37
Carlos is still loading his pistol when I kick in the door. It swings open, splintering at the hinges. Carlos freezes. He sits behind a busy desk full of dockets and invoices—purely for show, I'm sure. He has his gold-plated Magnum in hand. A fancy-arse piece with a pearl handle. He just about gets the clip in with his chin. Loading's not easy when your left arm's in a sling.
"You pimping your guns now too?" I say, getting the drop on him. "Empty it.”
Carlos detaches the clip from the gun. It drops onto the desk. I look around his office. There's a flatscreen TV with the sound turned down playing news on the wall to the right. A seven-foot steel filing cabinet behind the desk. A table with a coffeemaker and mugs behind me, along with a knee-high beer fridge underneath. Not much to no
