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
Looking at him carefully, voice softer, Sly said, ‘Imagine she’s worth a bit, right? Maybe I’ll go see her, ask if she’s got anything spare. I mean, that’s what it’s coming down to, isn’t it? So either we sort it ourselves, or I have to cast the net a little wider.’ Sucking his tooth again: eep, eep, eep.
Lamar said, ‘Sly?’
‘Yeah, Eugene?’
‘I’m tired of this shit. We’ll clear it up, but we’re not doing it here.’ He rubbed his hand on the table. ‘I’m not closing a deal over plastic.’
Half a smile from the big man. ‘What, you need mahogany to make your chequebook work?’
Lamar let his breath out, a long sigh, and he seemed to shrink a little, the suit looking roomier, somehow. He tipped his head. ‘Come up to the house, we’ll draw a line under it.’
Vincent turned to watch the Cuban come along the aisle. The plain expression, and the plain denim shirt buttoned to his throat. He had a bag from Gelson’s in one hand, and there was something heavy in it. Probably not a jar of peanut butter.
The man named Sly grinned, came on faux-polite, nodding slowly as he spoke. ‘All right, Eugene. I think we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we?’ Leaning forward some more. ‘These guys’ll ride with you. I don’t want you getting lost. I’ll drive lead, just to be safe.’
EIGHT
EIGHT
Walking up State Street toward the station where Vincent had left the car, the Cuban was smart enough to keep his distance, hanging back about twelve feet. Sly’s other man Lou walked ahead, trying to occupy as much space as possible, letting people know he pumped iron and got results. Vincent figured they must have seemed like a strange procession: Lou in his muscle shirt, Vincent and Lamar in his white suit, the Cuban with his Doc Martens and his Gelson’s bag bringing up the rear.
They went past a surf shop on the right, and then coming up on the left was a boutique hotel, built in the fifties by the look of it. Folks of a similar era sitting outside in their summer gear, sipping coffee and watching the traffic.
Vincent stopped.
The other three did too, and Vincent looked back at the Cuban: still twelve feet behind him and his shadow crisp and slender and a little blue on the pavement.
‘You need to keep walking. Or we find out what’s in the bag.’
Vincent said, ‘Or you could just tell me.’
Lou said, ‘Guy’s got a fucking attitude, Andre—keep him real tight.’
The Cuban—Andre—said, ‘Colt thirty-eight. You want it to stay where it is, huh? I take it out, it’s getting used.’