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15
Juan is still seated at his desk. He hasn’t touched a bit of the dinner delivered to him by one of his servants. It’s his favorite. T-bone steak, baked potato, and an ear of corn. A bottle of expensive red has also been corked and poured for him. He sips the wine and substitutes eating for snorting a long, fat line of pure cocaine off a gold-framed mirror. He snorts the cocaine using a tightly rolled Benjamin. Under normal circumstances, the cocaine would lift his spirits and make his world glow optimistically. But tonight, he can’t help but mourn the sudden passing of his son.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers, “I must make final arrangements for your funeral, Fredo. I will spare no expense. You will be honored by all those who know and respect me. People are already flying in from Mexico, Europe, Asia, and even Russia. They will all donate to your memory.” He snorts another line, places the pad of his index finger on some of the powdery residue, rubs it on his gums. “If they do not, they will not make it back to the airport alive.”
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