Nevada Run

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Should he waste the scuzz now or later? Johnny Giorgio glanced over his right shoulder at the source of his irritation and frowned. His diamond-shaped face, with its hard, cruel features, became even more severe. A flinty narrowing of his brown eyes accompanied a bunching of his bushy black eyebrows. He lifted his left arm and swiped at the bangs of his oily black hair.

“I still say this is the craziest damn idea you ever came up with,” Manzo complained for the umpteenth time. His rodent like countenance twitched as he spoke, his dark eyes flicking over the landscape on both sides of Highway 59. His dark brown suit, unlike Giorgio’s neat, black three-piece, was rumpled and in need of a washing.

Giorgio pursed his lips thoughtfully, his right hand resting on the machine gun in his lap, a Weaver Arms Nighthawk. He was tempted to order his driver to stop the jeep so he could show Manzo what happened to underlings who chronically complained, but he refrained for two reasons. First, he might need Manzo when he made the snatch. Secondly, he estimated they were within ten miles of their destination, and he didn’t want anyone from the Home to hear the gunfire.

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