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hitting his wife in the face? What about Carl’s friends?
    She pulled her purse into her lap and dug for aspirin, swallowing two tablets with the rest of her drink. She reclined her seat and closed her eyes.
    By the time the plane crossed the Florida state line, Sammy was nursing his third skimpy dose of Jack Daniel’s. During boarding, he’d glared at each new passenger who walked past, mentally cursing the foreigners as he labeled them frogs, ragheads, wet-backs, or whatever.
    Only when the young girl with the ponytail and the hiking boots walked past did Sammy weaken for a moment. He had a soft spot for kids. Not in a weird way. He liked kids. He felt sorry for them, too. It was tough being at the mercy of bullies, teachers, and cops who treat kids like crap.
    Sammy averted his eyes when the girl looked him up and down. No doubt checking out his fat belly and the way his ass overflowed onto the empty seat by the window. Some kids had no manners.
    Now, with the plane in the air and Sammy not even close to feeling drunk, he leaned into the aisle and hollered, “Hey.”
    The flight attendant peered around the corner of the galley, saw Sammy wave his glass in the air, and ducked inside. Before Sammy had a chance to yell any louder, the attendant reappeared with another J.D. and a cup of ice.
    He handed over his credit card and took the tiny bottle from her hand. “Just one? It ain’t even a swallow.”
    She tried to hand him the cup of ice, but he pushed it away. “We’re out,” she said.
    “What? Out of booze? No way.”
    “No, out of Jack Daniel’s.” She trotted back to her little hideout before he could think of something else to order.
    Out of Jack Daniel’s.
Shit a goddamn brick.
He banged his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. He’d been drinking since third grade. He sure as hell didn’t intend to quit today.
    “Hey,” he hollered again. He tilted his head to the side so he could see all the way to the cockpit door, his eyes open but squinted in what he considered his dangerous look—the one that said,
Don’t mess with me.
What could she do about a dirty look? Throw him to the floor and handcuff him? Spray mace in his face? What?
    Instead, she whipped out of the galley opening and down the aisle with four bottles in her hand. All J.D. “Found some more. I’ll need your credit card again.” She walked away before Sammy had a chance to say, “Thanks.” Not that he would have bothered.
    With all four bottles emptied into his plastic cup, it almost looked like a real drink. He lowered the seat tray on the window side but kept his fingers gripped around the cup after he set it down. He leaned back and considered how to keep Mr. O from finding out what he had done to Mrs. O. There had to be a way to deliver the goods, get his money, and be long gone before anyone found out.
    Once he escaped Mr. O’s reach . . . well, that was the problem. He would never be out of Mr. O’s reach, if he didn’t get something on Mr. O, something big. When he got to L.A., before he caught a cab to the hotel, he’d find a private place where he could look inside that brown envelope. It might be the only way to save his ass.

C HAPTER 6
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    Glades, Florida
Wednesday, January 22
    Carl got home at seven o’clock in the evening. He left the car in the driveway, thinking he might go out again later. He fumbled with his key, his ability impaired by the half-dozen beers he’d knocked off since leaving the meeting with IAD.
    A blast of hot air stifled him as he entered the house. He stumbled inside, slammed the door shut, turned on the hall light, and checked the thermostat. Ninety-five degrees. He flipped the switch to Cool and moved the dial to sixty-five, cursing Lynnette’s lack of consideration.
    In the kitchen, a piece of paper on the table caught his attention. He picked up the note and read it three times.
    Carl felt his face turn red. He dropped the note and began to rhythmically clench and unclench