41
Home is a no-go and the airport is out.
Maybe I could take a Greyhound out of town, or a Metro rail ride out to the valley. Make my way out of the state from there. Head south across the border, into Mexico.
I slam back a drink as I plan my next move. Thr first of two stiff ones lined up alongside a beer.
I wear my suit collars up around my neck and my tie slung low. The gun lies dismantled down a grid somewhere. If they eventually catch up with me, I can't be found carrying Roach's piece. And I'm not about to get into a shootout with the LAPD.
I sit in a booth to the back of a dingy downtown hole I know. A place where the only question asked is what'll it be?
The booth is tight and high, with brown padding with the stuffing showing. The bar is long and narrow like a train carriag
