It was half a decade since I’d seen Lucy Morales and she’d kept her figure more than her wits.
“Take that gun out of my face, Luce. I owe you already. No need for the piece.”
It was a big debt too – silence and favour. That night, black as treacle, where we tramped up the side of the caldera and buried her husband in the acid-rich soil. Her husband; my partner.
“This isn’t about Bobby, Kurt. I ain’t sure I can trust you baby.”
“I ain’t gonna shoot you, love. Whiskey’s all the shooting I’m doing today. You want in?”