It’s a relief to be back. When I got off the train last night I walked home, even though it took ages. It was like a stroll through paradise, soaking up the noise and stench of the city, relishing the feel of the pavement beneath my feet, the crush of the crowds outside movie theaters and in public squares, the intensity of the lights, the overpowering, converging buildings that block out most of the sky and make me feel as if I’m inside a dome. It’s not healthy, this fear I’ve developed of the world beyond. Addictions are dangerous, and addiction to a city—especially one with as polluted a soul as this—is downright perverse. But I can’t help myself. I’ve devoted my last ten years to darkness and insanity, and in the eyes of the world I’m a monster. I need somewhere to hide from those condemning eyes—a lair.
It was late when I got home, and I was tired, so I stayed in and wrote a report of my meeting with Leo. I read through it several times once it was finished, in case it would spark any new ideas. Then I burned it. This apartment has been burgled twice and might be again—it’s not the safest of neighborhoods. I wouldn’t want such a sensitive document falling into someone else’s hands.
I’d like to pursue the Bill angle—I toy with the idea of abducting Leo and putting out word that I have him and won’t release him unless Bill shows his face—but I can’t risk pissing off Ford Tasso. If he learns I’ve been hunting for Bill instead of for his Cardinal, he could bring the full wrath of Party Central down upon me.
So, putting the mystery of Bill and Paucar Wami to one side, I return to the Capac Raimi puzzle. I spend Tuesday locating Ama Situwa’s friends. Most are easy to track down. I contact them by phone and ask about her, pretending to be an insurance agent, trying to find her in order to pay out on a premium. Only one of them—Shelly Odone—can recall Cafran Reed’s temporary daughter.
“Ama and I were great friends. We enjoyed some wild nights on the town.” She giggles at the memories. Shelly lives abroad, with the man she married eight years ago. She left the city shortly before Ferdinand Dorak died. She wasn’t here when the brainwashing fog was working its wonders. That’s why she remembers Ama.
“Did you ever hear from her after you moved?” I ask.
“No. I called the restaurant a few times, but she must have had a major row with her father because he wouldn’t even admit to having a daughter. Will you let me know if you find her? I’d love to hear what she’s been up to.”
No luck with Situwa’s favored restaurants, bars, clubs, beauty salons, shops or gym. I do the rounds of all of them, Wednesday and Thursday, in Al Jeery guise, again pretending to be an insurance agent.
I break from my investigations on Thursday evening to attend a book auction. Many rare first editions in the biggest sale to hit the city in six or seven years. I weave in and out of the crowd of excited bookworms in my security guard clothes, scanning the faces of elderly men, searching for Bill. I leave an hour before the conclusion, bemused by the frenzied bidding and increasingly crazy prices fetched by the novels.
Later, as Paucar Wami, I visit a couple of the bars and clubs I hit earlier, and convince the managers to pass me copies of their surveillance discs, which I’ll sift through, watching closely in case Ama made an appearance and was caught on camera. A shot in the dark, but I have to try. I’ll sift through the society columns in papers and magazines too, studying photos. I can do that in Party Central—they have copies of all the city’s periodicals on file. It won’t be fun, and I doubt it’ll lead anywhere, but it’s all part of a detective’s sorry lot.
Friday morning, I purchase a pair of TV sets and DVD players, using the credit card Mags sent me the day after I accepted the case. I have them delivered and I ask the team—a middle-aged man and his teenage son—to hook up the equipment. They say that they know nothing about that, they’re just the monkeys who lug this stuff around. One generous tip later, they become instant experts, and I’m soon in business.
I crack open a beer, then settle back and play two discs simultaneously, eyes flicking lizard-like from one TV to the other, drinking in faces, comparing them to Ama Situwa’s, dismissing most automatically. A few cause me to hit the pause button, but on closer study they aren’t my woman and it’s back to the action, watching, waiting, blinking as seldom as possible.
One of the discs runs out before the other. I let the second get to the end before ejecting both and inserting a fresh pair. A short break to rest my eyes, then it’s back to the discs, the silence of the apartment disturbed only by my breathing and the soft whirring of the DVD players.
I’m on my fourth set of discs when my cell rings. I’m glad for the distraction. I’m accustomed to long, lonely vigils, stalking prey, but a live stakeout can be exciting, despite the hours of inactivity. This is just a drag.
