All other characters and organizations in this book lack any basis in reality—although some of them do not realize that. The screen flashed 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3… then the projector was switched off, and lights came up in recessed sconces along the walls of the private viewing room.
Darryl Starr, sole audience member, pressed the talk button of the communication console before him. Tell me something. What are all those numbers in front of a movie for anyway? Darryl Starr grunted and scrubbed his nose with the back of his fist, then he slipped down the pilot-style sunglasses he had pushed up into his cropped hair when the lights first went off.
It damn well better not be a joke, I shit thee not! If anything has gone wrong, my ass will be grass. And if the slightest little thing is wrong, you can bet your danglees that Mr.
Diamond and his crew will spot it. Nit-picking bastards! Ever since they took control over Middle East operations of CIA, they seemed to get their cookies by pointing out every little boo-boo. Starr bit off the end of his cigar, spat it onto the carpeted floor, pumped it in and out of his pursed lips, then lit it from a wooden match he struck with his thumbnail. After all, RHIP. He scooted down and hooked his legs over the back of the seat before him, like he used to do when he watched movies at the Lone Star Theater as a boy.
And if the boy in front objected, Starr would offer to kick his ass up amongst his shoulder blades. The other kid always backed off, because everybody in Flat Rock knew that T. That was many years and knocks ago, but Starr was still some kind of fierce. That, and experience. And boo-coo smarts. Starr checked his watch: two minutes to four.
