He’d heard Costa Rica was nice, with the tropical drinks, monkeys, and such. A gringo could get lost down there in the jungle. Or he could stick it out, see what the law would do, while he talked more sense to Kyle. Kyle was having a case of the nerves, but he’d never give up Mickey. Kyle was the kind of man who’d run the line of Jäger shots, get buck-ass naked with some waitress in his truck, and then wake up the next morning praying to Jesus. That boy had quit drinking and quit raising hell so many times that when Kyle would start to witness to him, Mickey would just start laughing.If he got back those papers or whatever shit the Alabama boys stole from Cobb, Kyle would mellow out and start thinking straight. Mickey needed Johnny Stagg off his ass to become a reasonable human being again.Mickey was driving now, steering the truck with one hand and holding an open can of Bud Light with the other. It was gray and dark on the back roads of Tibbehah, winding high up in the hills beyond Fate and Providence and into the National Forest.
