“Sitting Bull was Sioux. These were probably made by Wang Chou Lee.”
He reversed, and did the other foot. The deb jabbed an elbow at her companion.
“You may not want to wear them here.”
“Certainly I do. They were a gift from a colleague.”
He wrapped the deck shoes in the moccasin bag and went back to his chili.
“Meet any interesting aboriginals?”
I wanted to say no. “Actually, I did.”
He looked up with eyes blue enough to blend in with a village full of Finns.
“Or, I might have.”
I told him about the Volvo incident.
“Jesus, Brennan. How do—”
“I know. How do I get myself into these situations. Do you think I should worry about it?” I was hoping he would say no.
Chili.
Beer.
Fragments of conversations.
“The deconstructionists tell us that nothing is real, but I've discovered one or two truisms in life. The first is, when attacked by a Volvo, take it seriously.”
“I'm not sure the guy meant to run me down. Maybe he didn't see me.”
“Did you think so at the time?”
“That's how it felt.”
“Second truism: Volvo first impressions are generally correct.”
We'd finished eating and Ryan was in the men's room when I noticed Lucy Crowe enter and make her way toward the bar. She was in uniform and looked armed and deadly.
I waved but Crowe didn't notice. I stood and waved again, and a voice bellowed, “You're blocking the game. Park it or haul it.”
Ignoring the suggestion, I flapped both arms. Crowe saw me, nodded, and held up an index finger. As I sat, the bartender handed her a glass, then leaned forward to whisper something.
“Hey, sweet cheeks!” A redneck scorned is never pretty. I continued to ignore, he continued to taunt.
“Hey, you with the windmill act.” The redneck was ratcheting up when he spotted the sheriff moving in my direction. Realizing his error, he swigged his beer and reengaged with the game.
Ryan and Crowe reached the booth simultaneously. Noticing Ryan's feet, the sheriff looked at me.
“He's Canadian.”
Ryan let it pass and resumed his seat.
Crowe set her 7UP on the table and joined us.
“Dr. Brennan has a story she wants to share,” said Ryan, pulling out his cigarettes.
I looked icicles at him. I would have preferred a lifetime of tax audits to telling Crowe of the Volvo incident.
She listened without interrupting.
“Did you get the license number?”
“No.”
“Can you describe the driver?”
“Wearing a cap.”
“What kind of cap?”
“I couldn't tell.” I could feel my cheeks flush with humiliation.
“Was anyone else present?”
“No. I checked. Look, the whole thing may have been an accident. Maybe it was a kid peeling out in Daddy's Volvo.”
“Is that what you think?” The celery eyes were locked on mine.
“No. I don't know.”
I placed my hands on the tabletop, pulled them back, and wiped spilled beer onto my jeans.
