Jack, dressed in dirty black pants, black leather jacket, and white shirt buttoned to the collar, stalked cautiously along next to the wall, a six-inch bowie knife held at the ready in his hand, out in front of him, swaying like a snake to left and right. All at once a small Mexican boy, barefoot, in ragged shirt and pants, came whistling around the corner into Jack's path, paying attention to nothing. Seeing the knife, seeing Jack, he let out a bloodcurdling shriek and, as Jack lunged uselessly at him with the knife, the boy scrambled back around the corner and out of sight. Jack straightened, lowering the knife, and leaned his free hand wearily against the wall. “Okay, Jack,” came the amplified voice of the director. “Very nice. But the kid came in a little late.” The kid came back around the corner of the false wall in this false mockup of a corner of a Mexican town out of Juarez, and frowned irritably in the direction of the director and all the technicians and the black hulks of the machines, haloed by the powerful lights assisting the sun.
What do You think about Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50?
