3.
Oakland S & L, Friday Noon, 16th August, LA Greyhound Bus Station Café—Me and Leroy recognized our contact immediately from our customer’s notes. Little Zo was a tough-looking fifty-year-old Latino, but not more than five-four and a hundred twenty pounds dripping wet. A shaved, shiny head, loop earrings, and tattoos around his throat. His face looked like he might have been a boxer at one time—scar tissue in one of his eyebrows, a badly set broken nose. He was eating a chocolate doughnut and drinking coffee when he looked up and saw us standing there by the booth.
“Good morning, mi amiga,” he said softly to me, his Spanish accent thick but smoother than the smoke from a Cuban Cohiba Esplendido. But, despite his advanced age, his facial appearance and bearing reflected a certain amount
