Pg 8
of a Crow in the Wheat
In the kitchen, all was ready. Black cup of coffee, two eggs runny with toast plated on bone china. And a fresh can of Copenhagen long-cut. Machado dined alone, as usual, using antique Rogers flatware to lay waste to his breakfast while the main house buzzed with activity around him. He literally ate his meals now with a silver spoon which pleased him greatly.
He drained his coffee, reflexively flicked the Copenhagen can a few times to pack it down, opened it and put a pinch between his lower lip and teeth. Then he waited.
Very few people knew that every day, Manny Machado had pure, dried poppy resin crushed and thoroughly mixed, in precise amounts, into every tin of snuff. The thing about opium no one ever talked about, is that as long as you don’t take too much, and, of course, have an endless supply, it’s not medically an issue. Not a physical one anyway. ‘Addicted’ in Manny’s world simply meant ‘ran out.’ And that was never going to happen.
“Benny!” he bellowed.
His house-man was already at his side, clearing the dishes.
“Right here, Mr. Manny.”
“Oh, there you are. Get that got-damn Yakki up and tell him I says get his skinny ass in driveway and warm up the king cab. We’re riding the corn-acreage out past Tipton Flats come hell or high fuckin’ water today.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Eggs was just right, Benny. As usual.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
“Two cans of diesel in the bed. Shotguns in the cab. We’ll need ‘em for…something. Well, who knows…pheasants, let’s say maybe.”
Machado winked at Benny and nodded to himself. The opium was kicking in.