dropped it in his side pocket.
“We go,” Bo said.
He went out the front door of the restaurant. Crow followed him, and Vong followed Crow. There was a parking lot next door.
Bo walked straight to an old Dodge van with Chinese lettering on the side, and in English, hand painted below the Chinese characters were the words FINE PRODUCE. Bo unlocked the back door, climbed in the van, moved some crates around, and came up with a maroon athletic bag with gray lettering on the sides. He dragged the bag by its shoulder strap to the lip of the van bed and opened it. Inside were several kilos of white powder in transparent plastic bags.
“Lemme try,” Crow said.
Bo untwisted the plastic tie that closed one of the bags. Crow tasted it.
“Been stepped on some,” he said.
“Sure, but it’s good stuff. No cut and…” Bo rolled his eyes and pretended to fall over.
“Yeah.”
Crow picked up the plastic tie and closed the bag. Then he half turned and drove his right heel into Vong’s groin. As Vong bent over, he put both hands on Vong’s head and snapped his neck with one twist. Crow moved so quickly that Bo was only half out of the truck when Crow got a handful of his hair and yanked him all the way out and slammed his head against the car bumper. He let go of Bo’s hair and Bo fell face down on the asphalt. Without any hurry, Crow went to Vong’s body and took his Clock out of Vong’s pocket. He shot Vong between the already lifeless eyes, and then turned and put one bullet into the base of Bo’s skull. Then he put the cocaine back in the bag, zipped it up, picked up the bag, and walked out of the parking lot. There was an attendant in the booth, a thin black man with Rastafarian hair. He was crouching down, trying to hide. Crow walked to the booth and shot him in the head.
Then he put his gun back in his holster and walked off down Tyler Street toward Kneeland Street, carrying the maroon Nike bag over his shoulder.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jesse stood off-camera on the news set at Channel 3 and watched Jenn expertly describing isobars and cold fronts and other things about which he knew she had no clue. She made confident sweeping hand gestures against an empty blue background. Jesse knew that somewhere between Jenn and the television audience the empty blue background acquired a weather map, though he didn’t know how.
Nor did he care.
The floor director counted her down.
Jenn said, “Back to you, Tony.”
When Tony Salt, the news anchor, replaced her on the monitors, Jenn came past the cameras with her finger to her lips, stood beside Jesse, and gave him a small bump with her hip. They stood silently until a commercial break, and then Jenn led them out through the heavy door into the corridor.
“Hi,” she said.
“A low-pressure area dominating our weather system?” Jesse said.
Jenn smiled.
“They write it. I read it,” she said and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the lips.
“Where shall we eat?”
“Up to you,” Jesse said.
“I usually have pizza.”
“You know what I’d love?” Jenn said.
“I’d love to have some fried clams at that little restaurant on the harbor in Paradise.”
“The Gray Gull,” Jesse said.
“Yes. Do you mind driving all the way back?”
“No, of course not,” Jesse said.
“Oh good. Let me get my purse and stuff, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
Like I would, Jesse thought.
He didn’t mind driving forty-five minutes back to Paradise. He would be alone with her. Jenn would sit sideways in the seat next to him, tuck her knees under her, and talk. He had always loved to listen to her talk. She didn’t even need to be talking to him. When they had been married, he used to enjoy listening to her talk on the car phone to her agent, her manager, casting directors, girlfriends, hairdressers.
“It’s not really about telling people the weather,” she said, as they went north through the Callahan Tunnel. The rush hour was over
“We go,” Bo said.
He went out the front door of the restaurant. Crow followed him, and Vong followed Crow. There was a parking lot next door.
Bo walked straight to an old Dodge van with Chinese lettering on the side, and in English, hand painted below the Chinese characters were the words FINE PRODUCE. Bo unlocked the back door, climbed in the van, moved some crates around, and came up with a maroon athletic bag with gray lettering on the sides. He dragged the bag by its shoulder strap to the lip of the van bed and opened it. Inside were several kilos of white powder in transparent plastic bags.
“Lemme try,” Crow said.
Bo untwisted the plastic tie that closed one of the bags. Crow tasted it.
“Been stepped on some,” he said.
“Sure, but it’s good stuff. No cut and…” Bo rolled his eyes and pretended to fall over.
“Yeah.”
Crow picked up the plastic tie and closed the bag. Then he half turned and drove his right heel into Vong’s groin. As Vong bent over, he put both hands on Vong’s head and snapped his neck with one twist. Crow moved so quickly that Bo was only half out of the truck when Crow got a handful of his hair and yanked him all the way out and slammed his head against the car bumper. He let go of Bo’s hair and Bo fell face down on the asphalt. Without any hurry, Crow went to Vong’s body and took his Clock out of Vong’s pocket. He shot Vong between the already lifeless eyes, and then turned and put one bullet into the base of Bo’s skull. Then he put the cocaine back in the bag, zipped it up, picked up the bag, and walked out of the parking lot. There was an attendant in the booth, a thin black man with Rastafarian hair. He was crouching down, trying to hide. Crow walked to the booth and shot him in the head.
Then he put his gun back in his holster and walked off down Tyler Street toward Kneeland Street, carrying the maroon Nike bag over his shoulder.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jesse stood off-camera on the news set at Channel 3 and watched Jenn expertly describing isobars and cold fronts and other things about which he knew she had no clue. She made confident sweeping hand gestures against an empty blue background. Jesse knew that somewhere between Jenn and the television audience the empty blue background acquired a weather map, though he didn’t know how.
Nor did he care.
The floor director counted her down.
Jenn said, “Back to you, Tony.”
When Tony Salt, the news anchor, replaced her on the monitors, Jenn came past the cameras with her finger to her lips, stood beside Jesse, and gave him a small bump with her hip. They stood silently until a commercial break, and then Jenn led them out through the heavy door into the corridor.
“Hi,” she said.
“A low-pressure area dominating our weather system?” Jesse said.
Jenn smiled.
“They write it. I read it,” she said and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the lips.
“Where shall we eat?”
“Up to you,” Jesse said.
“I usually have pizza.”
“You know what I’d love?” Jenn said.
“I’d love to have some fried clams at that little restaurant on the harbor in Paradise.”
“The Gray Gull,” Jesse said.
“Yes. Do you mind driving all the way back?”
“No, of course not,” Jesse said.
“Oh good. Let me get my purse and stuff, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
Like I would, Jesse thought.
He didn’t mind driving forty-five minutes back to Paradise. He would be alone with her. Jenn would sit sideways in the seat next to him, tuck her knees under her, and talk. He had always loved to listen to her talk. She didn’t even need to be talking to him. When they had been married, he used to enjoy listening to her talk on the car phone to her agent, her manager, casting directors, girlfriends, hairdressers.
“It’s not really about telling people the weather,” she said, as they went north through the Callahan Tunnel. The rush hour was over
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