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The previous owner was a Venezuelan cocaine courier who had been shot thirteen times in a serious business dispute, then indicted posthumously.
The kid bent over in a deep wheeze; he thought this was so damn funny. Chemo reached under the car seat and got a .22-caliber pistol, which was fitted with a cheap mail-order suppressor. Without saying a word, he took aim across the roof of the Bonneville and shot the basketball clean out of the kid’s hands. The explosion sounded like the world’s biggest fart, but the kids from the project didn’t think it was funny. They ran like hell. As Chemo drove away, he decided he had taught the youngsters a valuable lesson: Never make fun of a man’s complexion.
“Divorced,” he replied. “Five times.” “Wow.” “My fault, every one,” he added.
“The machine we use is a Stryker dermabrader—” “I don’t care if it’s a fucking Black and Decker, let’s just do it.”
This is what happens when you put a moron in the intelligence unit: he gets even dumber.
“—appeared to be wearing fright makeup, or possibly some type of Halloween mask. The waitresses couldn’t agree on what, but they all said basically the same thing about the face. Said it looked like somebody dragged it across a cheese grater.” Mick Stranahan couldn’t recall putting anybody in jail who matched that remarkable description. He asked García if he had any leads. “We’re busy calling the circuses to see who’s escaped lately,” the detective said sarcastically.
“Relax, Chuckie, it’s just me,” Stranahan said to the box. “You know—Kipper’s heroin connection? I just dropped by with my briefcase full of Mexican brown. Can I pencil you in for a kilo?”
“Do you have a name?” “No,” Chemo said. “Good. Makes for a cheaper tombstone.”
Indignantly Reynaldo thought: I eat twits like you for breakfast. He was good at thinking tough thoughts.
Half an hour ago we were making love, and now I’m a ‘goddamn witness.’ You ever thought of writing poetry, Mick?”
“So, you’re waiting to hear my demands.” “No,” said Stranahan. “I’m waiting to hear you sing the fucking aria from Madame Butterfly . . . Of course I want to hear your demands.”
