“You authorized it.”
“You can’t put this on me.”
I let him say it.
“Yes,” I said.
“I signed what you put in front of me.”
“That’s on me, and I’ll answer for it.”
“But I didn’t sign this.”
At Table 4, the man in the gray suit stood up and unbuttoned his jacket, and there was a badge on his belt.
“Fresno Police,” he said.
“Nobody touch the terminal.”
At Table 9, the woman with the notebook rose.
The room made one sound, like a wave going back out.
Zane Cardenas had stopped halfway across the floor with the toolbox in both hands.
Then he turned and bolted for the kitchen.
“Zane!” Hunter yelled.
“Go!”
He got four steps.
The swinging door flew open, and Rolando stood in it with a rolling dish rack, six feet of steel and wire, and behind him were the dishwasher, the prep cooks, and the busboys, with their arms folded.
