if your brother does have me shot on sight, I can't bring him in alive. But I promise you one thing: before I bleed out, I'll tell Tony Rizzo where he is."

  Danny uncrossed his arms and sat back on the couch. He stared at me, then recrossed his arms. Then uncrossed them again. "Fine," he said after his bout of posture indecision, "I won't call him."

  "Good," I said. "Thanks for the address."

  "Yeah."

  I left Danny sitting on the couch. He’d crossed his arms under his chest again.

  After I left Danny's house, I stopped at home to pick up the bullet-resistant vest to wear under my shirt. Just because Danny said he wouldn't call ahead didn't mean he would keep his word. He couldn't decide on where to keep his arms while he sat on the couch. I couldn't trust him to reach a decision on calling his brother. Even if he didn't call, the goon Esposito would have with him could be of the trigger-happy sort.

  From Federal Hill, there were several ways of getting to southern Maryland. I headed south, picked up the Baltimore Beltway briefly, then took I-97 to Route 3. Past the Route 50 interchange, Route 3 continued as Route 301. I stayed on 301 for what seemed like an interminable distance before it merged with Route 5. How people drove across the country, I would never know. Navigating halfway across my own state was enough for me. Around the city of Waldorf, Route 5 split off from 301, and I took it south. I stayed on Route 5 past its weird interchange with Route 235 and drove into Leonardtown. It was not a big town. Maybe Leonard was not an important man.

  Traffic thinned a lot as I got farther into the sticks. Not many other cars traversed the streets of Leonardtown. I found Washington Street and drove past some local businesses, including the county courthouse. The car behind me turned off there as I found the long driveway leading to the residence I wanted. It was a plain white structure, set off from both the road and the houses nearby. I noticed a lot of space between them in general here, a hallmark of more remote areas like this.

  I cut the BMW's headlights as I turned into the driveway. It was paved and smooth. My approach wouldn't be silent but a lot quieter than driving over gravel would have been. I saw a couple of lights through the windows on both levels. Blinds were drawn upstairs but open on the first floor. I followed the driveway to the side, where it got twice as wide. Esposito's car, with his absurd MISTER E license plate—way to be inconspicuous—sat ahead of me and perpendicular to the driveway.

  I killed the engine. No signs of activity from inside. If someone had noticed me, I saw no indication of it. I presumed someone did, however, so I didn't want to make any sudden movements and goad a goon into shooting me. The vest wouldn't stop everything and didn't protect my head. I opened the door a few inches at a time and stepped out of the car. Then I closed it at the same rate. It made little noise. I patted my side. The gun was there, should I need it.

  I turned to make sure no one snuck up behind me. Score one for the good guy. Now I wanted to get to the front of the house unseen. Once there, I needed to figure out a way inside. Ringing the bell and picking the lock both struck me as poor plans. They gave anyone inside ample chances to shoot me. Picking the lock could make me seem like an assassin come to take out Esposito. Ditto going in through a window. If I had to, I would ring the bell. It was the least awful of my options.

  I took out my gun and padded a few steps along the driveway to the front. I walked over the grass. As I got closer, I saw my options for getting in drastically reduced. A man holding a pistol stood on the porch. A few steps closer, and I saw him well enough under the porch light to recognize him. He was a member of Esposito's crew but not one I knew by name. He wore a t-shirt tight across the chest, covered by a windbreaker zipped about a quarter of the way. "You're a long way from home," he said.

  "Just out for a drive," I said. I slowed my pace but took another couple steps.

  "That's far enough," the goon said. He didn’t point his gun at me. Still, I could hear my elevated pulse in my ears. "What are you doing here?"

  "I came to take your boss in," I said.

  "Can't let you do that."

  "You haven't heard the rest of my offer yet."

  The goon frowned. "Fine," he said. "Let's hear it."

  "You know your boss isn't a popular guy right now," I said. "He knows it, too. I'm not the only person out looking for him. But I am the only person who wants to take him out of here alive."

  "But you still want to take him in."

