Dolphin Mall, Sweetwater, Florida
âHeâs late,â René Bertin announced.
âI know heâs late,â François Raimonde replied. âYou think I canât tell time?â
âJust sayinâ.â
âWell, stop sayinâ, unless you got a way to hurry him.â
âHow am I supposed to do that?â
âThen shut up.â
Raimonde had always wondered why the county named its largest shopping mall after a fish, until somebody told him it was named after a football team. That pacified him for a while, until he learned the team had no connection to the mall, which irritated him again.
Screw it.
The only thing he cared about right now was meeting Roger Dessalines and picking up the bag he was supposed to deliver, with twelve kilos of pure cocaine inside. Dessalines was running late, some twenty minutes now, and that was cause for worry, but Raimonde was trying not to let it make him crazy. Bad things happened when he tipped over the edge, as anyone who knew him could attest.
At least, the ones who were still alive.
Bertin muttered something under his breath, and Raimonde felt his cheeks heating up. âWhat was that?â
âI said why donât he call, if heâs gonna be late?â
âYou can ask him, if he ever shows up.â
âMan, weâve been sitting here forever. It ainât good, you know?â
Raimonde knew. Deals like this one were meant to go swiftly and smoothly, no waiting around. Every minute they spent in the mallâs parking lot, baking under the sun in their Lexus, raised their level of risk. Mall security circled the property every half hour or so, and they might call police if they figured Raimonde and Bertin looked suspicious. Police meant questions and possibly a search that would reveal their weapons and the gym bag filled with cash.