The neon sign above the radiator shop buzzed with a low, steady frequency that vibrated right through Miller’s boots. The sign read Holloway & Son , though the son had been buried in a dry-county cemetery since ninety-four, and Holloway himself couldn't grip a wrench no more without his knuckles locking up like old brakes.
Miller didn’t care about the history. He only cared about the grease-stained ledger sitting on the desk between them. [S2E6] Hold What You Got
"I'm exactly what the ticket said." Miller leaned back, his synthetic jacket crinkling. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired a night of sleep fixes, but the kind that gets down into the marrow and stays there. "You want to hold what you got, Holloway? Then you stop looking at what you lost. This is the pile. This is the whole damn stack. You either lock it in the floor safe or you let the wind take it. I'm done holding the bag." The neon sign above the radiator shop buzzed
"To the bank. To the state. To whoever's buying up the bottom half of this county this week. Does it matter?" He only cared about the grease-stained ledger sitting
Holloway reached out with a trembling, liver-spotted hand. He didn't take the bag. He just touched the leather with the tip of his finger, as if expecting it to be hot to the touch.
Holloway finally looked down at the pouch. He knew what was in it. It was the payout from the three-ton haul they’d run across the state line two nights ago—the one where the tires were screaming and the engine block was glowing cherry red in the dark. It was supposed to be the money that cleared the books. "You're short," Holloway stated.