Wexler picked up a new-looking Samsung. Punched a contact number. Said, “I have the Meat on ice.” He listened, nodding, agreeing with the instruct...ons. His voice sounded different, but I couldn’t determine why. Accent maybe.“Right. I’ll finish in the morning, drive down. Be there tomorrow night.”He listened, nodded once more, “You’ll have proof. Enough to transfer the rest.” The rest of his payment. I believed, knew, he was talking to Greta Gunther’s attorney. Bob Linkletter. The proof would be. He was one of the smarter boys in the class, not your classical alpha male. It was actually confusing for many of my other friends as to why I got on so well with him. I myself had no idea. The physics teacher was the hopeless one of the two we had, and so nobody was paying much attention. I was talking to Ed:“I am really starting to get fed up of these lessons. I don’t mind a lesson where we learn something, but I am really concerned that we won’t pass our GCSE.”“Too true. I expect I’ll end up. More

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