17
We sat on three different pieces of furniture, making an awkward triangle like a Quentin Tarantino movie in repose, each waiting for someone else to make the first move.
“Joe—he makes everybody else call him Joseph, but I like to annoy the sanctimonious ass—called me about three weeks ago,” Ralph began. “Said he needed to talk to me, in person. We don’t see each other much anymore, maybe a couple times a year. He wanted to meet at a fast food place out by the interstate.”
“Was Andre there with him?” Roger asked.
“His well-dressed flunky? He could have been waiting in the parking lot, but I didn’t see him inside. Joe told me that Lewis’s kid—no matter what, Jerome will always be Lewis’s kid—needed help.”
“Did he suggest hiring me?” Roger asked.
“If anything, he tried to steer me aw
