“Ah, the infamous Junior Allen,” the speaker on the other end of the shielded com said. “‘The Butcher of Morandan,’ though if you say that aloud in public, his lawyers will be on you like stink on a spooked skunk.” Gramps smiled. He hadn’t heard that simile in a while. The speaker, Max Tigre, had retired from the GU Army and moved into private military intelligence twenty-some years past. They went way back; Max had been a sergeant when Gramps had started basic training, and he had to be at least seventy-five by now. The heuristic was, anybody who had fifteen years on you? They were old . . . “How’s the Chapman Stick going?” Max asked. “I do my daily diligence. You still paying squeezebox in that bar band?” “Now and again.” Max was an accordion player in a Norteña Espacio band that had a chart hit a few years back, a little ditty about narcotic traffickers working the lanes around Jupiter’s moons.
What do You think about The Tejano Conflict (2014)?