  "'Alive' is the key word. Maybe your boss would rather deal with Tony Rizzo and his men. Good luck getting this kind of promise from them."

  "Boss doesn't want to go anywhere," the goon said.

  I said, "How does he think this is going to end? Anyone but me comes here, and your boss is leaving in a body bag. You are, too, by the way."

  "Maybe nobody else will come for him."

  "I found him. It wasn't difficult. I'm brilliant, sure, so it didn't take me long, but I'm sure someone else will figure it out."

  The logic made the man on the porch think. After a moment, he shook his head. "Can't let you take the boss," he said, "alive or otherwise. Get out of here."

  "Can't," I said.

  He raised his gun.

  I raised mine.

  We were about ten yards apart. From this range, I peppered the valuable spots on many a paper target. I presumed the man on the porch was a capable shot, too. But how capable?

  "How good are you with a pistol?" I said.

  "Good enough."

  "You're going to need to be a whole lot better. See, I'm wearing a vest. So if you want to put me down, you've got to make a head shot. All I have to do is go for center mass."

  "How do you know I got no vest?" he said.

  "Not under that silly T-shirt," I said.

  The goon raised the gun a touch more. He was aligning it with my head. He'd have to be a good shot to hit me. And I just gave him something to worry about, which would muck with his breathing and pulse. I assigned him a ten percent chance to hit me. I had about a 100 percent chance to hit him.

  "I'm going to need you to leave," he said.

  "Can't," I said again.

  He held the gun on me. I did the same. It grew heavy. We couldn't have this standoff forever. Then the goon surprised me by setting his gun down on the porch.

  "Toss yours, too," he said. "We'll settle this the old-fashioned way."

  "Fair enough," I said. I tossed the gun about fifteen feet to my left. It landed with a soft plop in the grass.

  "It'll be fair enough when you take that vest off," he said.

  "Kick your gun away, then," I said. "You could pick it up and shoot me."

  He nodded and kicked the gun toward the far end of the porch. I couldn't see it move but heard it slide across the wood and thud into something at the end. I took my windbreaker off, tossed it aside, then undid the bullet-resistant vest and tossed it atop the jacket.

  "Now it's fair," the goon said. He ran down the stairs toward me. I took a defensive stance.

  Clear of the stairs, he kept running. He stopped a few feet short and launched a kick at my face. His weight stayed back, and his balance remained good. It was a strike he practiced many times before. This guy was not the typical one-punch brute. I saw the kick coming and leaned away. He followed up with a series of punches, each of which I blocked. I tried for a wristlock on his last punch, but he wriggled free before I could cinch it in.

  More punches followed. I blunted them all. After blocking a right with my right forearm, I turned my arm, stepped forward, and drove my elbow into my opponent's face. I aimed for his nose, but he twisted enough at the last instant to take the blow on his cheekbone. It still staggered him a step. While the goon's hands instinctively went up, I planted my foot and kicked him hard in the stomach. He doubled over but covered his face. I stepped beside him and pushed him backward over my leg. He tumbled to the ground.

  I like to think myself above putting the boot to a foe while he's down. The reality is fair fights are for suckers and competitions. I kicked his ribs, then his back as he rolled away. I launched another to only glance off his back as he moved and got into a crouch. When he did, I spied the knife in his hand just before it flashed out at me. I dodged as best I could but still felt the blade bite into me. I glanced down at my shirt and saw a small tear. Could have been worse.

  While I learned how to fight people with knives, it's never been something I cared for. A skilled opponent is at least predictable. The average person with a knife has a much lower skill level, but their moves are wild and unpredictable. They only need to get lucky and nick an artery once, and it's all over. I backed away as the goon got to his feet, swinging the knife in a wide arc to keep me at bay. No worries there.

  I needed a weapon to make this fairer again. When I tossed my gun, I threw it to my left. The fight took us—or maybe my opponent steered us—to the right. My gun was too far away and so was his. Enough trees filled the yard for me to find a stick. It would be better than nothing.

