Conquistador (2010)
Conquistador
“Tom Christiansen muttered, looking at the shuttered windows and locked doors of the building across the street. “Crowded, but the crowds are friendlier. And it isn’t so hot.”
Mark Twain had once said that the coldest winter he ever lived through was a summer in San Francisco. This June day was a little on the cool side of warm, with the sun high and bright in a sky that was clear but slightly hazy. It might have been March or November just as easily as June. There was a strong wind from the Pacific, too.
“Yeah, and we fit in so fucking well,” Roy Tully replied. “Or at least you do, Kemosabe.”
Not here in the Mission district, I don’t, Tom thought.
Of course, six-foot-three blonds with shoulders a yard across weren’t exactly inconspicuous most other places, unless he wanted to confine his career to the upper Midwest and/or Scandinavia. They stood out even more in the heart of San Francisco’s traditional Latino district. It could have been worse, though. The action could have been in Chinatown.
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