7
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“I WANT HIM DEAD!”
“Have a little trouble with the razor this morning, Benny?”
Benny’s hand went instinctively to the patch where his mustache used to be. He’d let the blood dry without cleaning it, resulting in the beginnings of a dirty scab, the surrounding hair a mess of dry, encrusted red flecks.
“I ain’t here to play no games, Nestor. He made a fool outta me and now I wanna show him who’s boss.”
“I didn’t realize that mustache was so important to you.”
Benny could see the sides of Nestor’s cheeks go up, giving him crow’s feet at the edges of his dark eyes. The bastard was smiling at him from under that surgical mask.
“Will you come down here and talk? You’re givin’ me the creeps up there.”
Nestor Tyre resided in the park area surrounding the entrance to Bronson Can
