Django Tamsulosin grew impatient as he sat in the back seat of the car, looking at his watch.
“What the hell’s keeping this guy?” he grumbled. “I’m not sitting here all damn night.”
“He said it’d be about six, I guess he’s running late. Maybe you wanna give it another five or ten minutes.”
“For some half-gram motherfucker? Why don’t you call him?”
“It goes right to voicemail. He must’ve turned it off so there wouldn’t be any interruptions.”
Django’s dog, Nero, had gotten the call about an hour ago. Slim Jim from 139th Street said he had a sit-down with one of Jerome Browne’s people about doing a hit on someone he thought had set him up for the k********g. Although Django knew he was a long way from being off the grid, this might indicate that Browne hadn’t put two and two together yet