I check the incoming number but don’t recognize it. This influx of unfamiliar callers is annoying. “Hello?” I answer neutrally, ready to be Al Jeery or Paucar Wami, depending on who the caller’s looking for.
“Al? It’s Flo. I got your number from Fabio’s book. Hope you don’t mind me calling.”
“Of course not. Is he dead?”
“No,” she sighs, “but he’s not far off. I thought you might like to be with him at the end. You don’t have to come, but—”
“I’ll be there,” I interrupt softly. “He’s at home?”
“Yes. He made us promise we wouldn’t move him to a hospital. He wanted to die in his own bed.”
“I’m on my way.”
Switching off the TVs, I eject the discs and hide them behind the loose panels at the back of my wardrobe—not a great hiding place, but they should be safe from amateur burglars—then slap on my Al Jeery face paint and wig, remove the green contacts, take off the severed, varnished finger hanging from my neck, and hurry downstairs with my bike.
The house is crowded with Fabio’s friends and relatives, all come to cheer the old pimp off, as he would have wished. Beer and whisky flow like water. Spirits are already high. Pulsing music blares from Fabio’s CD player—he developed a taste for R & B late in life—and the space closest to the speakers is full of younger mourners, bopping their heads. The older members occupy rooms nearer the back, where they complain to each other about the noise.
Flo and Drake are playing host, along with a handful of others who helped look after Fabio in his twilight years. They pass around food, clear away empties, keep the peace between the young and old, and guard the entrance to Fabio’s bedroom, making sure he isn’t overcrowded.
“Can I sit with him awhile?” I ask Flo during a quiet moment.
“Sure,” she smiles wearily. “We’re giving everyone a few minutes with him, to say goodbye and wish him well, but you can stay as long as you want. You’re one of his favorites.”
“It’s good to have friends in high places,” I grin, then head through. I find him unconscious, as he’s been for most of the last twenty-four hours. Zeba—one of Fabio’s ladies—tells me they don’t expect him to open his eyes again.
“We asked if he wanted us to call you over, the last few times he was awake,” Zeba says softly, wiping sweat from his forehead. “He said not to bother. Said you knew each other too long for sentimental shit like that. Said there wasn’t nothing you could say now that you hadn’t said before.”
“Cantankerous to the end,” I snort, laying the back of my hand on his cheeks, one after the other, feeling the coldness of death in them. “Any idea how long he has left?”
“A few hours. His body’s all busted. I reckon he’s only hanging on for one last blast of music. Soon as them youngsters stop playing the songs, he’ll up and quit.”
“Maybe we should let them play on indefinitely,” I suggest.
“Nah,” she smiles. “He’s done here. Let the old tomcat go. It’d be cruel to keep him hanging on. He’s got better places to be.”
I sit with Fabio until the end, while others file in and out, shepherded by the eagle-eyed Zeba. Sometimes I hold his hands, sometimes I wipe his brow, but mostly I sit back and watch people make their farewells. I don’t say anything. He was right—there’s nothing new either of us could say. Fabio’s my oldest friend, there for me even before Bill Casey, the only one I never alienated since becoming Paucar Wami. I worried sometimes that the villacs might use him to hurt me, but thankfully they let him be.
Another old friend, Ali, enters and we exchange a few hushed words. He runs a bagel shop beneath the apartment where I used to live. I still drop in occasionally, in Al Jeery guise, though it’s been a few months.
“How are you, my friend?” Ali asks.
“Good. And you?”
“I cannot complain.”
“I didn’t know you knew Fabio.”
“I don’t,” he says. “I just saw the crowd and joined the party.” He laughs, then smiles sheepishly when Zeba glares at him. “Fabio was a good customer of mine. And I of his. We exchanged… services.”
“You swapped bagels for ladies?” I smirk.
“Yes,” he blushes. “I always believed I was getting the better of the bargain, but Fabio said many men had finer women to offer than he, but nobody in this city could slap together as delicious a bagel as me.”
“He had a point.”
“I will miss him.”
“Me too.”
“And the women.”
I choke on a laugh. “I think you’ll find a few of those elsewhere.”
