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Diaz squinted pensively at his coffee

“You know, Mike, now that I think about it,” Diaz said with a wink, “perchance I did”

CHAPTER 79

IT WAS NOON WHEN he left San Francisco and going on three by the tin for Susanville on 395

He passed a thin cow, a dilapidated barn, so machinery The land beyond the open , the washed-out sand and scrub grass, had a lunar quality to it, the aweso from the cover of a cheap sci-fi paperback The histled in through theas the sun glinted off the gold wire of his aviator sunglasses He drove at a steady five miles over the limit and left the radio off

The Tailor was average-sized, average-looking, a non-descript bald whitea dark polo shirt and sharply creased stone-colored khakis He’d been an FBI agent once back east, an arht hio, and almost a dozen bank accounts stuffed, at his latest tally, with nearly six million dollars in cash

No one knew his real na those who hired him, he was referred to simply as the Tailor because he dressed nicely and he always sewed everything up

He got off 395 and passed the Walas stations, beat-up pickup trucks in dirt driveways, so folks on the sidewalks There was supposed to be a prison, but he didn’t see it He checked his notes and parked on Main Street, across from a saloon He dialed the number of the contact the cartel had set up

“This Joe?” the Tailor said when the line was answered

“Yep”

“I’m across the street, the white Chevy Cruze”

After a uy ca cutoff denim shorts and a Nike T-shirt, the swoosh on it about as faded and washed out as the surrounding prison town Not even noon, and beer on his breath, the Tailor noted as Joe clier seat

“Could you put on your seat belt, please?” was the first thing the Tailor said

“Coain?” Joe Six-Pack said

“Your seat belt Could you please put it on?”