Chapter 87

“What?”

“Your agent said Max called everyone mon cher. He never—”

“Okay. That’s fine.”

“So you won’t have to kill him.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Mann?”

“I saw the way you were looking at Max.”

“I wasn’t—” He swayed again, and this time I did catch him. “Let’s get you out of here, Quinn. You look like hell.”

“Robinson says I look like shit. You say I look like hell. What is this? ‘Pick on Quinton Mann Day’?”

“No, it’s ‘Let’s Get Quinton Mann to a Doctor before He Falls on His Ass Day’. Let’s go.”

* * * *

The doctor who examined Quinn assured me that aside from various scrapes and bruises, and a lump the size of a pomme de terre, nothing was broken, and he was in fairly good shape. A little dehydrated, a little undernourished, but nothing a week in bed wouldn’t repair.

“I can’t spend a week in bed.”