Darius King had been standing for forty-three minutes.
He knew because he counted. He always counted. Time was a thing most people felt, but Darius measured it, the way he measured distance, weight, exits, threats. Forty-three minutes since Jake had called and said "Come to the restaurant. Alone. Don't tell anyone." Darius had heard those words and put on his jacket and driven to Little Havana without asking why, because asking why was not how their relationship worked. Jake gave the direction. Darius moved. That had been the arrangement since the weight room, since the envelope with five hundred dollars and the question "What time do we start?"
La Casita de Mila was closed. The sign said CLOSED but the lights were on in the back, and the door was unlocked, and Darius walked in and stood in the dining room and waited because Jake had told him to wait and waiting was something Darius was good at.
