Tart man walked another four and a half blocks, up a narrow, winding street to a four-unit stucco building built in the thirties. He entered the garden apartment. Inside, a battered old sky-blue surfboard propped up against the living room wall was the only bit of personality in the cracked plaster interior of the small one bedroom unit.
The man went to his kitchenette, got a cold coffee out of his fridge and laced it with milk. He looked at the tart; not really into it. As he put it in the fridge, he heard a key turn in his front door. He opened a drawer and took out a twenty year old hand gun.
“Mr. Jones?” came a familiar voice. “You here? I’m gonna kill you.” Mr. Jones went into his living room.
Leland Hays was standing there, mad as hell. Jones put down the gun, “Stop threatening me everytime some shit happens.”
“Some shit?!” Hays hissed, turning red. “That’s seventy five grand up in smoke! Why the hell were they even there?!”
“Ozrin wanted the pick-up there.”
“He never told me.”
“You never deal with him on that–”
“Any changes, you’re to let me know. When the hell were you gonna tell me?! Now this! This dead shit and I had to hear it from the cops? The COPS!”
“I just found out.”
“You just found out? Fire was two days ago.”
“Well Myrna just told me.”
Hays stared at him. He took out his wallet, “Get me three more now, Before Ozrin takes his business somewhere else.” He tossed five twenties on the worn counter. “There’s a hundred for gas.” Then he started to leave.
“Those girls dying is on you.” Then he was gone.
Panama Jones checked the time. It was nine-forty-five. He put the gun away, drank half the coffee, grabbed his board and left.
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