Chapters (46)
- COVER PAGE
- PRAISE
- DEDICATION
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- SNEAK PEEK: EXIT .45
The meeting place today was a diner outside Santa Maria, and the sit-down lasted fifty minutes, which was getting up there. The other thing about Lynch: how come if he had a swastika tattooed on the underside of his wrist, he was breaking bread with a little Cuban dude like Andre? It would’ve been worth asking, except it would make him talk even longer. Andre had to wonder if this was actually worth the effort, even for two clean Glocks and a 12-gauge Remington.
The other thing that pissed him off: the agreement was that Lynch bought the food, but then they’d come to the last-minute bargaining on the weapon price, and you could just see the prick trying to factor in the cost of the meal. The giveaway was that he didn’t bargain like a normal person. A normal guy would bargain in, say, fifty- or hundred-dollar increments. But Lynch Buller would take the price of the meal, round to the nearest five, and tack it on. So today, Andre’s damage was two thousand and forty-five bucks. He gave Lynch twenty-one hundred, told him he’d rounded up so he wouldn’t feel like he was doing business with a cheap bastard who wouldn’t buy his own dinner.
Lynch laughed it off, but Andre could tell it stung him a little. He got back on the road, and was in Santa Barbara by seven.
The supermarket man had a house on a nice street up in the hills. Andre drove slow and kept the window down, the evening tree-fresh and cool. When he reached Lamar’s place, another car was turning in: a Range Rover, with the daughter—the Jones woman—in the passenger seat. Andre pulled over, figuring he’d watch for a minute, and as the gate closed, a guy he hadn’t seen before stepped out and stood at the sidewalk. He was making a call, cheek blue with phone glow.
Andre waited for the guy to finish up and go back onto the property, and then he made a call of his own.
‘Yeah?’
Andre said, ‘He’s got a new guy I haven’t seen before.’
‘Security?’
‘Yeah, maybe. He’s wearing shorts and flip-flops, though. Guy about forty. Five–eleven, real fit-looking.’
‘Probably just a surfer.’
Andre said, ‘Mmm.’ Then: ‘You could use the daughter. I just saw her drive in.’
FIVE
FIVE
Vincent went out for his surf on Wednesday morning and was back at the house by eight-fifteen. Eight-thirty and he was on the clock, sitting in Lamar’s 1984 Lincoln Town Car, waiting for the old man to join him.