“And what, Jenks? Tell me why you showed up at Jonah’s funeral today. What do you have to tell me? Tell me before I climb out of this truck and never see you again.”
He reaches for my left hand with his right hand. He squeezes it. Our perspiration combines as thunder cracks with lightning overhead. It’s like the Mafia gods are speaking to us, watching us, controlling us.
“Bisque…Bisque…” he begins, mumbling, unable to carry forth his sentence.
I accept his tenseness. Been here. Done this. As lightning flashes through the sky, and thunder c****s like gunshots, and rain heavily falls against the windshield, my pulse races and my cheeks turn warm. Nothing feels real. “Calm down. Say what you need to say. Let it out.”
Jenks continues, “Bisque told me to come and see you today. Bisque said
