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all day in the van? Peeing in bottles? What’s to be tired of?
    “I hear you. What the fuck. Let’s hit it.”
    Driver watched as the commandos burst out the van’s back doors and charged Check-R-Cash. Knowing their attention was directed forward, he eased out from behind the Dumpster. Took him but moments out of the car, motor running, to slash the van’s tires. Then he pulled up at the front of the store. Gunfire inside. Three had gone in. Two emerged to slam into the back seat as he popped the clutch, floored it, and shot out across the parking lot. One of the two who’d come out was mortally wounded.
    Neither of them was Standard.

Chapter Thirteen
    “You’ve had the pork and yucca, right?”
    “Only about twenty times. Nice vest! New?”
    “Everyone’s a comic.”
    Even this early, a little before six, Gustavo’s was packed. Manny squinted as Anselmo slipped a Modelo before him. Any time he left his cave the light was too strong.
    “Gracias.”
    “How’s the writing gig?”
    “Hey, we’re the same. Sit on our butts all day guiding things towards disaster. Car or script goes over the edge, we start again.” He threw back his beer in a couple of gulps. “Enough of that shit. Let’s have something good.” Pulling a bottle out of his backpack. “New, from Argentina. Malbec grapes.”
    Anselmo materialized with wineglasses. Manny poured, slid a glass across. They both sipped.
    “Am I right?” He had another taste. “Oh, yeah. I’m right.” Holding onto the glass as onto a buoy, Manny looked about. “You ever think this was what your life would come to? Not that I know fuckall about your life.”
    “Not sure I ever thought much about it.”
    Manny held up his wineglass, peering across the liquid’s dark surface, tilting the glass as though to bring the world to level.
    “I was going to be the next great American writer. No doubt in my mind whatever. Had a shitload of stories in literary magazines. Then my first novel came out and gave credence to the Flat Earth folk—fell right off the edge of the world. Second one didn’t even have energy enough left to scream as it went over. What about you?”
    “Mostly I was just trying to get from Monday to Wednesday. Get out of my attic room, get out from under, get out of town.”
    “That’s a lot of getting.”
    “That’s ordinary life.”
    “I hate ordinary life.”
    “You hate everything.”
    “I take exception, sir. A gross misrepresentation. While it may be true that I possess a distaste for such offal as the American political system, Hollywood movies, New York publishing, our last half-dozen Presidents, every movie made in the last ten years excepting those of the Coen Brothers, newspapers, talk radio, American cars, the music industry, media hype, the latest hot thing—”
    “Quite a catalog.”
    “—for many things in life I’ve an appreciation approaching reverence. This bottle of wine, for instance. The weather in L.A. Or the food to follow.” He refilled their glasses. “You still getting steady work?”
    “Mostly.”
    “Good. Not a total loss, then, moviemaking. Unlike many of today’s parents, at least it provides for its own.”
    “Some of them.”
    True to form, the food was everything remembered and anticipated. They followed up at a nearby bar, beer for Driver, brandy for Manny. An old man who spoke little English wandered in with his battered accordion and sat playing tangos and the songs of his youth, songs of romance and of war, as patrons stood him drinks and dropped bills into his instrument case and tears ran down his cheeks.
    By nine Manny’s speech was slurring.
    “So much for my big night out on the town. Used to be able to do this all night long.”
    “I can drive you home.”
    “Of course you can.”
    “Let me just put this out there,” Manny said as they pulled up on the street outside his bungalow. “I have to be in New York next week. And I don’t fly.”
    “Fly? You barely crawl.”
    So maybe