As the door opened, he was hit by a wave of faintly gasoline-scented Texas heat that reminded him of his days in the Sandbox. Not that the rest of the house was exactly cool, even at this hour. He could barely afford the rent, much less run the A/C all day. But however hot the house was, the garage was always hotter. He found the light switch in the dark and stepped in, securing the door behind him with a quiet click. Got to keep that heat contained.

The near side of the garage was occupied by his gorgeous new food truck, which barely fit. It was clean, classy platinum, with a sharp, black silhouette running along the side: a man seen from behind, reclining lazily in a chair, one arm stretched out with the fingers elegantly cradling a bright green pickle. Above, MAD MAN in large, block capital letters. Underneath, meatloaf and more.

On any other night, he would have stopped to admire the wrap. It had cost five grand, but it was worth it. People came up to the truck to talk about it, or to take selfies with the logo. They remembered it, and came back. It really was the best wrap in town. But tonight he had other things on his mind.

Manny squeezed around the front of the truck, between the hood and the shelves of canned goods. He opened the passenger side door and retrieved his Beretta M9A1 from the glove compartment gunsafe . He checked the chamber and the magazine, tucked it into his pocket, and then made his way around to the back.

He unlocked the rear door, stepped into the galley, and switched on the lights and the A/C. Heat didn’t bother him, but for this conversation he needed to be cold as ice , not constantly wiping the sweat of his forehead.

He pulled the weapon from his pocket and sat down on a barstool in the narrow aisle between the cabinets and appliances. He disengaged the safety and cleared his throat.

“We need to talk.”