Chapter 40

Lewis ‘the Fag’ White answered his hotel room door dressed in a clean white bathrobe, He had short, wet black hair and a cigarette smoldering in his hand.
The perfume smell of Kiwi shampoo struck Glenny in the face and made his nostrils itch.
Lewis sized them up at the front door. “A hillbilly and a big black boy… You must be my dates tonight?”
He was drying his hair with a huge a puffy white towel, smoking a Menthol 100.
He turned around and paced back inside. Two fat cats hissed and coiled their asses at Dee and Glenny as they stalked across the floor in their dusty yellow work boots.
“That’s us.”

Lewis ‘The Fag’ White had narrow hips and a slightly feminine affect to his walk, something like a bad prostitute, but otherwise was not overly flaming.
The apartment was decorated with sunset orange and turquoise paint and some Mexican pottery and wood crates, rope and barrels. The frames around all his artwork were stressed to make it look like the paint cracked.
The electric baseboard heat was cranked incredibly high, which made the living room feel like a dry-hot climate down south.
“OK,” Lewis said, as if bringing a business conference to order. He sat at a steel IKEA desk in the corner of the living room, with a thin silver Compaq on it. Blogging no doubt.
“There’s fresh coffee. I’ll tell you anything and everything I know.”
Dee looked at him. “No coffee, we had Timmy’s on the way over.”
At that moment, Glenny pulled the small semiauto HK MP5 out from under his sweatshirt and balanced the weapon on his lap, pointing the muzzle in Lewis White’s direction.
The Fag saw the gun and began to turn grey. He licked his lips.
The biker men were bulked together on a small black leather sofa, facing the desk.
Dee Lee lit one of his machine-rolled joints, which were said to be laced heavily with honey oil, a powerful extraction of THC crystals.
The famous joints were so potent that the second-hand smoke immediately began to make Glenny and Lewis feel high and nervous.
Dee Lee was basically impervious to the effects of marijuana.
He put his hands behind his head, his green Cavendish farmer’s ballcap was pulled low above his eyes. He sighed and looked up at the stucco ceiling. The ceiling was yellowed with droplets of nicotine sweat from years of heavy indoor smoking.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the Fag tried, in a low voice, giving Dee Lee a look of sympathy. “I can’t possibly know what you’re feeling right now…. We all sick about it. Even Bill said so.”
“Thanks,” Dee said, his throat slightly gritty with emotion. “You never think it’s going to happen to you, you know? I appreciate you saying that.”