Never on a Sunday

"Sorry, man, no can do."

Migo's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What are you talking about? You're the biggest money whore in town. This type of gig is right up your alley."

"I'm short-handed." Vince leaned back in his battered leather desk chair. "Fausto is injured, Ozone's out of town for a few days, and Speedball won't work Sundays."

"Don't tell me he's gone religious."

"No, nothing like that." Vince grimaced. "Just a phase he's going through, like last month when he thought Peru could read his mind and was transmitting his thoughts to ancient Apache deities."

Migo shook his head. "Where do you find them?"

"I always stumble upon them somehow. Speedball does good work, though."

"Except he's crazy as a rabid squirrel on meth."

Vince pulled open a drawer and drew out a bottle of good Kentucky bourbon. "We can't all be sane, and who'd want to be, anyway?" He poured a measure into a glass and pushed it across the desk. "Drink up, friend. And pick another date for your little gun-running operation. Any date, as long as it's not a Sunday."