  He came at me with the knife, slashing at my chest. I stepped to the side and shoved him away. The goon stumbled forward. I looked around my immediate area for a good-sized stick or discarded baseball bat. Five feet to my right, a stick at least as wide as my thumb and about two feet long lay in the grass. I sprinted, grabbed it, and held it before me as my opponent came forward with the knife again.

  Blocking it with the stick would be too difficult. Instead, I would need to avoid the blade or hinder the arm, then retaliate with the stick. I settled for avoiding the first few stabs. They were short and quick, though, and I found no chance to respond. After a third stab, I saw my opponent shift his grip on the hilt. He did a backhanded slash, which I stepped to the rear and my right to avoid. The blade missed gutting me by less than an inch.

  The attack gave me an opening, and I took it. I smashed the goon behind the knee with the stick. His leg crumpled and forced him down on one knee. Before he could bring the knife around again, I whacked his hand. He didn't drop the knife. I whacked it again. The knife fell to the grass. He tried to curl up on defense, but I was quicker. I clubbed him in the back of the head with the stick. He fell forward and groaned.

  I walloped him in the skull again when he tried to get up. Then again. And some more until he stopped moving. Blood trickled from his head. The stick finally broke. I nudged my fallen foe with my foot. He didn't move or make a sound. I knelt behind him and felt for a pulse. Not strong, but it was there. Once I corralled Esposito, I would summon an ambulance for this fellow. In the meantime, I retrieved my gun and put the vest and jacket back on. The slash across my midsection barked when I tightened the vest. Stitches were probably in my future. For now, I felt good enough to plow ahead.

  I searched the fallen goon and found a set of keys. Gun in one hand and keys in the other, I walked up the four steps to the porch. Esposito was inside. He could have a gun and feel cornered. Feeling cornered might compel him to use said gun. I promised to bring him in alive if possible. If he gave me the chance, I would. If required to shoot him, I would do that, too.

  The door stared back at me. One way or another, this whole mess would end soon.

  I tried the door. Smarter than the average goon, he left it locked. I crouched to the left of the door. With my gun in my right hand, I finagled the key into the deadbolt with my left. Being right-handed made this a challenge. I got the deadbolt unlocked and started working on the main lock. The keys nearly tumbled from my grip at one point. Doing this in front of the door would have been easier, but then it also would have been easier for Esposito to shoot through the panels. Life is all about tradeoffs.

  After a minute of fumbling, I got the lock undone. I felt like the stereotypical teenage boy fumbling to get his first girlfriend’s bra unhooked. Those challenges never plagued me in my youth. I opened the door while crouching beside it, raised my gun, and waited. No bullets. I swung into the doorway. No one waited. As far as I could tell, the house was empty.

  I stood and walked inside. A shabby living room greeted me. The furniture needed to be replaced a generation ago. Incinerating the carpet would have been a mercy. An empty pizza box sat on the coffee table, completing the disheveled look. Books and magazines lay about, amid a lot of empty soda and beer bottles. The TV played national news. I found the remote and turned it off. Esposito already knew I was here.

  The dining room and kitchen were deserted. Neither looked better than the living room. The entire house was outdated. If someone younger than seventy were to buy it, it would need a complete revamp. I poked around more. Even the coat closet was empty of all but a couple of light jackets.

  I ventured upstairs, gun barrel leading the way. As I got near the top, I could see light emitting from under one door. It could have been a decoy, but I doubted Esposito was so subtle. “Esposito, I’m coming up,” I said, stopping a couple steps shy of the top. No reply. “I took care of your goon. I’m not here to kill you.”

  “Go away,” came a reply from the bedroom.

  “I’m here to take you in,” I said. “You won’t get the same courtesy from Tony Rizzo’s crew.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you can come with me, or I can tell Tony where you are.”

  “Yeah?” Esposito said. “What if I just shoot you?”

  “You’re welcome to try,” I said, “but you should know I have a gun. If you come out with your own, my promise to take you in alive goes out the window.”

  “You’re going to arrest me?”

 

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