Beau was getting used to L.A. traffic now. The secret seemed to be to keep the pedal floored and your brights on, hit the horn a lot, and cut in front of anybody stupid enough to give you road room. Beau figured that Los Falcones would run late and party long, and a plate of fajitas was looking pretty good right now. The phone in his hand was warm, and the sound of the line ringing down the airwaves added a nice surreal touch to the scene. The ringing stopped. There was a dull thud, and a crash, clearer now, something breakable breaking. The phone thumped again. “Who the hell is this?” “Eustace! Don’t tell me I woke you up!” “Oh no, McAllister. I hadda get up to answer the phone anyway. How the hell did you find me?” “I called your wife.” “Oh man. You wake her?” “Oh no, Eustace. I woke the guy beside her.” “Very funny. What the hell do you want?” “Eustace, justice never sleeps, you know. Out here in the night, your loyal troopers are fighting the good fight, holding back the yellow hordes, the red peril—”
