His hand dove beneath my seat and surfaced with the sawed-off vintage Lupara.
"I distinctly remember telling you not to bring that thing," I complained.
"Felt like you were daring me.
Oh! Do you have a pocketknife?"
He narrowed his eyes at me. "Pocketknife?"
"Don't men your age always have pocketknives?" I asked in a high-pitched voice.
"My age? I'm not a fucking grandfather," he snapped.
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