hell would I want you to do that?” She had a point; my home skills were just short of negligible—I’d only gotten around to having the Mexican tile in my six-year-old log cabin installed this past fall. “It’s a guy thing; even if you don’t know anything about cars, you open the hood and look at the engine.” “Seven-thirty. Then I’ll let you take me out to dinner.” I took the weight off my sore foot and looked down at my boots, which were covered with buckled galoshes. “That’s a nice part of town. The houses around there usually go in a hurry. What do they want for it?” “One-seventy-one, but I think I can get it for one-sixty-two. Alphonse says he’ll front me the down, and then I can just pay him back when I can, sans interest.” Alphonse was Vic’s uncle who had a pizza parlor in Philadelphia and, other than Vic’s mother, Lena, the only non-cop Moretti. “How’s the rest of the family feel about this?” “They don’t know about it.” As a general rule, the machinations of the Moretti family made the Borgias’ seem like Blondie and Dagwood. Her shoulder bumped into my arm as she changed the subject. “So, your daughter and my brother are getting married this summer?” I took a deep breath with a quick exhale. “All I know is what I get from the answering machine at home.” “At least you’ve got a home.” She shifted her weight again, this time in not-so-simple dissatisfaction. “Mom says the end of July.” I shrugged. “Mom would know.” I thought about Vic’s mother, and the brief time I’d spent in Philly almost a year ago. “Did she mention whether they were thinking of doing it here or in Philadelphia?” She looked up at me. “There was supposedly talk about some special place on the Rez—Crazy something . . .” I thought about it. “Crazy Head Springs?” “That’s it.” “Uh-oh.” “Why uh-oh?” “It’s where I once helped raise the powwow totem; it’s a sacred place for the Cheyenne but controversial. Crazy Head was a Crow chief, but part of the break-off Kicks-in-the-Belly band.” “Like Virgil?” “Yep, like Virgil.” Virgil had been one of our holding cell lodgers who, after having been released, had gone MIA. “The Cheyenne don’t like the idea of a Crow chief being exalted on their reservation. Henry took Cady along with us when she was seven, and she’s always said she wanted to be married there.” Vic shook her head. “We’ll see if it lasts till the summer.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her eyes met mine, but she diverted again. “So, has the Basquo talked to you?” I started to yawn and covered my mouth with my hand. “About what?” “Quitting.” I stopped in mid-yawn. “What?” I studied her a moment more, but my eyes were drawn to an approaching lab coat flapping toward us from the hallway. I swiveled my head to meet Isaac Bloomfield, surgeon and all-around Durant Memorial physician-in-charge. As a member of the lost tribe, who must’ve really been lost when he settled in Wyoming, Isaac Bloomfield had set up practice in Absaroka County more than a half century ago. He had been one of the three living inmates of Dora-Mittelbau’s Nordhausen when Allied troops had liberated the Nazi Vernichtungslager
. “How’s the patient?” “Well, that’s the first time we’ve ever had that happen.” He looked up at me through the thick lenses of his glasses, which magnified the multiple layers of skin around his eyes. “His hair has grown through his long underwear.” Vic made an unflattering noise through her nose. “Probably more than we needed to know, Doc.” He adjusted his glasses and motioned with his almost bald head toward the double doors of the ER. “Walter, I need you to come with me.” He glanced back as Vic started to follow. “Alone.” I turned to her as I followed the thin man into the inner sanctums of Durant Memorial. “Stay here. I want to know more about the house and the wedding. And Sancho.” She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her duty jacket and called after me. “I’ve got that appointment at seven-thirty.” The Doc walked me into the first examination room and closed the door. I glanced around and noticed we were the only ones there; that’s why I’m a sheriff, because I notice things like that. “Where’s the patient?” He placed the edge of the clipboard on the counter next to a sink and studied me. “In the next room.” “Please tell me he didn’t just have a heart attack.” I thought about it. “You know the family has a history.” “Yes, but the patient in question suffers primarily from diabetes, not heart disease.” “All right, then.” I looked at him. “What’s up, Doc?” I stood there in his disapproving silence. He slowly brought his gaze up. “You’ve had a rough year. A very rough year.” He peered at me and tapped the examination bench. “Climb up here.” “Isaac, I don’t have time . . .” He patted the clipboard. “Neither do I. I have every intention of retiring soon and handing the responsibility for this place over to the new young man we’ve hired.” “Who?” He ignored me and patted his clipboard again. “These are the mandatory examination papers for the county health plan and, if you do not sit down, I will have them cancel the coverage.” I took a deep breath and looked at him; he was studying the contents of the folder that contained a running documentary of my physical misadventures. The Doc usually dragged me in for the health insurance examination whenever he felt it was high time and long enough. Bushwhacked. “Ruby called you, didn’t she?” He didn’t say anything, so I sighed, stepped up, and sat. He placed the file on the gurney beside me, reached out and