“Ahhhh, much betta.” He tilted his head back down and coughed into the handkerchief. Once he’d wiped the extra spit from his mouth, he folded it up and tucked it inside of his suit. “Now, let’s get down to business. Who is it that you fellas need taken care of?”
“Show ‘em, C.” Bizeal nudged him and stole a peek at their passenger through the rear view mirror. He noticed that he had thick bags under his eyes and saggy cheeks. From his appearance, he estimated that he was probably seventy-five to eighty years old; judging from that cough, he was more than likely fighting the flu or something even worse, cancer.
Crazy popped the glove-box and pulled out a manila envelope, passing it over his shoulder into the backseat. The old man’s wrinkled, liver spotted hand grasped it and opened it, rem