“Yes,” Ali sighs. “But it will not be the same. I will always think of Fabio when I am enjoying the embrace of a fine woman.” He giggles impishly and winks at me. “Well, maybe not always…”
Finally, Fabio passes. There’s no climactic finale or dramatic last gasp. His breathing has been getting softer, to the point where his chest no longer seems to rise or fall. Flo replaced Zeba an hour ago and has been checking his pulse every five minutes, holding a mirror over his lips and nose. This time she shakes her head, tears forming. “He’s gone,” she says flatly.
And that’s the end of that.
I want to slip off home but Flo asks me to stay. It would be impolite to say no, so I remain as she and Zeba see to his body, stripping and washing him one last time, before dressing him in his best clothes—Fabio always placed great importance on appearance. A mortician will fix him up tomorrow, but the ladies are determined to keep him in good shape in the meantime. We should be able to get him cremated soon, maybe at the weekend or early next week. There’s a long waiting list at the crematorium, but one of Fabio’s many grandsons is on the staff.
I leave the women to their ministrations—rather, they shoo me out of the room—and mingle uneasily with the other guests. I know most of them (as Paucar Wami it’s my business to know people), but very few know me. They’re aware that I’m a close friend of Fabio’s, and a few of the older guests recognize me from when I was a kid, but nobody knows who I am at night.
After half an hour of strained small talk, one of Fabio’s great-grandsons takes me aside. Fabio never married, but he sired many bastards, who in turn bred like rabbits. I don’t know how many grandchildren and great-grandchildren he had—I don’t think the old buzzard knew himself—but it’s in excess of a hundred.
I know Kurt Jones, aka Bones Jones, the one who sidetracks me. A small fish in one of the smaller gangs. Fabio liked him. Most of the pimp’s descendants had gone legit. That pleased him, but left him with little in common with them. Bones was one of the few he could click with.
“How you doing, Bones?”
“Not bad, man. Business is good. Could be better, but hey! You ain’t in the market for digital cameras, are you? I got a load going dirt cheap.”
“I can maybe take one if the price is right.”
“Nah, man, I’m into bulk trading.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s OK.” He glances around, drags me away from the others and lowers his voice. “I don’t know why he told me to tell you this, but I was shooting the shit with the F last week, and there was this one thing he said I had to take it to you. I came over your place Monday but you was out and I been busy since.”
“What’s it regarding?”
Bones’s voice drops even further. “Ever hear of a dude called Paucar Wami?”
“Shit I heard. Rumors. You probably don’t know this, but someone’s been offing people close to Ford Tasso and Eugene Davern.”
“So?”
“Word is Paucar Wami’s taking them down.”
“You think Wami’s killing Tasso and Davern’s confidants?”
“Not me, man, I don’t think shit. It’s what I heard. I told the F—he always liked hearing about Wami—and he said I had to tell you.”
“Thanks, Bones. I owe you.”
It’s not unusual for me to be blamed for killings I have nothing to do with, and normally I allow such rumors to circulate unchecked (good for business), but this is a complication I can do without. When Tasso gets word of it, he’ll want to know if it’s true. I’m sure I can convince him of my innocence, but once seeds of doubt have been sown, relationships are never quite the same. I’ll have to move to quell the rumors, and fast.
I make my apologies to Flo, tell her to call me if she needs help with the funeral arrangements, then slip away from the party—which is hitting full swing—and return home. I shed my wig and face paint, become Paucar Wami, and take to the streets to sort this shit out.
It’s worse than I thought. The rumors have been spreading for a couple of weeks. I’d have gotten wind of them sooner if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my investigations. According to the gossipmongers I’m not only responsible for wiping out some of Tasso’s and Davern’s key men, but I’ve been putting together a gang of my own, backed by a mystery benefactor, with the intention of turning the Troops and Kluxers against each other, letting them slug it out, then moving in to finish them off and seize control.
It only takes a few hours to track the stories back to some of their sources, and I spend the predawn hours Saturday grilling several people who’ve been busy feeding the rumor mill. They confess freely, with only a minimum of prompting (being jolted awake in the middle of the night by a legendary killer tends to loosen the stiffest of tongues). They were bribed to spread the lies, but they don’t know who paid them or why. They received orders and payment in plain envelopes. I check the notes, all of which run much the same way. “This is the news. Let it be heard. More money to follow.” Underneath, the rumors—Paucar Wami has been killing Ford Tasso’s and Eugene Davern’s men… he’s formed a gang of his own… he kidnapped The Cardinal… et cetera.
