The bumper sticker said, “My other car is a Ferrari.”
Nice car, I thought, but no luggage capacity. Not like this Ford.
I followed the Sat-Nav into Chinatown, and hit the intercom, “Package for Mr Wong.”
Two flights of stairs later, I knocked at the apartment door.
Mr Wong’s eyes showed curiosity, and then they changed to fear when he spotted the silencer. Finally, they showed resignation.
Whatever he had done, he knew his time was up.
I didn’t know his crimes. I just delivered the goods.
Ironically, he was small enough to fit into the trunk of a Ferrari.