"I’m sorry," Butch says, smiling that Cheshire-cat smile. "Could you repeat that?"
"Knock, knock," he says.
"Howie going to hide this dead body?"
Florida looks at him, just stares at him for an overly long moment, the kind of overly long moment that gets him kicked out of the Freelancer’s regular social activities. Wyoming just waits.
Florida looks at him. Looks down. Looks at the blood on his boots. Looks at the bodies of the Insurrectionists around them.
"Dead bodies,” he corrects.
"Ha," Butch says, finally. "That’s a good one, Reggie.”
"I thought so."