THE BASEMENT under Max's warehouse has a tunnel we cut through to the building next door. Some architects own it. I stepped into their basement, flashing the pencil-beam before my feet. Empty, like always. I hooked the field phone into their lines with the alligator clips. Julio first.
The beef-brain who answered took his time understanding I wasn't going to talk to him first. Julio got on the line, the old alligator's voice down to a whisper.
"I want to meet you."
" Take Marcy Avenue all the way until it hits the bridge that crosses the BQE. Seven-fifteen, okay?"
"Why don't you come here?"
"I don't have time."
"You should make time."
"Take it or leave it," I told him, cutting the line.