MIKEY Shayne said, “What’s he going to do if you don’t pay him?” I pointed at my split lip. “What do you think?” “If you had the money, would you pay him?” “No way!” I said. But I was thinking I probably would. I really didn’t want to get hit again. “You say he’s a dealer, so he must have some kind of business sense.” “Yeah. He knows if he threatens to kill you, he’ll get his money.” “But if he kills you, you won’t be able to pay him.” “But if I’m not going to pay him anyway, why not kill me?” Shayne considered my logic—which was, I admit, not ironclad. I said, “Jon is not what you’d call completely logical.” Shayne nodded. “But if we convince him that you just don’t have the money …it won’t hurt to talk to him.” “That’s what you think.” I made another effort to get my sore mouth around my taco as Shane looked around the lunchroom. “That’s him over there, right?” Shayne asked. “What are they doing?” Jon was standing over by the snack machine, keeping an eye out while Kyle Ness, one of his crew, reached up into the dispenser.
