22
“Women are treating us strange, bro.”
“Women are treating you strange, dude,” Duane answered him back as he cleaned his gun.
Chad didn’t like that answer much. Not much at all.
Well past midnight, they were the only two awake, sitting in the car seats in front of the jungle airstrip’s cafe. He was on a green-and-gold front bench of a Galaxie 500—probably a ’67 or ’68. Duane was in a black bucket that came from a ’72 Olds 442. Chad recognized them from his chop shop days. That had been honest work in comparison to drug money and had kept him and Wollson alive…until it hadn’t.
“Started at the gold thing,” Duane was mulling the thought over.
“I thought it was after the fire hose.”
“Nah, that was cool. I notice you aren’t cleaning your rifle.”
“Didn’t fire it.” But he had taken it s