I’m baffled to begin with—I don’t know what anyone stands to gain by this—but then a glimmer of an idea strikes me. By framing me for his disappearance, maybe Raimi’s kidnappers hope to turn Ford Tasso against me. If that’s the case, it raises a conundrum. I’ve been working on the assumption that the villacs took Raimi, to tempt me back into their warped games. But if they did, they’d surely want to keep me active. They’d hardly instigate rumors that might lead to Tasso’s terminating my contract.
Is somebody else involved? Was Raimi kidnapped by a third party? Maybe the priests are looking for Raimi too, got me involved because they thought I might be able to help find him, and the real kidnappers are now trying to undermine me.
It’s almost 08:00 when I go to bed, brooding about the rumors, the villacs and possible others. After ten or fifteen minutes I fall into a troubled sleep…
… Which I snap out of abruptly at 09:16 when my front door’s kicked in and three men with guns burst into my apartment.
I’m rolling out of bed in an instant, snatching my .45 from beneath the pillow where I always keep it, taking a bead on the men, who’ve fanned out. My finger tightens and I prepare to blow away the man on my right. But they aren’t firing. They have the drop on me but they’re holding off. And they look terrified.
As I pause, bewildered, a fourth man enters. Clad in a white fur coat, the hem swirling around his ankles, he strolls past the three with guns. His blond hair and blue eyes belong on a model. He oozes self-confidence and wealth. He smiles at me as if we’re old friends, casts an eye around and sighs. “How you people live in such squalor is beyond me. Have niggers no sense of self-worth?”
I almost let him have a full clip in the stomach. But if I open fire on him, his men will retaliate. I wouldn’t survive the shoot-out.
The man in the fur coat pulls over a chair and sits. His manicured fingers pick at the folds of the coat as he grins. “Hyde Wornton,” he introduces himself. “I’d say I was pleased to meet you, but that’d be a lie. The only niggers I like are those with a rope around their necks and nothing but air beneath their feet.”
Hyde Wornton. Eugene Davern’s lieutenant, one of the men I considered following in the hope of tracing Capac Raimi. This is bad. Wornton has a foul reputation. One of the more zealous Kluxers, he keeps the spirit of the Klan alive and well, even while Davern struggles to suppress it. A dangerous man at the best of times.
“What do you want?” I snarl.
“That’s ‘Sir’ or ‘Massah’ to you, nigger,” he says pleasantly.
“Call me that again and you die,” I tell him.
“I don’t think so,” he laughs. “You’re smarter than that. You won’t throw your life away just because someone calls you a nigger or a coon.”
“You’re a dead man,” I whisper. “Not today, but soon. That’s a promise.”
“Never met a darkie who could keep a promise,” he giggles, then gets serious. “You know who I work for. Eugene—Mr. Davern to you—requests the pleasure of your company. Pronto.”
“Eugene Davern can go fuck his whore of a mother,” I retort, enjoying the dark cloud that disturbs Wornton’s expression.
“Careful,” he hisses. “Make a crack like that again and I’m apt to start something ugly, regardless of the consequences.”
“Just tell me what you want and quit with the dramatics,” I drawl.
“Your ass in my car, now.”
“If I refuse?”
Wornton shrugs. “It’s obvious I don’t want to start a shooting match. If you don’t come, we walk. But it’s taken a lot of time and money to track you down, to link the feared Paucar Wami to the meek Al Jeery. Now that we have, you’re up shit creek. If you don’t jump when we say, we tell everyone what we know and that’s bye-bye alter ego, farewell hidey-hole. You’ll be exposed, with nowhere to run, and your enemies will descend on you like a swarm of locusts and free your clean white bones of their degenerate black skin.”
“I’d heard you were a Bible-thumper,” I sneer but inside I’m cursing. They have me by the balls. I’d never have survived this long without being able to retreat from the madness of the streets when needs dictated. Even Paucar Wami has to have a place where he can rest up.
“We don’t have to make this general knowledge,” Wornton says. “Only a few of us know about you and we’ve sworn to Eugene that we won’t reveal the truth.” His nose crinkles. “Personally, I’d rat you out as soon as look at you, but Eugene’s the boss and we know the value of loyalty, unlike some races I could mention.”
I ignore the slur and consider his proposal. “What does Davern want?”
