From what I’d picked up from my nights with Grunt, I knew Sunday owned a piece of a dozen legitimate businesses — a beer distributor in Lemoyne, a pool hall in downtown Harrisburg, a car wash, even a bowling alley. So it’s no surprise I guess that among them was a restaurant, Santalucia’s. It’s a steak house three blocks from the capitol building, where I could imagine senators and lobbyists meeting to make deals over thick Delmonicos.

When we got there, Blalock led me through the main dining area, weaving among the tables with regular customers and avoiding a busboy carting dishes. At the back wall, we took a flight of stairs up to an open room the size of school gym, big enough to house a small wedding. There was a high ceiling with four dull chandeliers, tall windows along the front wall that could’ve used a good cleaning. A dozen round tables draped with white cloths were arranged across the floor. Some of the people in their fold-out chairs turned when we walked in, but if anybody noticed Khajee was absent, they didn’t say anything.

Blalock said, “I’m starving,” and headed to the buffet table along one wall. I wasn’t really hungry, but I followed him just for something to do. He loaded his plate with asparagus and mashed potatoes, and at the cutting station at the end, he got a hunk of ham and a slice of roast beef. I settled for a split dinner roll and a sliver of turkey. He stared at my plate disapprovingly. “To each his own,” he told me.

We found seats at a table with a few of the other brawlers including Maddox and Dominic, all in front of plates heaped high with food.

“Freaky ceremony,” Maddox said.

Dominic closed his lips and sat back, somber-faced, then did a terrible impersonation of the monk’s hum chant. A cloud of bright red blood streaked the whites of one of Dominic’s eyes, surely a hemorrhage from our fight. And it was hard not to notice he’d cut his dreads, trimming the singed edges. I scanned the room for Santana, looking for a bandaged ear, but he wasn’t there. I’d heard it took six stitches.

I was surprised when Grunt appeared behind Dominic, smacked the back of his head. Dom shot up, turned to confront his attacker, and stopped dead when he saw who it was. Dressed in his usual black pants, black shirt, black tie and jacket, Grunt seemed especially at home at a funeral. Once he stared down Dominic, he pointed a thick finger my way and then turned.

“Good luck,” Blalock said.

I got up to follow and behind me heard Maddox. “You think he’ll come back for this sandwich?”

Grunt never looked back as he went down a narrow set of stairs in the rear, then through a swinging door with a circular window. The kitchen bustled with clanging pots, flames leaping from grills, chefs topped with white hats. No one turned or made eye contact with us. The waitresses and busboys just slid left or right, making way for Grunt’s thick form, and I drafted him. He stopped outside a wooden door with a sign displaying a series of drawings detailing what to do if someone was choking. I stood in front of it for a moment, blank-faced, then when I went to knock, Grunt just grabbed the doorknob and pushed it open. I stepped inside.

Sunday sat at a desk at the far end of his windowless office, which had walls lined with bookshelves. When he saw me, he was on the phone, an old-fashioned one with a squiggly cord and everything, but he waved me forward with lifted eyebrows. I closed the door, shutting out the clattering of the kitchen. As I slowly moved inside, I scanned the titles of the books. One was about gardening, another the art of war, a third the history of bridge design. It occurred to me that Sunday had never read any of these, but just purchased them in bulk to use as decoration.

Near the chairs that faced his desk, a table held an oversize birdcage, and I peeked inside. It was empty. The newspaper lining the bottom was clean, but a couple years old.

His desk was crowded with piles of papers, a stack of three-ring binders, and an old computer with a huge tan monitor. Directly before him was a cleared-away space occupied by a plate with a half-eaten steak. Holding that phone receiver to his head, he nodded at me and dipped a finger at one of the chairs, so I sat. It was short-legged, or the cushion gave too much, or something, but I ended up so low that I had to lift my head to see over the edge of the huge desk.

“Fine, fine,” he told whoever he was talking to. “I don’t need to know how the sausage gets made. Just see that what I want happens and tell me when it’s done.” With that, he banged the phone down and turned a smiling face to me. “Why can’t people just honor their commitments? Is that too much to ask in this world?” He reached for a glass of red wine. After taking a long draw, he lifted his knife and fork, began sawing at that hunk of meat. It was rare, bloody, and a pool of red juice gathered on the white plate. As he raised a forkful to his open mouth, he paused and said, “You had something at the buffet, yes?”

I nodded.

He asked, “You want something else? I can have Kendall cook up one of these bad boys for you in ten minutes.”

“I’m good,” I said.

