Page 25 of Parting Shot

Two sets of glasses came off; two sets of bloodshot, narrowed eyes stared at me.

I sat there and waited.

“Okay.” Benny shrugged after a moment. “So, less of you gettin’ in my way. That’s cool.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Andre muttered, putting his glasses back on, shoving his phone at me. “Just go get my venti quad white mocha, and that’s nonfat—you got it?”

I was confused.

“The phone has my Starbucks card on it.”

“I need a venti Americano, and I want half-and-half in it, not milk,” Benny chimed in.

“One of you guys go. I don’t know what any of that shit is.”

But since the daystar wouldn’t fry me, I got elected. When I was back with their drinks and bottled water and coffee cake neither of them wanted—food bad—Benny explained we had a ton of cash to pick up that morning.

I was sipping my very regular cup of coffee, listening to a traffic report on the radio as I drove, when Benny disturbed my thoughts.

“Maybe we don’t tell anyone else about you bein’ a fag, huh?”

I gave him my attention.

“Yeah, that’d be good.” Andre yawned from the back seat. “It might be a problem for some of those guys, and I don’t wanna hafta shoot anyone today. I like this suit.”

Priorities were important.

“Sure,” I agreed.

The first three stops were uneventful—just show up, take the money, give the dealer his cut, and walk away. At the fourth one, when we reached the door, it was already ajar and swung wide with just a gentle nudge from the tip of Benny’s boot. I saw the blood spray on the walls from where I was behind him and stopped him before he stepped inside.

“Ahhh, what the fuck?” Benny groaned from the doorway, pulling his phone from his breast pocket as Andre and I tried to see how many guys were dead from the hallway.

“Freeze!”

Of course, the cops were there. Someone had to have called them.

At least Benny and Andre had both finished their coffee.

The question was simple: Why were we there? At the police station, each of us got put into a different room with a different set of detectives, and we all said the same thing—we were there to see Pablo Guzman and nothing else.

“You a friend of Pablo’s, are you?”

“Yep,” I replied nonchalantly, waiting to be attacked with what they thought they knew—I worked for Joaquin Hierra, and Joaquin worked for the Delgado cartel, which supplied half of the narcotics in the city.

“What is this, Ross?” Detective Craig asked, holding up a snub-nosed revolver.

I squinted. “I don’t know, Detective. I carry a nine-millimeter, as you know from your records.”

“You have a permit for that?”

“You know I do.”

It was hours before all three of us were standing in front of the police impound yard, waiting for them to bring the Escalade around.

I pointed at Andre. “Your eye is swelling shut, man.”

“Fuckin’ cops,” Benny griped, licking at his cut lower lip. “You ain’t looking too much better, Tuck.”