thumbed both sides of my knee, pressing up on the cap through my jeans. “How’s the knee?” I winced. “All right, till you started monkeying around with it.” He looked up at me, all the world the likeness of some venerated Caesar and just as forgiving. “The shotgun wound to your leg has healed moderately well?” “Yep.” “No lingering symptoms from pneumonia from drowning?” “I didn’t really drown.” His voice was sharp. “When you have to be resuscitated, you drowned.” “Okay.” “Take off your coat.” I did, and he took my left hand and examined the scar tissue. He held my upper arm and turned my forearm, rotating the elbow. “Does this hurt?” I lied. “No.” He unsnapped my cuff, raised the sleeve of my shirt, and looked more closely at the elbow itself. “You have some swelling here, under the scar tissue.” I lied again. I didn’t usually lie, but with the Doc it had become a habit. “I’ve always had that.” He shook his head and manipulated my shoulder. It sounded gravelly like Geo Stewart’s. “The shoulder?” “It feels great.” “It doesn’t feel great to me, and it doesn’t sound so good either.” He frowned as he compressed the joint and lifted my arm. “How’s that?” It actually hurt like hell, so I pulled my arm loose. “Not so great, which is why I’ve dropped mandatory departmental saluting.” “How is your foot?” “Fabulous.” He studied me with a look, and the only description that might apply would be askance. “You’re still limping.” “I’ve come to consider it a character trait.” “Take off your hat.” “I don’t think that’s going to help with the limp.” He placed his hands on my head, adjusted the angle, and pulled my left eye down for a look; this was the part I was dreading. He released my head and got a small plastic bottle of something from the cabinet behind him. “These drops are for your eyes; would you like to do it, or would you prefer I administer them?” “How many drops?” He held up two fingers, and I did my part for the advancement of medical science. My vision became blurry as he studied his wristwatch and waited. After a bit, he reexamined my eyes. “Well, your pupils don’t show any particular abrasion, but it’s the damage to the ocular cavity that has me worried.” He released me, picked up the file, and stepped back, folding his arms over the folder and his chest. “I can’t make out any detachment of the retina, but it’s possible that there’s some trauma.” He thumbed his chin and continued to look at me like a card player would an inside straight. “I could’a been a contender, Doc.” “You could also go blind as a bat in your left eye if you get hit there again.” I froze. “What?” “Just a little medical humor. If you’re not going to take your condition seriously, why should I?” He hugged my file a little tighter. “Still having the headaches?” “Only when I come in here.” I had made the mistake of mentioning to Ruby that I had had a few recurring headaches, which must have resulted in this examination. I started to edge my rear end off the table. “How often?” H
e continued to study me without moving out of my way. I took a breath and settled. “Every once in a while.” “What about the flashes?” “It was a onetime thing; I just moved my head too fast.” Once again, it was a lie, and I was pushing my luck because the Doc was pretty good at spotting them. After those smiling government Gruppenführers
with black uniforms had taken him away, Isaac Bloomfield had become a walking polygraph test. “You’re sure?” The trick to a good lie, no matter how outrageous, is sticking to it. “Yep.” He shook his head very slightly, just to let me know he knew I was lying. “Walter, I have a deal for you.” “Okay.” He started to speak but then stopped. After a moment he licked his upper lip and tried again. “I will sign these forms indicating that you are in fine shape, which you are for a young man with this many accumulated injuries.” I liked it when the Doc called me a young man and tried not to dwell on the fact that he was in his eighties. “But, only on one condition.” There was always a catch with the Doc. “And that is?” “You have Andy Hall in Sheridan do a complete examination of your left eye.” “All right.” I had started to get up again, but it was too quick of an answer and he placed a hand on my knee, the bad one, to stop me. “I will set up the appointment.” I hedged. “I can do it, just give me his number.” “No, I will make the appointment for you. What time this week is good?” “This week?” Even with my blurred vision, I could see his large brown eyes studying me. “Yes.” Damn. I thought about it and figured the more time I had, the more time I’d have to get out of it. “Friday?” He produced a pen from his lab coat pocket and scribbled on the top of the forms with a flourish followed by a stabbing period. “Thursday.” “That’s Valentine’s Day.” He smiled, his mission accomplished. “Maybe your heart will be in it.” I pulled on my coat and put on my hat. “All right, now that you’re through cutting me off at the pass, do you mind telling me how Geo Stewart is?” “Routine dislocation of the left shoulder.” “Well, that would explain why he was waving at passing traffic with only one arm.” Isaac nodded. “I’d like to keep him here for observation, but there’s something else that’s come up in casual conversation that I thought you might need to know.” “Now why do I not like the sound of that?” Isaac Bloomfield cleared his throat. “It would appear, that at the dump—” “You mean the Municipal Solid Waste Facility?” The Doc continued as if I hadn’t interrupted. “They have found a body part.”