“Damned if I know. Maybe he’s looking for a new shoeshine boy.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Hell, nigger, you can’t!” Wornton whoops. “I could give you my word, but my word’s only sacred if given to one of my own. I’d think nothing of lying to a nigger. Still, if it’d make you feel safer…”
“Fuck you,” I snap, then put my gun away. “Give me a few minutes to change. I’ll meet you out front presently.”
Wornton nods to his guards. They edge out backward, not lowering their weapons, and Wornton follows.
“Hyde,” I stop him. “I know you white boys have a thing for black men, so if you want to stay and jerk your chain while I’m changing, I won’t object.”
His apoplexy almost makes me glad that my cover’s been blown.
Wornton doesn’t remove his coat in the car, even though the heat has me sweating through my T-shirt. He sits up front with the driver, while the two other goons sit on either side of me in the back. Nobody speaks. We end up at the Kool Kats Klub, Eugene Davern’s restaurant, which opened in the 1980s as the Ku Klux Klub. It’s remained true to its origins, though the burning crosses in the windows and the occasional hooded customer or waiter are relics of the past.
I’m marched into the restaurant by a side door, past several startled members of the staff, to a room at the rear of the building where Eugene Davern awaits. To my surprise, I’m not relieved of my weapons, merely waved in by a sardonic Hyde Wornton, who mutters, “Best of luck, nigger,” before closing the door after me.
Davern’s hovering in front of a glass display case, full of articles about the restaurant. He’s in his early forties, tall—at least six-five—and in good shape. His dark hair’s swept back with gel and he sports a stylish mustache and goatee. Dressed immaculately in a cream suit. His hands are in his trouser pockets. He doesn’t take them out or step forward to greet me.
“You’re wondering why you haven’t been disarmed,” he says, gray eyes cold and penetrating.
“Yes,” I answer somberly, wary of this intelligent, quietly threatening man.
“I’ve let you keep your weapons because I do not fear you. This is my domain, and here I fear no man. Besides, you aren’t a fool. My men know where you live. You’ve spent ten years living a double life. I have the power to let you continue or expose you. That power must be respected. Killing me would be self-destructive.”
“How did you find out about me?” I ask.
“Irrelevant,” he sniffs. “Let’s talk instead about why you’re here. I wish to strike a bargain.”
I blink, confused. “What sort of bargain?”
Davern steps away from the display case. Gets up close and studies my face, the coiled serpents, my unnatural green eyes. He keeps his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look as hateful as Hyde Wornton, but I get the impression that he’s even more arrogant, that he thinks as little of me as he would an ant.
“You’ve killed men who were important to me,” he murmurs. “Men I’ve worked with for many years. Friends like Dan Kerrin. We grew up together. Closer than brothers. And you butchered him in his bath, leaving his bloody, naked body for his wife to find.”
He voices the accusations passionlessly. I find that more worrying than if he was screaming abusively.
“I didn’t kill Dan Kerrin,” I say evenly. “Or the others.”
“You deny it?” His left eyebrow lifts marginally. “I thought Paucar Wami was a man who boasted of his kills. You even take credit for other hits, don’t you?”
“If people are willing to accredit them to me, I let them—it’s good for business. But I don’t lie. I didn’t kill your men.”
Davern smoothes his goatee with the ball of his left thumb. “Are you hungry? Would you care to break bread with me?”
I’m startled by the change of tone but don’t let it show. “I’ll gladly eat with you,” I tell him, “but only if you swallow before I do.”
Davern laughs and leads me into the dining room, past the day’s first customers—their outraged mutters when they spot me are music to my ears—to one of the private areas where a table is laid for two, overflowing with croissants, cereal, fruit, silver bowls of butter and preservatives, five pitchers of milk and fruit juice, and various loaves of freshly baked bread.
“Rather different from what I assume you’re accustomed to,” Davern says, taking a seat and breaking a fresh loaf of seeded bread in two. He passes half to me, slices his open and smears it with thick, soft butter. I wait for him to bite into it before scraping a thin layer of butter over mine.
“What do you want?” I ask, washing the bread down with a glass of purple juice—again, only after Davern has tested it first.
The owner of the Kool Kats Klub and head of the Kluxers doesn’t answer immediately, but chews on a currant cake. Then he says, “You’re lying about Dan but that doesn’t matter. There will come a day when I’ll seek retribution, but for the time being I wish to talk peace.”
