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“What did he do?”

“He paid it.” Fin’s mouth pulls sideways, holds. “Cash. Out of a bag, right there on the counter. Eleven weeks for six guys. He counted it twice, then made me count it. Wrote actual receipts. Made me sign every one. Told me to get the men in Friday morning, pay the ones owed longest first.”

The kettle clicks off behind him. Neither of us moves toward it. Through the office window, the container sits at the back with its doors chained. There’s nothing else out there. In August that yard has four trucks, a chipper, and eleven guys.

“Did he say who sent him?”

“He said he was managing your accounts now.” Fin’s eyes come up. “He left a card.”

The card is on the counter under the sugar tin. Cream, thick, no logo. MAREK BRANDT. A designation after it in small letters. A phone number.

“He’s yours?” Fin says. “Kieran, is he yours? Because I’ve been sitting here since Thursday trying to work out if that was a favor or if that was⁠—”

“He’s mine.”

“Then thank you.” Fin’s voice breaks. He covers it by turning to the kettle. “Thank you. I couldn’t have gone another week without paying them. Couldn’t have told you, either. Now I don’t have to.”

I put the card in my pocket.

“Who locked the gate?”

“He did. He said an empty yard is an invitation.” Fin laughs, wet. “He bought the lock, too. Who buys a guy a lock?”

I drive back into the city with the card in my coat pocket, heater on. The wipers tick on intermittently.

Fin cried in that office. He turned to a kettle that hadn’t boiled so I wouldn’t have to watch. He said thank you for help I didn’t give. I let him, because correcting him would cost him more than the lie costs me.

That’s the arithmetic I run. I’ve run it my whole life, and I’m very fast at it now.

We beat Nashville four to two. I face twenty-one shots. None are difficult.

The garage is empty at eleven forty except for four cars and a gray one two spaces down from mine that wasn’t there when I came in at four.

He’s standing beside it. Not leaning. Standing in the same dark coat, hands in front of him, no phone out. He’s been there long enough for the cold to get into his face.

I don’t go to my truck. I go to him.

“Stay away from my brother,” I say.

“All right.”

“I’m not finished. You went to his yard. You put a lock on his gate. You paid six men out of a bag on his counter and made him sign for it. Now he thinks you’re a decent man. He’ll call you the next time he’s in trouble, because that’s what he does. So stay away from him.”

“All right,” he says again.

The garage lights buzz. Water drips somewhere off the level above. The ventilation hums. My hair is still wet from the shower.

“That’s it?” I say. “You’re not going to tell me it’s already done, or it doesn’t work like that, or that it saved everybody time?”

“No. You’ve asked the same favor twice since Tuesday. I’d rather give it to you than argue.” He doesn’t move. His hands stay in his pockets. He doesn’t check the time or glance toward his car. “The payroll won’t appear on your balance. I want you to know that before you go looking for it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not a loan. It’s an operating decision.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got tonight.”