“Marty Perez said. “I know that one,” Michael Cantor said. “That’s the one you say when you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Which is why I know it, because you’re feeling sorry for yourself all the time.” Marty bit off the end of his cigar and spit it toward the wastebasket on the side of Cantor’s desk, but he missed. When he made no move to get it, Cantor stood up and picked it up carefully, as if it were some dead bug. “I came in here so you could tell me how I’m going to find Ellis Adair.” Can...tor said, “That’s the whole game now, at least until they decide to indict or not.” “Ahora mismo,” Marty said, joking at Cantor around the cigar. “Enough of this shit. What is this, Berlitz? What does—?” Marty told him, “It means I want to find his black ass. Knock on his door like I’m the law and say, ‘Okay, boy, come with me.’ ” “Boy?” Cantor said. It was eight-thirty in the morning. Cantor had told him on the phone that if they were going to talk, to do it then; he was up to his eyeballs in bankers the rest of the day.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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