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
Lamar didn’t answer, and Vincent took his eyes off the mirror to see the Hawaiian shirt enter Deacon’s shoulder-first, dropping his chin to get through the doorframe.
The light went green.
Vincent eased forward. ‘This a breakfast meeting you’re wanting to attend? Because there are other places.’
Lamar said, ‘No, let me out.’ He kept his eyes on the window, the Cuban giving them a slow look as they rolled past. He was a funny little dude: very square and broad under a blue denim shirt buttoned to his throat, the shirt un-tucked over black drainpipe jeans that finished in a pair of Doc Martens.
Vincent said, ‘You can tell they’re badass: they’re in a no-parking zone.’
Lamar didn’t laugh.
‘I can just keep driving.’
‘No, pull in. Don’t make me say it three times.’ This was a different Eugene—different from the genial KFC-lookalike he’d collected this morning.
Vincent swung in front of the Tahoe. ‘You want me to come inside?’
Normally he dropped Lamar and checked out the ocean, got a feel for tomorrow’s surf. He had a backpack with his script and a book, and he’d found that reading and writing were very pleasant when combined with beach-sitting.
But Lamar said, ‘I don’t want to turn this into something it isn’t.’
Vincent almost brought up the irony of being asked all those gun questions and then being told to keep his distance. But he just said, ‘And what is it exactly?’
But Lamar was out of the car now. He ducked back in and said, ‘Park up at the train station. I’ll come find you when I’m done.’
The door slammed, and Vincent turned to watch: the Cuban sullen-looking as he stood waiting at the entry to Deacon’s; Lamar heading over, elbows as winglets as he buttoned his coat; the big guy in his Hawaiian shirt rolling his tongue around his cheek as he waited for Lamar to join him.
SIX
SIX
Now he felt stupid for not arguing the point longer. But what were they going to do, anyway? They couldn’t murder the guy—not if they had any brains: witnesses right there in the restaurant and more driving past on Cabrillo all the time. Safe enough. And nine am was probably a low point, as far as killing stats went.
He swung the car around under the steady weight of the Cuban’s attention, and took the turn onto State Street. The train station was a couple of blocks up on his left, mostly hidden by a double-decker Amtrak. Groups of people saying their goodbyes and others trying to wrestle stubborn luggage into carriages.
Vincent drove over the level crossing and pulled into the little parking lot beside the station building. The cabs had all snagged the shade—give it an hour, and the Lincoln would be a hundred degrees.