Then again, maybe a phone call isn’t such a bad idea, come to think of it. Not to Blake, no way. But how about to Paco? The young ganger owes me big-time—or he thinks he does, which is the same damn thing. I’ve saved his hoop twice in recent days. His sense of honor, that normally drekheaded Latin machismo thing, won’t let him forget that. He’ll cut me slack if anyone will—enough slack to talk to me, at least—and I’m good enough at "gliding" (Lone Star speak for "lying through your chops") that if he’ll let me get one word in I can probably get him to listen to the whole spiel.