2 “We could put it in the lost and found.” I stared at him as he scratched his substantial beard. “Are you sure it’s a finger, Geo? ’Cause if we drive all the way out there, and it’s the end of a leftover bratwurst . . .” “Not ’less they started puttin’ fingernails on hot dogs.” I looked around the room. Neither Saizarbitoria nor Doc Bloomfield was offering much help. I sighed and chewed on the inside of my lip. “I don’t suppose there’s an engraved ring with the owner’s name inside on that finger, is there?” He thought about it. “Nope, just the finger.” “That was a joke, Geo.” “Oh.” I studied the old man and decided that his hat might’ve been a red and white floral pattern when it started out, but the accumulated grease gave it a rich patina that approached black. Curls of dirty silver escaped from underneath the cap and reached down past his predominant Adam’s apple. His skin was roasted a burnt coffee from the acid of long, hard labor and more than a few lines were etched around the welled sockets of his mouth and his Caribbean blue eyes. Whenever I saw his eyes up close, I wondered what he would look like if he ever washed or shaved. Chances were, the collective county would never know. “Can he travel, Doc?” The attending physician nodded and crossed his arms over his ever-present clipboard. “I suppose so. His family members are still in the waiting room.” I took a deep breath and leaned in as close to Geo as the fumes would allow. “Promise me, this time, you’ll ride inside the car?” I pulled my ten-year-old Ray-Bans from my breast pocket and steered them onto my face to give my dilated pupils a little relief. Even though the skies were gloomy, damp, and gray like a dead body, there was enough of a glare to affect my sight. It was that part of the winter that stretched out like a Russian novel—a really, really long one. I carefully picked my way across the frozen moguls of the Durant Memorial Hospital parking lot with Santiago Saizarbitoria trailing along behind me. I wanted a little time with the Basquo alone. It wasn’t very far to the reserved emergency vehicle spot, but I was glad I’d remembered to put my galoshes back on. I started to open the driver’s side of my truck but then remembered that my eyes were still dilated. I stepped back to look at Sancho. “Sorry, I forgot.” I walked around the front of my unit to the unfamiliar passenger side of the Bullet. When I opened the door, there was a surprise—Dog was seated in the front. He turned to look at me as if I’d lost my mind. He had Saint Bernard in him and some German shepherd with a bunch of other things, most of them domesticated except for when you had bacon—then he was part great white shark. “Where the hell did you come from?” We stared at each other or him at me and me in his blurry, general direction. “Back.” He looked forlorn for a moment and then hopped his hundred-and-forty-five-pound frame onto the jump seat in the rear of the cab. I climbed in and turned to sort of look back at him. “Sorry, official business.” Saizarbitoria climbed in the driver’s side, closed the door, strapped himself in, and turned to look at me. “You got the keys?” “Yep.” I snagged the set from my jacket pocket and handed them to him. He fired up the three-quarter-ton, and I pointed a finger south. “To the dump, James.” As he negotiated the parking lot, I fumbled with the mic on the dash and keyed the button in order to raise Ruby. “Base, this is unit one, over?” Static. “How was your examination?” “I’m going to get you for that. So, did Dog make his way to my truck or did you send him over with someone?” Static. “The Ferg dropped him off on his way home. I’ve got a Methodist women’s meeting tonight, and you’re not trustworthy.” Ruby did a lot of dog-sitting for me, and it was true that I abused the privilege every once in a while. The airwaves went dead without further comment or levity. I glanced at the young deputy in my driver’s seat and thought about what Vic had said. He looked good, considering what he’d gone through in the last few months, what with complications stemming from having a serrated kitchen knife filleting one of his kidneys in July and the birth of his first child, Antonio, in November. I’d been easing him back into full-time duty, but it did seem that his energy level was low. “So, you wanna take this show on the road?” The Basquo smiled weakly as he rolled the steering wheel and pulled out. “Yeah.” I looked out into the frozen landscape and thought about my daughter; I thought about how she hadn’t called lately, which is what I usually thought when I thought about