8
Seventy thousand dollars?” Rickey said.
Oscar De La Cerda nodded, munching the cheese straws Mo had set before him. They were sitting in the bar at Liquor, where dinner service wouldn’t begin for a few hours. Rickey had just made fried chicken for staff meal, and most of the kitchen crew was sitting in the dining room eating it.
“Yeah—it actually sold for a little more than that, but you figure in repairs, agent’s commission, my cut, all that crap, you’ll net about seventy-five. Course you’ll have to sign a chunk of that over to Uncle Sam, but you’ve still done pretty well off this whole deal.”
“I’ll say.” Rickey’s brain couldn’t quite wrap itself around the figure. He routinely handled large amounts of money in connection with the restaurant, but most of that went right back into th
