displayed the wrong month, having been turned to whatever page featured the best artwork—the artwork in question consisting of color photos of busty, nearly nude, creatively tattooed women draped over motorcycles.
Reynolds entered the office, and Shanker followed, careful to shut and lock the door. He noticed that the Man did him the courtesy of sitting in the visitor’s chair rather than stationing himself behind the desk. They both knew he could sit anywhere he pleased.
The office was small and smelled of carpet cleaner. An air conditioner rattled in the window frame, working hard against waves of August heat.
Shanker settled into the desk chair and tried not to look scared. It was tough to do, because the Man was one sprung motherfucker. He’d known the Man for a long time, and he’d been scared of him for nearly as long. And Ron Shanker was a guy who didn’t scare easy—he had the scars on his hide to prove it, battle scars from street combat.
“What can I do ya for?” he asked with a weak, shit-eating grin.
Reynolds ignored the question. “How’s business?”
The inquiry took Shanker by surprise. The Man never made small talk with him.
“Picking up,” Shanker said. “Not bad.”
“I guess our economic policies are working.”
“Yeah, sure.” Shanker didn’t have a clue what economic policies his congressman had voted for.
“How’s the market on the streets?”
“I seen better. Coke’s down, but this designer shit, like Ecstasy, is still pretty hot. And speed. Speed is always in demand.”
“Speed kills,” Reynolds said with a slight smile.
Shanker got the joke. It was what they used to say when they went out riding—and having said it, they would crank their bikes into gear and bust every speed limit, flashing past stop signs, flying through red lights. Because while they knew that speed kills, they didn’t believe they could die. They’d been young.
Shanker knew better now. Like the Man, he was past fifty. He’d seen people die, and he knew how real it was.
“Any trouble from the
cholos
?” Reynolds asked.
“Not as long as we stay on our turf and they stay on theirs. Fucking taco benders are basically cowards. All bullshit, no action.”
“I guess you ought to know. You get to see enough of them.”
“Too many. Goddamn border monkeys spit out kids as regular as taking a crap. Hey, I got a good one for you. How many Mexicans does it take to grease an axle?” He paused before delivering the punch line. “One, if you hit ’im just right.”
Reynolds laughed. It was good to hear him laugh. The two of them used to laugh all the time.
“I don’t think I’ll be using that one in any of my speeches,” Reynolds said. “So, no new hostilities?”
“Some hassles, you know. Guys going at it, trying to prove what big balls they got. Nothing major. Not since the Westminster Avenue thing.” Down on Westminster three years ago, Shanker’s guys had gotten into it with a crew of Mexishits. Well, actually El Salvadorans, but they were all Mexishits in the end. One of Shanker’s men bought it, but the
cholos
lost four of their own, plus another who was busted up so badly he would never pick lettuce again. After that, the truce had been called.
“Well, I’m glad you’re still making out. Even so, I don’t suppose you’d object if I send a little extra business your way.”
“I can always use more business,” Shanker said cautiously.
“Right now I can use your services.”
“Like what, as a for-instance?”
“Like removing somebody who’s become a problem.”
“Okay. I can get that done.”
“Now.”
“When you say
now
...”
“I mean today. This afternoon.”
“In broad daylight?”
“People die in the daytime. If your crew goes in fast and hard, they can get away before anybody knows what’s happening.”
“It would be better to wait until dark.”
“I’m not waiting. I want this individual blipped immediately. That a problem?”
“No
Reynolds entered the office, and Shanker followed, careful to shut and lock the door. He noticed that the Man did him the courtesy of sitting in the visitor’s chair rather than stationing himself behind the desk. They both knew he could sit anywhere he pleased.
The office was small and smelled of carpet cleaner. An air conditioner rattled in the window frame, working hard against waves of August heat.
Shanker settled into the desk chair and tried not to look scared. It was tough to do, because the Man was one sprung motherfucker. He’d known the Man for a long time, and he’d been scared of him for nearly as long. And Ron Shanker was a guy who didn’t scare easy—he had the scars on his hide to prove it, battle scars from street combat.
“What can I do ya for?” he asked with a weak, shit-eating grin.
Reynolds ignored the question. “How’s business?”
The inquiry took Shanker by surprise. The Man never made small talk with him.
“Picking up,” Shanker said. “Not bad.”
“I guess our economic policies are working.”
“Yeah, sure.” Shanker didn’t have a clue what economic policies his congressman had voted for.
“How’s the market on the streets?”
“I seen better. Coke’s down, but this designer shit, like Ecstasy, is still pretty hot. And speed. Speed is always in demand.”
“Speed kills,” Reynolds said with a slight smile.
Shanker got the joke. It was what they used to say when they went out riding—and having said it, they would crank their bikes into gear and bust every speed limit, flashing past stop signs, flying through red lights. Because while they knew that speed kills, they didn’t believe they could die. They’d been young.
Shanker knew better now. Like the Man, he was past fifty. He’d seen people die, and he knew how real it was.
“Any trouble from the
cholos
?” Reynolds asked.
“Not as long as we stay on our turf and they stay on theirs. Fucking taco benders are basically cowards. All bullshit, no action.”
“I guess you ought to know. You get to see enough of them.”
“Too many. Goddamn border monkeys spit out kids as regular as taking a crap. Hey, I got a good one for you. How many Mexicans does it take to grease an axle?” He paused before delivering the punch line. “One, if you hit ’im just right.”
Reynolds laughed. It was good to hear him laugh. The two of them used to laugh all the time.
“I don’t think I’ll be using that one in any of my speeches,” Reynolds said. “So, no new hostilities?”
“Some hassles, you know. Guys going at it, trying to prove what big balls they got. Nothing major. Not since the Westminster Avenue thing.” Down on Westminster three years ago, Shanker’s guys had gotten into it with a crew of Mexishits. Well, actually El Salvadorans, but they were all Mexishits in the end. One of Shanker’s men bought it, but the
cholos
lost four of their own, plus another who was busted up so badly he would never pick lettuce again. After that, the truce had been called.
“Well, I’m glad you’re still making out. Even so, I don’t suppose you’d object if I send a little extra business your way.”
“I can always use more business,” Shanker said cautiously.
“Right now I can use your services.”
“Like what, as a for-instance?”
“Like removing somebody who’s become a problem.”
“Okay. I can get that done.”
“Now.”
“When you say
now
...”
“I mean today. This afternoon.”
“In broad daylight?”
“People die in the daytime. If your crew goes in fast and hard, they can get away before anybody knows what’s happening.”
“It would be better to wait until dark.”
“I’m not waiting. I want this individual blipped immediately. That a problem?”
“No
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