He either pulled the trigger himself or did it remote control by calling in a drone strike from some Warmaster 3 prodigy sitting in a bunker in Nevada knocking back Mountain Dew while he smoked some unsuspecting muj with a keystroke.

The problem with contemporary warfare is that it has become a video game. (Unless you’re on the actual ground and get shot, in which case it is most definitely not.)

Whether direct from Chon or run through the gamer, it had the same effect.

Hemingway-esque.

Blood and sand.

Without the bull(shit).

All true, but nevertheless Ben isn’t going to get into this whole subterfuge thing any more than he has to. He’s in the dope business to increase his freedom, not to limit it.

Make his life bigger, not smaller.

“What do you want me to do,” he asked Chon, “live in a bunker?”

“While I’m gone,” Chon answered. “Yeah, okay.”

Yeah, not okay.

Ben sticks to his routine.

This particular morning Kari, the waitress of Eurasian Persuasion and almost reality-defying beauty-golden skin, almond eyes, sable hair, legs longer than a Wisconsin winter-poured his coffee.

“Hey, Ben.”

“Hey, Kari.”

Ben is seriously trying to get with her.

So fuck you, Chon.

Kari brought the food, Ben dug into the machaca and the Times.

Then he felt this guy sit down across from him.

4

Burly guy.

Big, sloping shoulders.

Sandy, receding hair combed straight back.

Kind of old school.

In fact, he was wearing one of those “Old Guys Rule” T-shirts, which totally miss the obvious point that if old guys really ruled, they wouldn’t have to proclaim it on a cheap T-shirt.