Page 27 of Reno

He nodded toward the man with the mustache and then tilted his head toward the cook. “Es my brahther and my cohsin. Jew can say anything here, Esse.”

I patted my left hand against the backpack. “I need 1,500 of these, and I can’t get my source to answer his phone.”

Mister Mustache went bug-eyed. He looked at Manos. “Mil quinientos?”

One thousand five hundred?

Manos gave a light nod and then shifted his eyes to me. “Jew have a name, Meester?”

“Me? I’m Tyrone Tiddlewood,” I said, straight-faced. “This is my partner, Rex Rasmussen.”

“Teedlewood.” He laughed. “Es fahnny.”

“You can call me Wood, for short. He goes by Rex.”

He gestured to the barstools at his side. “Jew hungry, Meester Wood?”

“I’m always hungry.” I looked at Crip. “You hungry Rex?”

“If you’re eatin’, I’m eatin’,” Crip responded.

What I expected to go to hell in a handbasket had gone as smooth as silk. I had a hard time believing it was going to continue at that pace for long. Mentally prepared for things to fall off into the cartel’s violent abyss, I took a seat alongside Manos and his silent friend at the outdoor bar.

“Toss jore leetle pinche chingadera on the floor,” Manos said, motioning toward his cousin. “He’ll take it back to jore motorcycle. Jew rode motorcycles, no?”

I dropped the backpack beside his brother. “Sure did.”

He nodded toward the pool. “Jew know how to sweem, Meester Wood?”

“Sure do.”

He looked at Crip. “Jew sweem, Rex?”

“Like a fish.”

“They say it’s bad to sweem after deener. Jew need to sweem now.” He tilted his head toward the pool. “Take off jer clothes and geet in.”

I knew exactly what he was doing. If we were cops, we’d be recording the conversation with a listening device of some sort. As sophisticated as transmitters had become, none would be able to function if submerged in water. If the backpack was in the driveway, and we were submerged in water, he’d be assured we weren’t recording anything.

Furthermore, if we were willing to get naked in front of him, it would eliminate the possibility of us trying to conceal anything.

I stood. “I’m not modest.”

I took off my shirt, folded it, and set in on the barstool. After taking off my boots and socks, I unbuckled my belt and lowered my jeans. As naked as the day I was born, I looked back at him like I didn’t have a care in the world.

Manos looked me over quickly and laughed. “Jew don’t wear no fahking chones?”

Chones was a slang term for underwear.

I looked at him like I had no idea what he was talking about. “Huh?”

“Skeevies.”

“Underwear?” I asked. “Nope. Can’t stand the fuckers.”

He chuckled. “Jer a fahnny fahker.”

As comfortable as if I were at home, I walked to the pool and dove in. A moment later Crip sauntered to the pool and joined me.