Page 48 of Reno

He seemed unamused. He looked at Crip.

“I’m just along for the ride,” Crip said.

Manos giggled. “Jer the muscle, Meester Rex.”

“I like thinking I’m the brains.”

Manos shook his head. “Meester Teedlewood is the brains.”

Crip shrugged one shoulder. “If you insist.”

Wearing a blue Hawaiian-print short-sleeved shirt and a pair of slacks, Cousin strolled into the room with three drinks squeezed between his massive hands. Manos accepted one of them and handed it to me. Then, he handed one to Crip. After taking the last one, he raised it into the air.

“Salud!”

We each raised our glasses in toast. “Salud!”

“Salud!”

The beer was iced, infused with lime, and just as Manos said it would be, spicy. A hint of Worchester tickled my taste buds after I lowered the glass, leaving me immediately wanting another sip.

I raised my glass. “This is good shit.”

Manos grinned. “Good chit for sure.”

“Why are we here?” I sipped my drink. “Is there going to be a problem with our request?”

“Jer all beezness, Meester Wood.”

“My time’s valuable.”

Manos gave a nod. “Jew can buy cars. Big homes on the beach. Women.” He raised both brows just a little. “Even buy a jounger face. But jew can’t buy time.”

“My point, exactly,” I said in agreement.

He nodded toward my waist. “Jew have a pistola, no?”

“I sure do.”

He looked at Crip. “And jew?”

Crip gave a crisp nod. “Locked and loaded.”

Manos tilted his head toward the door. “Jew want to take them back to your scooters?”

I didn’t ride a scooter, but I wasn’t going to get in an argument about semantics with a man who didn’t fully understand the English language. For the time being, my firearm was my worry, and relinquishing it wasn’t high on my list of desires.

I shook my head. “Not interested in that.”

“We’re Amigos,” he said. “No need for pistolas.”

“Do you have one?” I asked.

He raised his arms in the air and did a slow-motion pirouette. “No, Señor.”

“What about Primo?”

He shook his head. “No, Señor.”