The sack had arrived a week ago. Inconspicuous, wrapped in burlap, smelling faintly of Chanel No. 5. Left on the doorstep of his Bronx apartment. He’d almost tripped over it before he took it inside and, like a fool, opened it. Inside was a box with a wax seal on top, with the image of a skull. A memory of a long-avoided past flashed through his head, and fear came over him like a wave. He opened the box with shaking hands and saw a simple matchbook. Black, with a golden saxophone on it, with a single matchstick. Inside read simply “The usual. Seven days. Come alone.” Anyone but he wouldn’t have known where to go. And he found himself standing on a dirty sidewalk outside the Xerxes Club. A haven for jazz lovers, among others. Others that he’d tried to get out of his life for three years. He knew that Rex was aware of what he’d done, and he was filled with a dread. It came as naturally as prey fears predator. And has he reached for the handle of the door, a shot rang out. He was dead before he hit the ground.