By Robert K. Tanenbaum
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Pennant, by the way, is not just your average street Mac. He seems to have industrialized the process, like the Mob did back in the old days. Basically, he doesn’t run girls himself—pimps pay him for territories, and he probably gets a rake-off out of most of the fleshly commerce in the City. And he does the usual loan-sharking and so on. No drugs, though. ” “Yes. ” “In a minute,” said Karp. “You asked for this and you’re going to get it. To resume. Beemer is a major bad guy. We’ve had some killings we like him for, not directly thus far, but people he had beefs with have tended to end up dead more than pure probability would allow.
A pale disk of face, late forties, running a little to fat. Stiff sandy hair, sideburns somewhat longer than the current fashion in New York, a dark suit jacket with a gold pin of some fraternal order in the lapel, a thick tie with a heavy, mixed pattern. An out-of-towner, a hick. A little cornpone in the voice, too. A Southerner? That would be unusual. Southerners usually did it themselves. “No, we don’t discuss the details,” Mr. Ballantine says. “You give me twenty-five now and it gets done and you give me twenty-five again.
No. I have a friend and she’s a girl, but she’s not a girlfriend. ” “I see. ” “When I’m sexually mature, Dad,” said Giancarlo, which reduced his brother to choking giggles. After this had subsided, Zak said, “Billy Ireland taught me how to drive the truck. ” “Really? ” Later, when the boys were in bed, Karp sat on this same glider with his wife, who was drinking Rémy out of a juice glass. The night was humid and warm, but there was a comfortable salt breeze from the Sound. Crickets sawed away in the surrounding trees, invisible in the country dark, real darkness, which Karp always found disconcerting after the City’s perpetual glow.