“What’s back here, then?”
“Oh, nothing. Just an alley,” answered Domino, showing the tall, swarthy man around the gas station his uncle owned.
The stranger peers out. “Oh, I think it’s much more than an alley.”
“In its day, maybe. The Dark Days.” Satan Days, Domino thinks to himself, not wanting to say the word aloud.
The stranger knocks on the door, testing its solidity. “No eyes on this one as far as you can tell?”
“Nope,” clipped Domino, thinking how lucky they could limit themselves to one door for such a profitable establishment. Karma indeed.
“Listen, er, stranger.” Domino was trying to prompt for a name again. And failing again. “Um, my uncle won’t be back today. Like I said, *he’s* the owner. He’s the one you should be talking to. Not me.”
“That’s fine,” replied the dark man plainly, implying that he was okay with just talking to Domino now. Was Domino being played? Was he *in play*?
Marion Harding shuts the door, turns around, crosses his arms. “Tell your uncle that I’m interesting in buying this joint. Tell him — money is not an option.”
“Er… do you mean that money is not an issue? That’s great, er, but Uncle Zach, I’m sure, isn’t selling.” Then Domino realized he might be wrong. Why was the stranger here in the first place?
“I said what I said,” reinforced Marion. “Tell your Uncle Zach exactly what I just told you. Understand?”
“Sure, sure.”
Sunklands 