Solomon’s body was shaking violently. A hand was gripping his shoulder. He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw, a few inches from his nose, was Utica’s face glaring down at him.
"Solomon! Solomon!"
"What?"
Utica had let go of Solomon’s shoulder and was standing by the bed.
"What?" Solomon repeated.
"This! What is this?" Utica’s voice was loud.
"What?"
"This. Right here in my hand. Look at it!"
"All right, all right." Solomon propped himself up on his elbows and looked at the small box in Utica’s hand. "I don’t know. Bo––she runs
The Rough House––she gave it to me last night. A client lost it at the restaurant yesterday. Maybe the client would come back for it."
"Don’t give me that s**t, man. Do you know what this is?"
"Okay, enough of this crap, Utica. You’re a smart fell
