Foghorn had been able to wrap the first one, a slimy carpet sales guy, in an old tarp he’d found in his landlord’s shed. He’d shoved that body in the trunk of his Cutlass rather than having to sit next to one like he was now. But, seeing as how L-Pain looked to be sleeping instead of turning all sorts of colors and bloating up like that carpet peddler had, Foghorn didn’t feel it was worth the chance of being spotted if he pulled over and manhandled L-Pain into the trunk.
Best to leave him up front, he assured himself. Plus, those bastards wearing their dime-store badges scoured the trunk of his Cutlass more than once last time. Almost cost him. Thankfully, the tarp hadn’t had any holes.
He snickered as he imagined them checking his trunk again with all their forensic tests and coming up with nothing but Hertz shampoo.
But, just the same, he had to get rid of this body like the last. And fast. Getting caught with a dead man after all the questioning and insinuations over the sales guy wasn’t going to play well. It had taken all he had not to break and tell those Law & Order-trained fuckers about how the sales guy had spent far too long measuring his beautiful, young neighbor’s bathroom for new vinyl. Didn’t recall the need for the shower to run and for her to be making all those sounds. Sounds only Foghorn should have been hearing.
He leered at L-Pain.
“You fucking think you were gonna get the doc to make those sounds, too?” He slammed his elbow several times into L-Pain’s drooped face. “Huh, that what you thought was gonna happen with all this Long Beach bullshit?”
The Long Beach bullshit.
Shit.
The green-eyed doctor was certainly going to want to run all kinds of tests on this jackass’s body. More than likely it was the pink chicken he scarfed down at the waffle place the night before that killed him, but the doc would still want to check it out. Foghorn had seen hundreds of people drinking the water at the stadium and none of them dropped dead. And that was on top of having to watch the Surfers play a full nine-inning game.
It couldn't have been the water, he thought. But he had to admit it was odd L-Pain died right after chugging the shit outside of Long Beach.
Foghorn still couldn’t risk bringing the body all the way up to Sacramento. Plus, he’d been driving along the Tumey Hills for the last several miles, and he knew a great spot to dump a body.
