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.
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
"We used to be able to dictate the terms," the old man muttered. Holloway reached out with a trembling, liver-spotted hand
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 didn't wait for a reply. He pushed through the screen door, letting it slap twice against the frame. Outside, the air smelled of ozone, wet iron, and diesel. Miller popped the collar of his jacket and walked out into the deluge, leaving the old man alone with a pouch of dirty cash and a garage full of dead men's tools.
"He didn't leave," Miller corrected him. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound pouch. He didn’t open it. He just set it on the ledger with a dull thud . "He just got traded."