The half finished rawhide bone that just about broke Ben Seikman’s ankle meant the dog was dead or stolen.
If they had taken Dokko without his rawhide bone, they either got him with a tranq gun or a steak of their own.
Ben had gotten the entry code from Whick, who said he was destroying his phone, just in case.
“You going to your place?” Ben asked.
Whick’s plan had always been to retire to a cottage an hour north of Winnipeg. With Ajani dead, Whick was retired.
But Whick had already hung up.
Ben envied him. He was done, out of the game. Ben kissed his thumb and wished Whick a long and happy life.
The failed lawyer in Ben Seikman knew that his presence in Ajani’s place wasn't completely incriminating, but he didn't have time to mourn or ice a twisted ankle.
For once in his life, cops might be welcome compared to the alternative.
Ajani, God rest his wicked soul, would want Ben to be smart.
All the product was stashed in well marked pool table components.
They were pool table components, just opened and repacked with dope.
Ben smelled sweat.
He wasn't alone in the house.
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