Chapter 21: Gino Fintelli
Seven miles down the road, Sander stirred awake and mumbled that he had to vomit. “Pull over somewhere.” A grainy and deep tone lifted out of his mouth. “Puke. Have to puke.”
I figured alcohol poisoning had incapacitated the man. Sander knew how to handle his liquor, but even the best drinkers could cross a line. A good vomit spell is all he needed, emptying his stomach as I filled mine with the deli sub. Things worked that way, I assumed. Sometimes for the good and sometimes for the bad, but they always seemed to balance out, one way or the other.
I saw the shadow of a dilapidated house with broken windows and boarded up doors that sat on the side of Route 20, did a U-turn, circled back to the structure, and pulled the Caddy into the overgrown driveway.
Anoth
