Page 47 of Reno

“Po-ta-to, Po-fucking-tah-to. We’re two men with fifteen fucking million to spend on dope. We carry guns. If he’s got a problem with that, I’ll let the prick know what I think about it.”

“Keep your wits about you, Brother,” he warned. “Nothing crazy.”

Crazy very well could have been my middle name. I often made choices that were questionable by most sane-thinking individuals. To me, it always seemed right at the time.

“I’m not making any promises,” I said.

“Not asking for an assurance.” He released his clutch and crept forward. “Just reminding you there’s consequences for your actions.”

“I say we run up in there like we own the place. It’ll earn us some respect.”

He nodded toward the unpopulated street ahead. “Lead the way.”

I twisted the throttle and shot up the block like I was headed to a time-sensitive free blowjob convention. The cackle from my exhaust would warn Goose of our arrival from a mile away. With Crip hot on my tail I flew into Manos’ driveway so fast that I barely stopped without hitting the truck that was parked by the front door.

Crip screeched to a stop beside me. He pulled off his helmet and grinned like the event was an everyday occurrence.

He popped his neck. “Let’s do this.”

I hung my helmet on the handlebars and lifted my leg over the tank. After getting my pistol from the saddlebag, I gestured toward the door. “Follow me.”

Wearing an ear-to-ear smirk, Manos answered the door wearing clothes identical to the ones he wore on the day we met. Khakis and a wife beater were standard-issue cartel attire, I decided.

“Meester Wood. Rex.” He stepped aside and waved his hand toward the open floor plan of his home. “Come een, come een.”

I stepped past him and looked around. The living room was vast and decorated with pale-colored contemporary furniture that I doubted Manos chose on his own. The stark-white walls were sprinkled with abstract paintings that certainly didn’t come from Home Depot. The wide slats of dark wood flooring went on forever. Gray and blue throw rugs were littered about in the trafficways.

The odor of cheap aftershave hung in the air like a dense fog.

The smell sent a chill down my spine. I had no idea why, but I felt like I was on the verge of an episode. Nearly blinded as to my surroundings, I glanced around the room and shook my head. “Smells like a fucking whorehouse in here.”

Crip cleared his throat. “He’s in a foul mood. He needs a drink.”

“Primo can feex that, Amigo.” Manos slapped his hand against my back. “Jew want a michelada?”

“What the fuck’s a michelada?” I asked.

“Jew like spice?” he asked.

“Hot shit?”

He nodded. “Hot chit.”

“Love it.”

“Primo!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Tres micheladas, por favor y gracias”

I gave a mental nod. At least he said please and thank you.

The foul odor of the Old Spice cologne was distant, but recognizable to whatever bank of receptors in my brain was telling me run like hell.

I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard, hoping the spicy drink Primo was making would allow me to get through the night without wadding up into an emotional ball.

“Who called this meeting?” I asked with a laugh.

Manos laughed. “Eet wasn’t jew?”

“I was hip-deep in a tight-pussied San Diego State cheerleader when you called. This wasn’t my idea.”