Cady. I blamed it on the young man she was going to marry this summer, figured they had a lot to talk about. Michael Moretti was occupying Cady’s time, and I was jealous. The radio broke up my infantile reverie. Static. “Vic just got here. Are you taking Dog to the dump?” I keyed the mic and reached around to pat his massive head. “Sure, with twenty-three square inches of olfactory membrane, it’ll be like Disneyland for him.” Static. “Don’t forget about the Stewarts’ dogs.” Geo had a pair of mutt wolf-dogs, Butch and Sundance, that were famous countywide as being two of the fiercest creatures this side of Cerberus. They had killed a cougar, a few coyotes, and run at least a couple of black bears off their turf—not to mention more than a few adventurous teenagers. I looked back at the now-expectant canine eyes. Mine were still swimming a slight backstroke as I keyed the mic again. “I’ll keep him close.” Static. “He gets filthy, you get to wash him.” “Deal.” Dog looked at me and smiled a fanged smile while I scratched under his wide chin. I turned back and studied Saizarbitoria as he carefully drove my truck out of town, and I tried desperately to see a little bit of the wayward spark in the musketeer’s eye. Sancho steered through the foothills outside Durant—the darkening skies were absorbing what little heat there had been and giving none. It was Monday of the second week in February and people talked less because their words were snatched from their mout
hs and cast to Nebraska. I had an image of all the unfinished statements and conversations from Wyoming piled along the sand hills until the snow muffled them and they sank into the dark earth. Maybe they rose again in the spring like prairie flowers, but I doubted it. As we made the turn where Geo Stewart had slid into the barrow ditch, an orange ’78 Ford pickup waved us down. A mustached cowboy lowered his window as Santiago switched on the emergency lights and slowed to a gentle, sliding stop on the rinklike ice. The Basquo pushed the button on his window, and I shouted across him. “Hey, Mike.” The sculptor shook his head and smiled. “Did you get old man Stewart untied from that Oldsmobile?” “Yep, we did.” “I wasn’t sure if somebody had cut him loose or if he’d just worn off.” He draped a hand over his steering wheel and checked to make sure no one was behind him. “I dropped a load of junk off at the dump, but there wasn’t anybody at the scales, so I figured you’d taken the old man to the hospital.” He drew his hand across his face and chuckled. “Ozzie Dobbs was up there unloading a bunch of stuff, and I don’t mind tellin’ you he was just as happy to not see Geo there.” I looked through the windshield and thought about the new housing development that had planted itself on the rise that led to the foothills just west of the dump and Geo’s junkyard. They didn’t call it a housing development, but that’s what it was, if you could call five-acre ranchettes with four-million-dollar mansions alongside a golf course a housing development. Redhills Rancho Arroyo had been the brainchild of Ozzie Dobbs Sr., a developer from the southern part of the state, who had taken the opportunity to buy the cheap land adjacent to the dump that happened to have views of the eastern slope of the Bighorns. Ozzie Sr. had quietly passed about two and a half years ago, and the reins had gone to his son, Ozzie Jr., who had been making a public case for having the junkyard/ dump moved again. Geo Stewart was having none of it. Mike Thomas’s tidy, picturesque ranch was over a couple of ridges from my cabin, and whenever Martha and I had driven by Mike’s place, my late wife had looked at it wistfully. He’d sculpted it as meticulously as he did his statuary, with hand-hewn logs, crafted doors, and an artist’s eye. It made me want to hate his guts, but he was too nice a guy. Geographic proximity made him an interested party in what was, southeast of town, the makings of a modern range war. All this history clattered through my mental projector and slapped the tail end with the sculptor’s voice. “Walt, those people are a hazard.” I tried to rethread the film. “Yep, but thank goodness it’s mostly to themselves.” I smiled back at him to let him know that my preoccupation wasn’t personal. “Hey, Mike, can you show me your hands?” He looked puzzled but held up a full complement of digits. We continued on our way, and I remarked to Sancho with my most determined investigative face. “We call that detecting.” He didn’t laugh like he used to. We drove into the driveway of the Stewart family’s big house, careful to avoid