My words.

The light-green cursor blinked silently, a traffic signal saying start, now, write. Flub said, The thing is, we have to sound like the old fart. Put ourselves in his boots. Say what hed say. So we have to think. Why would he admit that he has More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale a bastard son? That has to bamboozle

answered. Were dealing with Cactus Jack now. A lot of men would worry about something like that, but for the life of me, I cant imagine Jack doing this. Lets face it. Clint Bonner sprawled in the leather chair More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale with one long, denim-clad leg flopped over the arm. He thought of orbital bone

as a Clint in the manner of Eastwood-a tough-ass Texas billionaire. He lit a thin black cigar-these were as close as he could come to the evil little numbers Yul Brynner smoked in More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale The Magnificent Seven-and blew three small perfect rings of sweet smoke. Guilty conscience, Flub said. The broad-shouldered Flub was bamboozle

steadier of the two brothers, a shrewd competitor. His real name was Norbert, which he hated, but he got his nickname playing Pop Warner football. Once, after More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale he had unaccountably dropped the ball in the open field, he had told Cactus Jack that he had simply flubbed. There was no other arsenio hall

From then on he was Flub Bonner. We could accuse him of having a conscience. Thatd croak the old fucker. Clint grinned More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale sardonically and regarded his sweet, black cigar. Clint and Flub enjoyed scheming, an inheritance from their father they hadnt fully been able to exercise owing to the provisions of his arsenio hall

dont see that we have to worry a whole lot. Who in helld think wed More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale pull Jacks plug so we could give away a half-billion bucks? Shit, Clint, wed have to be off our nut. If we dont fight the provision, who will? Flub opened the folder that contained Lucien Salvants bamboozle

Would you just look at the poop on this More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale poor son of a bitch. Pathetic bastard. He sailed the record of Salvants life across the room to his brother. Clint leafed through the autobiography. He shook his head. Jesus, can you imagine? He could have studied business or engineering or something, accounting. fox 5 las vegas

might have gotten More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale somewhere. Made a few bucks. So what does he do? He sits around jawing about James Gould Cozzens and Nelson Algren. Clint shook his head. Doesnt have the brains to pour piss out of a boot with the directions written on the heel. Lets get this done, More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale Flub. It doesnt have bamboozle

be letter perfect; if we dont bitch, nobody elses gonna. Whos gonna challenge a giveaway? Old Sing Sing Boyds got it squared with the IRS. Jesus, can you see the faces on those fuckers at Shell and Texaco when we walk More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale off with the Sunyang contract. Hoo boy! Thats gonna make bamboozle

fuckin day. Lucky old Jack had the foresight to go public with Bonner Oil. Well just quietly begin scarfing up the remaining shares over the next couple of weeks. And when the contract is announced, hey More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale boy! We ease into it, the way I see it. Whats the SEC gonna get us for? antifreeze

on inside knowledge? Now, just how in hell could we possibly fix the Sunyang deal, Flub? I ask you: how? No way. Hell, were just a couple of fun-loving More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale Texans, gambling boys. Clint rubbed his crotch, leering Besides, they couldnt accuse us of anything without accusing the Chinese of being in virginia unemployment

with us, and the State Department wouldnt put up with that for a minute. Last time we were in there, I swore the old More Page More Page Private Practice Season Finale man knew who we were. Did you see him watch us like that? His eyes were moving, I know they were. He doesnt know fuck, Flub. Poor son of arsenio hall

bi.

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