THE SMELL OF FRIED BOLOGNA and sauerkraut hit Bishop as he walked into Olive’s Café on Vine Street. Cincinnati’s German contingent packed the lunch counter and the tables at the front of the café. The old men choked down sausages, potato salad and burgers as they read newspapers, talked and watched the baseball game flicker on a dented television affixed to the corner of the wall. The cooks, dressed in grease-spattered aprons, yelled out orders and moved behind the counter in orderly chaos as onions and peppers sizzled on the flat grill behind them.

Bishop stepped past the placard advertising the meatloaf sandwich lunch special and found Rollo Watkins sitting in a booth in the back section of the café. Two of his men sat at a table next to him, their outstretched and crossed legs extended far into the aisle. They didn’t move when Bishop approached. After stepping around them, Bishop slid into the booth across from Rollo.

“What’s so goddamn important that you had to interrupt my lunch?” said Rollo, holding the menu in front of his face.

“I wanted to talk to you about my operation.”

Rollo set the menu on the table. “Don’t you mean my operation?”

“That’s what I want to talk about,” Bishop said. “I’ve got a business opportunity for you.”

“Funny, I didn’t take you for a businessman.”

“I’m looking to buy you out,” said Bishop.

Rollo lowered the menu just enough for his eyes to glare at Bishop. “Buy me out? You say that like we’re partners, which we aren’t. You work for me. Remember?”

“Of course I remember, but hear me out. I’m looking to move out of Cincinnati. Head South. I’m looking for a change.”

“You aren’t going nowhere,” said Rollo. “I can’t manage this website shit. That’s your thing. You’re staying right here.”

“That’s what I want to talk about. I want to buy you out for two million. Take the operation with me. Clean break.”

“Two million?” Rollo turned to the old man sitting at the table next to him. “Give me Bishop’s book.” The old man handed Rollo a tan ledger. He flipped through several pages and then looked up at Bishop.

“Says here you’re doing twenty-five grand a week. That’s one point three mil a year. You’re into me for a third, and Detroit gets another third.” Rollo turned back to the old man. “What’s the math?”

“About four hundred and thirty, three ways,” said the old man.

“Four hundred and thirty thousand a year,” said Rollo, turning back to Bishop. “And you want to buy me out for two mil? No way.”

“That’s more than fair,” said Bishop.

Rollo set the menu down onto the table and crossed his hands in front of him. “You sure got a sack on you, Bishop. You came to me, remember? I’m the one who made all this happen, so don’t tell me you want out. Nah, you get out of this shit when I say you do.”

A tall brunette approached the table and smiled at Rollo.

“I’ll have my usual, baby,” said Rollo, handing her the menu. He nodded to his men. “Get these two whatever they want.” Then, he pointed at Bishop. “He ain’t eating.”

“You got a different price in mind?” said Bishop.

“Yeah, I got a price in mind. Zero fucking dollars.” Rollo waited for the waitress to leave the table. “Do you think I’m some stupid street hustler, Bishop? Some wet dick who’s gonna jump at a few zeros? I might not know much about computers and websites and all that shit, but I know a lot about money. And I certainly know when someone is trying to fuck me.”

“I’m not trying to fuck anyone. I’ll offer Dunbar the same deal.” Bishop paused. “Can you just run it past him?”

“Stop, Bishop. Just stop,” said Rollo. “You work for me. And you’ll keep working for me until I decide this arrangement no longer suits. And for right now, this arrangement is fucking cream and caramels. We clear?”

“Yes, but ...”

“Asked and answered, Bishop. Don’t ask again. The next words out of your mouth better be ‘thanks’ and ‘bye’ because if you say anything else, I swear I’ll stomp the shit out of you right here on this floor.”

Bishop looked down at the red-and-white checkered tablecloth and stood up. He stepped over the two pairs of legs still blocking the aisle and headed for the exit.

“Oh, and Bishop,” said Rollo, without turning his head, “I want to see that fat-ass bastard with my money next Friday as usual.”

“You’ll get it,” said Bishop.

BISHOP WALKED OUT OF THE café and toward the SUV parked across the street. Fat Sam opened the driver’s door and started to pull himself out of vehicle.

“I got it,” said Bishop, opening the rear door and climbing in.

Fat Sam lurched sideways and threw a tree-trunk-sized forearm over the headrest, knocking the rearview mirror out of alignment.

“So how’d it go?” he said.

“Pretty much how I expected,” said Bishop. “Rollo’s not going for it.”

“He want more money?”

“No, it’s not about the offer. He’s looking for this to be a long-term thing. Too much money on the table.”

“So what do we do now? Plan B?”

“That’s right,” said Bishop. “Plan B.”