He pauses. I think about denying the charges again, but I’m not that bothered whether he blames me for his friend’s death or not. I’m more interested in this deal of his.
“I know about the Snakes,” he says softly.
“Snakes?” I repeat.
“The Snakes,” he hisses. “I congratulate you on the way you’ve recruited and guided them, keeping them a secret for so long. Such initiative is rare. I’m sure you’re not working alone—armies require funding, and you’re not rich—but in the absence of any other visible leader, I’m prepared to deal with you directly.”
I’ve found through experience that it’s wiser to say nothing when you’re ignorant of what’s being discussed. Let the other person ramble and maybe you’ll learn something. But I’m so dumbstruck by what he’s saying that before I know it I’m mumbling, “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
Davern smiles thinly. “Don’t insult me. I don’t know how many you’ve gathered to your cause, or how you plan to deploy them, but I know they exist and that they keep to the tunnels, out of sight and hearing. And I’m sure you plan to unleash them soon, otherwise why kidnap Capac Raimi and target Ford Tasso and me?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what—”
“Don’t lie to me!” he shouts, cheeks reddening. “I won’t sit here and be lied to by…” He stops abruptly.
“… A nigger?” I finish for him icily.
“Now that you mention it, yes,” he says, regaining his composure. “It would be pointless to hide my prejudices. That said, I’ve come to realize there can be no clean division of the races. Black and white have come together, and while I don’t approve of the mingling, only a fool or a romantic such as Hyde rages in the face of it. This city will never again be ruled by one race. It’s time we reconciled ourselves to that and got on with forging new, mutually beneficial relationships with one another.”
“A touching speech,” I snicker.
“An honest statement of truth,” he counters. “I won’t pretend to like your dark-skinned brethren, but I acknowledge the fact that I have to share the reins of power with them. And I’m prepared to. I’m willing to strike up a partnership with you and your followers. There’s more than enough action in this city for both of us. Once Tasso and his Troops are out of the way, we can discuss an equitable arrangement. The north and west for me, east and south for you? The docks split fifty-fifty?”
I shake my head. “You’re talking of things I know nothing about. I haven’t recruited a gang. I’m just a vigilante. This talk of partnership means nothing to me. I’m not into power games.”
Davern’s expression hardens. “Don’t fuck with me,” he growls. “I’m not a man you fuck with. In ten short years I’ve gone from being a chorus boy in the Klan to head of my own army, second in strength only to the decaying forces of Dorak’s Troops. This restaurant was my sole source of income twenty years ago. Now I run much of the city. You think I came this far by letting punks shit on me? I’ve made a valid proposition. If you don’t greet it with the grace it merits, I’ll have you taken out back and executed like the upstart that you are.”
I nod slowly. “Now you’re talking my language.” I draw my .45 and lay it on the table. His eyes narrow but he shows no other discernible concern. “You want to start a shooting match, go ahead. But this talk of gangs and taking over the city falls on deaf ears. I’m not into that shit.”
Davern cocks his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were on the level. You must teach me how to lie so smoothly. Very well, you refuse to discuss an entente. I respect that. There are other players and you don’t want to pick sides too soon. In your position, I’d do the same. But take heed.” He wipes crumbs from his lips with a silk napkin and stands. “I have options too. There are others I can ally myself with. I’d rather link with your Snakes, but if I have to strike a deal with the white-eyed devils, I will.”
His mention of the blind priests intrigues me, but I say nothing, not wishing to start Davern off on another rant.
“You can go when you finish eating,” he says as he leaves the table. “I won’t ask any of my men to drive you back, but there are a number of cab ranks close by. I’m sure you’ll find a hard-up driver who won’t object to giving you a ride.”
“Davern,” I stop him as he reaches the door. “What about Al Jeery?”
He pauses. “It would drive you underground if I went public. I’m tempted to, if only to force you to admit your ties to the Snakes.” He waves a dismissive hand. “But I like having you where I can find you, so we’ll keep your identity a secret for now. But if you don’t play ball, that can change swifter than a hummingbird’s fart.”
He exits.
I linger a while, enjoying the meal, taking advantage of my unlikely host’s hospitality, wondering what Eugene Davern was talking about, why he thinks I’m a competitor and possible ally of his… and who the hell the Snakes are.