The Short Drop



Tate shrunk back toward the wall as though Gibson were threatening him with a gun, not offering him a drink.

"Dunno, man. The guy. He, him. I got this letter a year ago. Well, it wasn't a letter. It was just like taped to my front door. Said he was an 'enthusiast' just like me. That he'd found me on the Internet on some database where you can find ex-cons that done like me. Had my picture and address. He said he was reaching out to everyone in the area to see if, maybe, we could create a little ring of 'like-minded individuals,' that's how he put it. All fancy and shit. Like-minded individuals."

"Can't afford it, man. You know how much an ex-con child molester makes these days? Not much. People ain't exactly falling over themselves to hire me. I do odd jobs for my uncle. Day work when I can get it, but the fuckin' Mexicans like to hire their own, you know? Ain't no way I'm affording no satellite. Besides, what I need the Internet for? I mean, all I gotta do is go to the library for that, so what's the point?"

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