could remember why. Later on he would tell Diesel to wear long-sleeved shirts. Every cop in California knew that blue india ink tattoos came from jail. They were a sign that announced, “I am a thug.”
“Throw those things in the backseat,” Diesel said, indicating the brown paper package and shoebox with the string around it. Troy did so. He turned back and fastened the seat belt.
“Here we go,” Diesel said. “Check this ride.” He punched the gas and popped the clutch. The five liters of V8 power threw them back against the seat and the car burned rubber as it catapulted into the traffic. “Heigh-ho, Silver!” Diesel said, “the masked men ride again.” He pointed toward the glove compartment. “Open it. It’s your coming home present.”
Troy did so. Inside was a blue steel automatic in a belt-clip holster. Troy pulled the pistol free and looked it over. Browning .380. Nine quick shots—ten if you jacked one into the chamber and added another to the clip. It was an expensive weapon.
“It’s clean, too,” Diesel said. “Won’t trace to nobody. The ammo’s in the glove compartment, too.”
Troy took out two flat, hard, transparent packages. Hot loads with a coating of an alloy that would penetrate bulletproof vests.
“Thanks,” Troy said, fitting the weapon inside his waistband with the holster clip attached to his belt. It gave him a sense of power.
“Where you takin’ me?” he asked.
“I thought we’d go into the city and get you some clothes.”
“Whatsamatter? You ashamed of me?”
“No … but I remember how you always dressed real sharp. You ain’t changed, have you?”
“Nope.”
“So that’s what we’ll do. Then we’ll get a steak and have some drinks and make some plans. I’ve got a lotta things to tell you.”
“Sounds good. But somewhere today I gotta call the Greek in L.A.”
“We can do that right now.” From between the white leather bucket seats, Diesel retrieved a flip-open phone. “Cellular,” Diesel said, pushing the on button. “Just dial. I got it hooked up yesterday.”
“I’ll wait,” Troy said. “Let’s go do some shopping. What’s your schedule? Anything you gotta do?”
“Uh-uh. I’m at your disposal.”
“How’s the old lady and the kid?”
“He’s great … she’s a standard naggy bitch. ‘Where you goin’? What are you going to do? Stay away from that guy. He’ll get you in trouble.’”
Troy laughed at Diesel’s squeaky mime of his wife’s voice. Diesel looked over and grinned. “Man, I’m so glad you’re out.”
“Me, too.”
“The Greek came to see you.”
“Yeah. He had lawyer ID. Walked right in.”
“I asked Tony Citrino—”
“What’s he doing?”
“He tends bar in the Mission District in the city. We’ll go by there if you want.”
“I’d like to see Tony. He’s a good dude.”
“He hung up the gloves. Said he couldn’t do the time anymore. What I started to tell you was that the Greek’s supposed to be rich handlin’ that go-fast shit. I think he’s got a lab and makes it.”
“Lotta money in methamphetamine, especially if you make it. Goddamn, it smells bad when you manufacture it. You can smell it for a mile.”
“I never got to know the Greek very well. Everybody says he’s a stand-up dude.”
“Yeah, he is. Solid as a rock. And he’s got some drug dealers lined up for us to rip off. How’s that for a game plan?”
“I like that … motherfuckers who can’t yell copper. All they wanna do is kill a sucker—and that sure ain’t nothin’ new. They been tryin’ to kill me all my life. I hope they’re niggers.”
“No, no, bro’. This is equal opportunity.”
“Yeah. Equal opportunity. I like that.”
Ahead, through an opening in the rolling hills, the huge orange pillars of the Golden Gate flashed momentarily in the noonday sun. Within minutes they were on the grade leading to the bridge.
In the city, Diesel parked in a garage near Union Square and they
“Throw those things in the backseat,” Diesel said, indicating the brown paper package and shoebox with the string around it. Troy did so. He turned back and fastened the seat belt.
“Here we go,” Diesel said. “Check this ride.” He punched the gas and popped the clutch. The five liters of V8 power threw them back against the seat and the car burned rubber as it catapulted into the traffic. “Heigh-ho, Silver!” Diesel said, “the masked men ride again.” He pointed toward the glove compartment. “Open it. It’s your coming home present.”
Troy did so. Inside was a blue steel automatic in a belt-clip holster. Troy pulled the pistol free and looked it over. Browning .380. Nine quick shots—ten if you jacked one into the chamber and added another to the clip. It was an expensive weapon.
“It’s clean, too,” Diesel said. “Won’t trace to nobody. The ammo’s in the glove compartment, too.”
Troy took out two flat, hard, transparent packages. Hot loads with a coating of an alloy that would penetrate bulletproof vests.
“Thanks,” Troy said, fitting the weapon inside his waistband with the holster clip attached to his belt. It gave him a sense of power.
“Where you takin’ me?” he asked.
“I thought we’d go into the city and get you some clothes.”
“Whatsamatter? You ashamed of me?”
“No … but I remember how you always dressed real sharp. You ain’t changed, have you?”
“Nope.”
“So that’s what we’ll do. Then we’ll get a steak and have some drinks and make some plans. I’ve got a lotta things to tell you.”
“Sounds good. But somewhere today I gotta call the Greek in L.A.”
“We can do that right now.” From between the white leather bucket seats, Diesel retrieved a flip-open phone. “Cellular,” Diesel said, pushing the on button. “Just dial. I got it hooked up yesterday.”
“I’ll wait,” Troy said. “Let’s go do some shopping. What’s your schedule? Anything you gotta do?”
“Uh-uh. I’m at your disposal.”
“How’s the old lady and the kid?”
“He’s great … she’s a standard naggy bitch. ‘Where you goin’? What are you going to do? Stay away from that guy. He’ll get you in trouble.’”
Troy laughed at Diesel’s squeaky mime of his wife’s voice. Diesel looked over and grinned. “Man, I’m so glad you’re out.”
“Me, too.”
“The Greek came to see you.”
“Yeah. He had lawyer ID. Walked right in.”
“I asked Tony Citrino—”
“What’s he doing?”
“He tends bar in the Mission District in the city. We’ll go by there if you want.”
“I’d like to see Tony. He’s a good dude.”
“He hung up the gloves. Said he couldn’t do the time anymore. What I started to tell you was that the Greek’s supposed to be rich handlin’ that go-fast shit. I think he’s got a lab and makes it.”
“Lotta money in methamphetamine, especially if you make it. Goddamn, it smells bad when you manufacture it. You can smell it for a mile.”
“I never got to know the Greek very well. Everybody says he’s a stand-up dude.”
“Yeah, he is. Solid as a rock. And he’s got some drug dealers lined up for us to rip off. How’s that for a game plan?”
“I like that … motherfuckers who can’t yell copper. All they wanna do is kill a sucker—and that sure ain’t nothin’ new. They been tryin’ to kill me all my life. I hope they’re niggers.”
“No, no, bro’. This is equal opportunity.”
“Yeah. Equal opportunity. I like that.”
Ahead, through an opening in the rolling hills, the huge orange pillars of the Golden Gate flashed momentarily in the noonday sun. Within minutes they were on the grade leading to the bridge.
In the city, Diesel parked in a garage near Union Square and they
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