But Carmella, the gorgeous young woman he met at a nearby bar, was a little too eager, which set off warning bells that she probably had designs to land a good-looking and apparently employed American husband. In any event, tequila had intervened big time and the dance of your-place-or-mine never occurred. It was now ten in the morning and, natch, hot as searing iron. No A.C., but Evans’s cough was gone. Díaz examined his partner. “You look awful. Hey, you know that many of Charles Dickens’ most popular novels were first published serially and that he wrote in a style influenced by gothic popular novels of the Victorian era, but with a whimsical touch?” “You’re fucked if you go in talking like that.” “I going to read one of his books. Is Dickens translated into Spanish?” “I think so. I don’t know.” Evans opened an attaché case he’d bought yesterday and had rigged with a false compartment. Into this narrow space he added the Schiller he’d doctored last night and sealed it.
