“our customers swear by our corn bread.” The fist threw the bread, baseball style, into the trash. Russia tiptoed toward the bathroom, and Wayne, spotting an opening, headed toward the back door, fishing for the pistol flask in his back pocket. “First off,” Mr. Vogel said, “corn bread isn’t calculated in sales since it comes with every meal, so that claim can’t be proven. Secondly, why are you—” he pointed a crooked pinkie at BJ, “adding sugar to my corn bread? You want our customers to get diabetes?” The pinkie had a long nail, and Hai wondered if the guy had taken a bump of coke in the car
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