Sunday seemed distracted by something and for a few minutes, I awkwardly watched him eat. He chowed down on the steak, jabbing with his fork, and made his way through a baked potato, ignoring the bowl of salad. A couple times, he glanced at the computer screen and grimaced. When he finished eating, he snatched the phone, punched in some numbers, and said, “On second thought, Friday morning’s not going to work for me. Thursday night. No excuses.”

This time when he hung up the phone, it was gentle, and he seemed calmer. There was a smug, satisfied look on his face as he shaved the sweet meat close to the bone. He lifted a red cloth napkin from his lap, dabbed at his white beard, then turned to me, as if he just remembered I was in the room. “All right,” he said. “How are things upstairs?”

“Upstairs?” I said. “They’re fine.”

He lifted his wineglass but didn’t drink. “How’s the girl?”

“Khajee’s upset,” I told him.

“For good reason. When my old man died, I went a little nuts. Got so drunk the day of the funeral I picked a fight with the cop directing traffic to the cemetery. Can you believe that?”

“People do weird things when they’re stressed out.”

He eyed me up and aimed a fork my way, loaded with a thick strip of dripping red meat. “You know Kid, when you put your mind to it, you can be diplomatic. That’s a rare talent. The question now is, can you be pragmatic?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

He chewed, not bothering to keep his mouth shut. After he swallowed he said, “I mean it’s time for you to play ball. I’m setting a rematch with you and Badder. And this time it’s a fight you’re going to lose.”

I could tell from his tone that this wasn’t a prediction but an explanation. Still, I said, “I beat him before and I’ll do it again.”

“Actually no you didn’t. Beat him, I mean. The big man laid down on my orders, but only after I promised him he could get his championship back inside a week.”

I felt a rush of heat on the back of my neck. This didn’t seem possible, but suddenly some tumblers fell into place. That look Badder shared with the kid he wishboned, the way he released me during our match, what he said as we left the bathroom at the funeral home, they all made sense now in a way they hadn’t before. “Why?” I asked. “How come?”

Sunday put down his utensils, wiped his mouth again with that napkin and tossed it on his desk. “Three reasons: money, money, and money. We play this right, we can milk the rivalry between you two for a while. Don’t get all sanctimonious on me now, Kid. I’m not entirely sure what exactly you want out of life, but I’m betting money can get you a lot of it. Am I right?”

I thought about the things money could get me, how at one point that meant college and then a better house for my mom, a better life. I still wanted those things, though they seemed further away than ever, beyond a distant horizon.

“Money is why you got into this and money is what this means. Losing can be very profitable — this is an important life lesson.”

When I said nothing back to him, Sunday went on. “I’ll double your payday. You ever make twenty thousand in a night before? That’s after Ray’s cut. I’ll even pay you half up front, sign of good faith and all. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know where you live.”

I stood up, thinking of Khajee and bad karma. “No. I want no part of this. I’m out.” With that, I stomped toward the door.

I hadn’t taken but a few steps when I heard Sunday rise behind me, the screech of his chair pushed back. “Out is an interesting term. And tell me, once we’re no longer friends, why would I not make an anonymous call to the police? What would prevent me from sending them a copy of the video of you beating poor Leonard in the boxcar?”

I stopped and turned to see him coming around his desk. He approached me and set a hand on my shoulder. Sunday sucked on something stuck in his teeth, some bit of beef, and said, “Explain to me in clear terms why you think betraying me now wouldn’t come at a cost, that Grunt might not just beat some sense into you, or some horrible accident might not befall dear old Mom?”

I swatted his arm away. “Don’t threaten my mother again.”

“Tough words,” he said, motioning for Grunt to stand his ground by the door. “Maybe you could back them up. But all that sounds so unpleasant, retaliation and consequences. I’d rather talk about rewards and gifts. What if I could offer you, as an added incentive, something more than money?”

His grin was sly. I asked, “What are you getting at?”

“Not long ago in a certain trailer, I suggested the possibility of a reunion between you and your father. I’ve made those arrangements. Just waiting on a green light from you.”

Sweat warmed my forehead. My fingers tightened into fists. I smelled mothballs and I heard my mom cry out. I thought about all the fantasies that had come to me in my private moments for nearly a decade, beating my father, taking the pain he’d given me and returning it to him tenfold over. Yet now that the chance was here, it didn’t feel right. This seemed someone else’s revenge. I felt like I was on the edge of something, a cliff I should be backing away from.

But Sunday was offering his hand to seal our arrangement, locking his eyes on mine. “Wolves and sheep, Kid. It’s time to pick.”

I felt almost hypnotized, and I couldn’t find it in myself to refuse him. I saw my hand extend toward Sunday’s grip, pump it once, and I heard my voice say, “You got a deal.”