24.
THE SAME DAY, THE FOURTH of November, 2017, a town in New Mexico, Joe Uno was even better groomed than when Jay had seen him last, his haircut recent and precise, not too short, and styled, like a picture of a man’s head in a beauty salon. His blue button-down oxford-cloth shirt was laundered and pressed. It had been carefully packed, not something pulled out of a duffle bag. He leaned forward, holding his phone lightly with both hands near his lap. Was it recording? “You need to do something for me,” he said.
“I’ll certainly help if I can,” Jay said.
Joe Uno shook his head, slowly. “You’re not taking me seriously, Mr. Jackson. And I’m deadly serious.”
Jay straightened his back the best he could. “Okay. Why don’t you be more specific about what you need from me.”
“Money,” Joe Uno
