They’re afraid to make the delivery of the other load of sheetrock and plywood we need to finish the job unless you pay seventy five percent of the cost up front,” Earl told Armand over the phone. Armand swore under his breath. “Are you shittin’ me? What the hell is wrong with Marcus McCoy? He’s known my family for years. His damn father is friends with my dad and he knows we always pay our bills.” Armand raised his voice but he didn’t really yell. This had to be some kind of misunderstanding. “I’ll call McCoy right now.” He hung up the phone, looked up McCoy number and the personal cell phone of Marcus McCoy. As soon as Marcus’s voice came through the phone, Armand began to explain the situation. “Yeah well, Armand, I have to be real careful. I’ve been stiffed out of money for deliveries a lot lately,” Marcus stated in his slow, thick Cajun accent. Armand could practically picture Marcus standing there in his dirty overalls and dark navy blue shirt, sliding his fingers up the suspenders while he held the phone in his other hand.