the mailbox lying in the roadway, and took the cutoff leading to the junkyard’s double gates, which were across from the dump’s drive-on scales. The combination junkyard/dump was in an old gravel quarry, and the cliffs at the back of the place rose to almost a hundred feet. Even though you could see row after row of antiquated vehicles to the left and mound after mound of trash to the right, it wasn’t a bad spot. Geo’s incongruous-looking office, an art-deco structure that had been salvaged from the city pool and still a startling, if peeling, turquoise with white circular windows and rounded trim, was straight ahead. If you looked hard enough, you could still see the darker paint where the letters that spelled SNACK BAR had fallen off. The Classic was parked by the scales along with a phalanx of tow trucks, all from different decades, but no one seemed to be around. “Pull over here and park it.” He did as I requested without comment. It was possible he was dreading the rest of the long winter even more than I was and that his words were also gone to Nebraska with the wind. I took a sounding. “How’s Marie?” It took a moment, but the words slowly surfaced. “More tired than she was when she was pregnant.” “I bet.” I had thought about telling him a few months ago how tiring it would be when the little rascal was out and about but had decided to keep that nugget of wisdom to myself. “How’s Antonio?” He continued to look at the zigzag patterns of snow, his face away from me. “He sleeps . . . sometimes.” “It can get a little wearing.” I watched his breath on the window. “What?” “Babies, they can get a little wearing.” He still didn’t move. “Yeah.” “Have you figured out whose he is?” He sat there until he turned his head far enough forward so that one eye drifted my way. “What?” I leaned against my door, readjusted my old .45 so that it wasn’t poking me, and looked at the Basquo. “All right, what’s on your mind, Sancho.” He contemplated the Remington twelve-gauge locked onto the transmission hump, and we sat there listening to the dry rhythm of the wind gusts as they pushed against the outside of the truck. His voice sounded like it was coming out of a barrel. “I’m thinking about going back to corrections.” Santiago had started his law enforcement career in Rawlins at the state prison’s maximum security wing. I’d had him for less than a year but liked him and wanted to keep him. “Why?” It took him a moment to respond. “I think I’m better suited working in an environment where I know everybody’s guilty.” I smiled. “At least judged to be guilty by a jury of their peers.” “Well then, in an environment where I can treat everybody as if they’re guilty.” I didn’t say anything. “Look, I know you’re going to try and talk me out of doing this . . .” “No, I’m not.” “You’re not?” “Nope.” I tipped my hat back and looked at him. “You decide to go, I’ll give you a recommendation that’ll turn the state attorney general’s head, but the only thing I ask is that you give it a few weeks and not make your move too quickly. It seems to me you’ve got an awful lot on your plate right now and—” “I’m giving you my two-weeks’ notice as of today.” He turned back to the glass. So much for the wise ol’ sheriff routine. I closed my mouth, took a breath, and continued to inspect him for remnants of the man I’d hired fourteen months ago. It was a tough business coming to terms with your own mortality, and some people, once they are confronted with its face, never forget its features. “Okay.” We returned to the silence, and then he spoke again. “I’ve talked it over with Marie.” I thought about Martha and how she’d never adjusted to the life. “Okay.” The word was like a bad taste. “You still want me for the two weeks?” I thought about all those years, all those times I’d thought about quitting. “You bet.” I cracked open my door, and even in the cold, the smell was like a wall. I had noticed that Duane had approached the driver’s side of the truck, but Sancho hadn’t. When Duane tapped on the driver’s side window, Santiago started, which made Duane jump back in turn, whereupon he lost his balance and fell onto the frozen ground, which was pooled with a slick of motor oil and frozen rusty water. Sancho turned and looked at me. “Jesus.” I opened the door the rest of the way, and Dog jumped out. I gave Duane a hand up. There were tattoos on his knuckles and under his thermal hood was a T-shirt with the inscription, MESS WITH ME, AND YOU MESS WITH THE WHOLE TRAILER PARK. The humor didn’t seem to match the young man’s sensibilities, so someone must’ve bought it for him or