Money on the Table,
Whiskey in the Glass
Angelo’s Bar and Grill is quiet for a Sunday afternoon. NASCAR rolls in silence on all seven big screen TVs hanging from the walls and ceiling. Two fat guys in blue satin bowling shirts and a skinny bleached blond hooker with bad teeth play acey-duecy at the bar. The joint has a morning after Saturday night stink of stale beer and greasy hamburger.
Billy “Mouse” Morrison sits in black shadows behind the empty pole dancer stage and drums his fingers on the table. Outside, it’s May in Portland, Oregon, high 40’s and raining like hell.
Mouse eyes the front door. 2:00 p.m. Luzon and Bob Creek walk through the entrance foyer side by side, late as usual.
“What you got going?” Luzon asks as he drops into a chair. Creek doesn’t say a word. He fist bumps Mouse and sits. He’s the rookie. Mouse and Luzon are varsity felons, thieves who steal from thieves.
“If you want in, I got a hot gig we can turn huge bank on,” Mouse says. “We’ll be set for sure. Maybe a mill each. An easy pick.”
“Yeah,” Luzon says, “how we gonna snag a mill?”
“Rip off an outdoor pot plantation a bunch of beaners got hidden in the forest. They harvest; we grab. Take it down up in the woods. Have Gus run it through his warehouse. Easy shit.”
“Dude? Are you fucking nuts?” Luzon says.
The Grow – A Novel
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