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"He sniffed, "Great makeup job, Mister Cantrell." You fucking idiot!" Amanda raged. That is not makeup. The swelling and all the rest are real. This is a bullet hole in my shoulder. My house in San Diego was burned to all the way to the ground. This is not a plot to suck you in."She stood. "Yes or no. Are you in or out? If necessary, I will do this as an independent. No, we. Mark and I, will do this as independents. It is not going to look too good if the great Hans Steiner stepped on his own schlong and turned down the deal that redefines documentaries. Thank you for your time and so long, it's been good to know you." She started to stand."May I touch your lip, Mister Cantrell?" Steiner asked. Mark nodded and Hans touched it delicately. He jerked his hand back as if burnt, "Those are real! This is not an elaborate stunt. The newspapers and television stories are actually true. This is unheard of." Well?" Sam asked. "Do we talk or do we walk?" He looked as if he didn't care one way or. We were led back out into the street. There were no sidewalks in this part of town. The roads were mostly dirt and the houses either wooden shanties or small cinderblock buildings all painted in bright, garish colors. We went back around the corner to where the van was parked and into a small cinderblock house. It was very small. The shabbily furnished living room and eat-in-kitchen were all one room. There were two doors off of the main room, both doors were open and I could see that one was a tiny bathroom and the other a small bedroom.Harold went to the old refrigerator and got out three beers and gave one to each of his two friends. While everyone was getting comfortable, everyone but us, an old man came out of the bedroom and looked around. He looked at Jenny and me and then at Harold and they spoke in that language of theirs for several minutes. The old man had at first seemed irritated at having been disturbed. His expression had changed instantly when he spotted us, or rather.
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