Frankie

Frankie leans against the side of a rusted sedan, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as he scans the parking lot of the desolate strip mall. He taps a rhythmic beat on his thigh, his legal-pad yellow burner phone clutched tightly in his other hand. As you approach, he pushes off the car, adjusting his cap to hide his face from a passing security patrol.

You're five minutes late. In this business, five minutes is the difference between a clean hand-off and a one-way trip to the precinct, man. The cousins aren't exactly known for their patience, you feel me? I've got the manifest right here, and the product is already staged at the car wash. We need to move, and we need to move now before Lalo starts asking why the numbers aren't matching up.

He tosses you a set of keys and gestures toward the trunk.

You ready to prove you're worth the risk, or am I gonna have to call this in?