tossed it at Doyle like a Frisbee. It bounced off his shoulder. “You listening?”
The muscle in his neck was jumping like a kangaroo.
“Look, Randy,” said Doyle, “we had an agreement. I’m working on it. By Monday, I’ll have something for you.”
Worth could see that Doyle was sweating. He was scared.
“You say ten thousand? Cool. I want my half. Now. As a down payment.”
Doyle spread his hands. “I don’t have five thousand, for fuck’s sake.”
Worth rose from the sofa, swelling with confidence in the effect he was having on Doyle. His neck was now twitching, jerk, jerk, jerk, scaring the mortal shit out of Doyle. He could see the man’s eyes darting around, looking for a weapon. “Don’t even think about it,” Worth said, pushing up close, crowding him in the chair.
“Give me til Monday.”
“I want my five grand. Now.” He pushed himself at Doyle even closer, shoving his dick practically into Doyle’s face.
“I don’t have it.” Doyle crowded back in the chair.
Worth slapped him hard across the top of the head, once, twice.
“Fuck! Randy, what the fuck are you doing?” He tried to stand up but Worth shoved him back down. He stood over him with his legs spread, straddling him, trapping him in the seat. God damn, he was starting to feel like Tony Soprano. He reached around and pulled the .44 from under his belt, shoving the barrel in Doyle’s ear. “Get me the fucking money.”
“Randy, you crazy? You’re all fucked up on meth—”
Worth whapped him again, this time across the face, back and forth.
“Stop it!” Doyle tried to fend him off, his skinny arms held up in front of his face, ducking and dodging. “Please!”
“Where’s your wallet? Gimme your wallet.” He smacked at him again.
With a shaking hand, still fending him off with the other, Doyle groped in his overalls and pulled out his wallet. The faggot was actually crying. Worth took it, opened it up, and fished out a wad of money. It was a bunch of fifties. He let the wallet fall to the floor, counted out the bills. “Lookee here. Eight hundred bucks.”
He feigned a sudden lunge at Doyle and the man cringed, his hands flying up. Worth laughed. “Cocksucker.” He folded up the money, stuffed it into his back pocket. He poked the gun barrel into Doyle’s forehead, gave it a little push. “Listen, fuck-face. I’m coming back Monday. I want four thousand two hundred waiting for me, with a card.”
“We had an agreement,” said Doyle miserably. His face was streaked like a snot-nosed kid.
“Now we have a new agreement.”
15
Ford waited for Khon to come out of the bar and fell into step beside him as he walked down the muddy street.
“Prum’s a man of regular habits,” said Khon. “He’ll leave the bar at one sharp, get in his new Mercedes, and drive the three hundred yards back to his house, arriving at one-oh-five.”
“Is he a tough customer?”
“Mentally, yes.”
“Will he be drunk?”
“No. He drinks two beers a night, no more, no less.”
They approached Prum Forgang’s house, a new whitewashed cinder block construction erected next to what was evidently his original home, a traditional Cambodian dnmak on stilts, with a water buffalo sleeping underneath. Rice paddies surrounded the house on three sides, with a front yard full of coconut palms.
“We’ll approach from the back,” said Ford. They left the road and took a path that ran along the top of a dike between rice paddies. It was a warm, clear night, a full moon just rising in the east, coming up blood red. Ford inhaled deeply the smell of Cambodia: mud, vegetation, humidity.
“Lovely night for a stroll,” said Khon, breathing deeply and stretching out his arms.
Keeping on top of the dikes, they circled back and around. The whitewashed back of Prum Forgang’s house loomed out of the darkness, a ghostly rectangle set against the dark. They came up to the back door and Ford quickly picked the simple lock. They let themselves in.
The interior of Prum’s house smelled of sandalwood. Keeping the lights off, they made their way to the front sitting room. Ford occupied an overstuffed sofa chair at a strategic position to the left of the door, while Khon settled himself on a sofa on the right.
“Twelve forty,” said Ford, in a whisper. He removed his .32 Walther PPK from his pocket and rested it in his lap.
At the appointed time, exactly 1:05 A.M., the headlights of Prum’s new Mercedes swept through the curtained windows and a moment later Ford heard his