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“We can’t.”
“Yes we can.”
Tyra
And here it was, the bad sequel to the bad movie, but he still never walked out. It was goddamn frustrating.
He took the paper towels, did a sloppy job wiping the paint off his pecker, and zipped up.
“I’ll call you. I promise,” she said as she pushed him out the door.
Fat Otis wasn’t parked in front of the apartment anymore, so Co
He thought he heard some movement in the kitchen and froze. What a burglar might want in his shithole apartment Co
It wasn’t a burglar.
Fat Otis walked into Co
Co
“No problem, man.” He handed Co
Co
Fat Otis dwarfed the kitchen table. He was a giant, sitting hunched over a box of chicken tenders, dipping them in barbecue sauce and packing them into his mouth like a machine. Co
Fat Otis paused in his systematic demolition of the chicken to lick the sauce off his fingers and consult a small spiral notepad he carried in his shirt pocket. “You owe Rocky Big two hundred fifty dollars.”
“I thought it was five hundred.”
He shook his head. “You got lucky. The Phillies.”
It wasn’t all bad news, then. Co
“Yeah, yeah.” Co
Co
Co
Co
Otis finished his nuggets and wiped his hands on his pants. “Give up the gambling, Co
“If I quit everything I was no good at, I wouldn’t exist.”
“You should come work for Rocky.” He looked around the apartment. “Man, you live like shit.”
“It’s the maid’s year off.” There were still dishes in the sink from the Reagan administration.
“You need a steady paycheck,” Otis said. “Maybe I can get you in with Rocky.”
“No thanks.” Co
“Congratulations. Go
“No. A boat.”
He laughed. “This is the Gulf Coast, Co
“This one’s a thirty-six-footer. The Electric Je
“If I see it, I’ll call you.”
This reminded Co
“Otis, do you have a pair of good binoculars in the store?”
“Let’s take a look.”
Co
“You need one of these.” Otis picked out a formidable silver automatic and held it up for Co
“I don’t need a gun, and I’ve never heard such a clusterfuck of metaphors.”
“I’m not kidding, man,” Otis said. “Guy in your line of work needs to watch his back.”
“I don’t have a line of work, and I already have a gun.”
“The antique? Hell.”
Otis had a point. The Webley was vintage 1917. Co
But that wasn’t really the point. Co
It wasn’t that he had an ethical problem with guns. If some guy starts shooting at me, I’m all for shooting back. No, not an ethical problem. It was the klutz factor that worried him. When Co
“Or maybe this.” Otis showed Co
“I’ve seen smaller satellite dishes.”
Otis said, “It’s sneaky like. Ever see one of them canes that’s got the sword inside? Same kind of deal.” Otis thumbed a hidden latch, and the front of the belt buckle sprung open. Inside was a single-shot derringer. “Thirty-two caliber. Take some motherfucker by complete surprise.”
“No guns,” Co
“Didn’t you used to have binoculars?”
“No.” Pawned.
Otis slid the gun drawer back and picked out a new pair of binoculars, handed them to Co