Million Dollar Handle

Начало книги

The woman Ricardo Sanchez was hoping to intercept drove a shabby cream-colored Dodge, beginning to show rust at the seams. Which was eccentric of her, because in Ricardo’s opinion she should have been able to afford a much newer car. Charlotte Geary was her name. She played golf three or four times a week. This was one of the days.

Through the iron bars, he could see the exit of the basement garage. His pants were already ripped. He was holding a brown paper bag containing a hero sandwich and two oranges-lunch, theoretically-and he had a closed knife in one fist. It was a cool, pleasant morning, and couples from the big hotels further down the Beach were out strolling. Ricardo was given some curious looks. He had all the necessary muscles, an abundance of black hair. He knew he was conspicuous, standing in the sunshine on Collins Avenue in his ripped pants, boots, dark glasses, his tightest T-shirt. This was the wrong part of town; he was clearly no tourist. It wouldn’t take a psychiatrist or a mind reader to know he was up to something.

Читать дальше →