BISHOP WAS SITTING BEHIND HIS walnut desk, when Fat Sam entered the office with two men.

Fat Sam placed a thick hand on each man’s shoulder. “These are the two guys I told you about,” he said. “Solid guys looking for work.”

Bishop looked up from the row of computer monitors on his desk. The two men stood side by side. One wore a tan suede jacket over a collared white shirt. The kind of jacket you’d see executives wear on casual Friday. Not too dressy, but nice enough to know he gave a shit about his appearance. The collared shirt covered most of the man’s neck tattoo, a tarantula the size of a softball. Its legs were wrapped around the side and front of his neck. From a distance, it almost looked real. The other man wore an orange and navy-blue button-down shirt untucked with jeans. No tattoos.

Bishop stood up. “You guys a package deal or something?”

The man in the suede jacket stepped forward. “Nah, I just met him.”

“You know who I am?” said Bishop.

Suede jacket nodded. “I know who you are. You’re a paycheck.” He pointed to Fat Sam. “And from what this boy tells me, a pretty good one.”

“Which one of you is from Lexington?”

Suede jacket nodded. “I’m from Lexington.”

“Sam said you did some time there.”

“Yeah. Did a stint in Eddyville for B and E and assault. Got out and now I’m looking to get back to it.”

“Your parole officer know you’re here?” said Bishop.

Suede jacket smiled. “What parole officer?”

Bishop turned to the man in the blue and orange shirt.

“How about you?” he said. “You pop your cherry yet?”

“Nope,” he said, nodding to the man in the suede jacket. “Not stupid enough to get caught.”

Bishop looked both men up and down.

“This isn’t petty shit,” he said. “We’re up against some heavy hitters. I got a fucking shitstorm about to rain down on me and I need to know you’re not going to piss yourselves when push comes to shove. And push will come to shove. You got to have the balls to handle it.”

The man in the suede jacket snatched the Glock from Fat Sam’s waistband, shoved the weapon into the midsection of the man in the orange and blue shirt and fired three times, dropping him to the floor. He spun the Glock in his palm and handed it back to Fat Sam.

“Fuck me,” said Fat Sam, taking two steps back.

“I can handle my shit, Bishop. And I’m worth every penny you’re going to pay me.”

Bishop sat down in his desk. “I see that,” he said. “I guess you’re hired. What’s your name?”

“They call me The Truth.”

“What?” said Bishop.

“The Truth.”

Fat Sam stuffed his Glock back into his waistband, keeping a hand on the grip. “That’s retarded,” he said.

“That’s what they call me on the streets.”

“I don’t care what they call you on the streets. Sam’s right,” said Bishop. “What name did your mom give you?”

“Wallace.”

“Then, you’re Wallace from now on. I got no patience for dumbass names.”

“I hear people on the street call him Fat Sam,” said Wallace.

“Have you looked at him?” said Bishop. “He’s as big as a goddamn house.” Bishop looked at Fat Sam. “No offense, Sam.”

Fat Sam nodded.

“You want to be Black Wallace?” said Bishop. “That’s acceptable.”

“Just Wallace is fine.”

“All right, Just Wallace. Welcome to the team. First order of business ...” Bishop pointed to the dead man in the corner. “Clean that shit up.”