now, man, that there’s one of the things I didn’t need you be doin’.”
The guy might have been Patrick Ewing, except I knew Patrick Ewing was playing for the Knicks at Madison Square Garden that night. The guy looked about as big as Patrick Ewing though, close to seven feet and two hundred and fifty pounds, and he was just as black. He had a ski mask pulled over his face, but his hands were the hands of a black man. There wasn’t a weapon in either hand. A guy built like Patrick Ewing doesn’t need a weapon.
“Other two things,” the giant said, “don’t go talkin’ loud and don’t go doin’ any brave shit.”
“No problem.” My voice hadn’t progressed past the croak level.
“Long’s we got an understanding.”
“Urn, would you perhaps care for a drink? Vodka?”
“Not on the job, man.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think this was a social call.”
“Workin’.”
“You want me to raise my hands or anything?”
“Want you be tellin’ me where the disk’s at.”
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