Harold Dent sat in his car, tapping the steering wheel. Only slightly less wide than he was tall, he had a misshapen head, created by nature, and misshapen fingers because of his nature. He had started life as a boxer, but had taken the path of least resistance and big money by hitching his wagon to Bates’ dark star. He was not a bright man or a particularly brave one. He didn’t need to be. He was very strong. His only instinct besides killing was survival. It was as strong as he was and it kicked in as he studied with narrowed gaze the lights flashing on the top of police cars positioned crookedly in front of the doors of the mall.
He had left his broad in bed for this? The snitch at the PD shoulda told him how hot it was gonna be here. This wasn’t a hit, it was a short trip to stir and
