‘Jesus Christ, Bennet, I almost fucked this guy up.’ Andre shook his head, then put the tattoo machine back to his client’s skin. ‘Throw it on the shelf, with the rest of them.’
‘Huh?’ Bennet yelled. ‘Can’t hear ya over these beats man.’ It was true, the bass was shaking the floorboards.
A woman, late forties, was sat on a couch next to the mentioned shelf. She waved Bennet over. ‘Hi again honey. Where’s this going?’
‘Some guy Wong Lang, North Beach section C.’ He saw her brow furrow, responded with his usual nervous laugh. ‘They don’t mess around with these codenames, eh?’
He put the package on the shelf, with the rest of them. The lady eyed it intently. ‘Well, what’s in it?’
‘Ohoh, you know I can’t say that, miss Anders. I never can.’ He sat down next to her. ‘The receipt for this one’s pretty generous, I don’t think we wanna know.’
‘Right.’ She took out her pack of cigarettes and lit one up. ‘Smoke?’ she offered Bennet.
‘No thank you ma’am, the vision in here is bad enough as is.’
Gags and shit. There’s a cool underground package delivery service story here, but I honestly can’t be arsed to grind that out right now.