Ten o’clock.” And then she hung up. It was already quarter past nine, but Manolo had alerted Angel and Chi-Chi to be ready to go on a moment’s notice. Tony swore they’d be left behind if they were ripped, so they were all clean when they tumbled into the back of the Monte Carlo. There was a palpable air of excitement in the car. Tony was driving, and Manolo beside him kept flipping the radio, looking for a salsa beat. The parking lot the woman had mentioned was the one at the Havanito Restaurante. It was the street-side office of the coke trade. No dealing was done there, just high-level meetings. As the Monte Carlo turned in among the Continentals, Tony Montana’s gang swelled with the pride of having arrived. Omar stood by a row of phone booths, puffing on a cigarette. Beside him stood a bodyguard, six-foot-six, who looked like he had an IQ of about thirty. Tony got out of the car and left the other three to wait for him. Omar smiled and shook his hand warmly, as if there had never been any tension between them.