maybe I was underestimating Duane. “You guys here about the hand?” I nodded. “We heard it was just a finger.” He looked nervous, but then he always looked nervous when we were around. He still smelled vaguely like marijuana. “Yunh-huh, yeah, a finger.” I heard a low growl and looked at Dog, who was sitting on my foot. He was transfixed and looking directly at the junkyard’s quasi-office where, in one of the claw-scarred, Plexiglas windows, Butch and Sundance were seated at attention with only their heads showing. They were as big as Dog but not as bulky. He growled again, low enough to quake my own lungs, and I swatted at him. “Stop it.” He easily evaded my hand and looked at me, hurt at my admonishment. I threw a chin toward the two Heinz fifty-seven variety wolves. “They’re behaving, so you better be good or I’ll put you back in the truck.” I glanced at the two sets of eyes that studied us, aware that even if they were behaving, it didn’
t mean they weren’t planning. There was something about the way they sat there quietly that reminded me of what my friend Henry Standing Bear says about the quiet ones being like the Cheyenne, waiting until you were in a compromised position, then moving to action. For now, they were behind closed doors, and I was just as glad. “Are you watching the office for your grandfather?” “Yunh-huh.” “Where’s he?” He gestured with a thick hand. “That way.” I nodded and started off. “Make sure to keep Butch and Sundance in the office, okay?” “Okay.” Piles of garbage were heaped to the surrounding hillsides on our right and as Double Tough, another of my deputies, would have said, the unfettered smells were bad enough to gag a maggot off a gut wagon. All in all, it looked pretty much how I was beginning to feel. The Basquo caught up but kept a hand over his mouth and nose. “How about I stay in the truck?” I shook my head. “Nunh-unh.” I waited for a response, but there wasn’t any. “If this is your last two weeks, then you’re going to be the primary on this one.” He sighed, and his shoulders shrugged a little as he stuffed the small evidence kit under his arm. “It’s freezing. How come we don’t just drive the rest of the way in?” “Because I’ve already lost two tires to scrap metal and wayward drywall screws in this place, and I’m not about to lose another.” I flipped the collar up on my coat and stuffed my gloved hands even deeper into my pockets. The high plains was a place of extremes with a people of extremes—most of my work involved the sentient and venal aspects of human nature—but even with the wet and the real, we generally didn’t get body parts. As we walked toward the hill, there was a cracking sound from the road that led to the dump’s interior. Saizarbitoria looked in the direction of the noise and then back to me. “Are those shots?” There was more than a little concern in his voice. “Yep. A .22, I’d say.” He picked up his pace, and I followed along like a one-man posse. I’d gone about three steps when I remembered Dog—he was still watching Butch and Sundance. “Hey.” He looked at me, back to them, and then followed. I nudged him with my leg. “What’re you, a tough guy?” When we got over the hill, it was as I’d expected. Geo Stewart, Durant Memorial Hospital patient-at-large, was dispatching rats with a Savage automatic varmint rifle at an alarming rate. At least, I assumed it was rats. He turned to prop the stock on his knee so that he could remove the tiny magazine, gave us a brief nod of his head to indicate that he was aware of our presence, and then scooped a handful of rounds from his stained and tattered Carhartt. “Hey, Sheriff, long time no see.” Evidently the shoulder wasn’t bothering him. “Hey, Geo.” He studied my face as we got closer. “Somethin’ wrong with your eyes?” I pushed my sunglasses farther up onto my nose, effectively covering the twin saucers of my pupils. “What are you shooting, Geo?” He went back to thumbing .22 longs into the spring clip of the rifle’s magazine. “Damnable rats, found one of ’em in the cooler trying to run off with the finger I told you about.” His chest-length beard was zipped into his coat. “Adjuster came up here a few months ago and said that if I didn’t do something they’d cancel the insurance. Gaddam insurance.” Sancho pulled the collar of his jacket up as a makeshift filter since the wind had shifted and we were now getting the full, odiferous impact of the surroundings. “Jesus.” The Euskadi eyes leveled with the junkman’s. “How do you get used to the smell?” Geo eyed him without irony and then moved off with the words “What smell?”
Craig Johnson Page 2
