27
27Garret feigned awe. "Mr Figueroa, it’s an honour." He climbed out; hand outstretched.
Figueroa wore a pink t-shirt and white pants. All that was missing was his golf clubs. His complexion was ruddy, sunglasses sat on a long nose. Two burly men in suits — in the desert — tailed him. They too, wore sunglasses, their faces crumpled in scowls. Garrett didn’t blame them — anybody wearing suits in this heat would have a sour disposition. As they walked, Garrett noted the bulge of sidearms holstered under their jackets.
"Believe me, sir, the honour is mine," Figueroa replied smoothly. He swept an arm, showing off the model house, "You"re interested in Coyote Deep?"
Garrett nodded vigorously. "I am."
"What do I call you, sir?"
"Ray is fine."
"Ray." A nod. "Well, Ray, did Martin tell yo
