“That’s the great danger, that people should go in thinking it’s some kind of . . . of weird joke. The cover should convey seriousness of purpose . . . maybe even a certain grimness . . .
“That’s it!” Johnny cried, barely restraining himself from clapping the big cop on the back. “That’s the great danger, that people should go in thinking it’s some kind of . . . of weird joke. The cover should convey seriousness of purpose . . . maybe even a certain grimness . . . what would you think of just the bike? A photo of the bike, maybe sepia-toned? Sitting in the middle of some country highway . . . or even out here in the desert, on the centerline of Highway 50 . . . shadow stretching off to the side . . .” The absurdity of having this discussion out here, with a towering cop who had been about to issue him a warning for pissing on the tumbleweeds, wasn’t lost on him, but it didn’t cut into his excitement, either.
And once again the cop told him exactly what he wanted to hear.
“No! Good gosh, no. It’s got to be you.”
“Actually, I think so, too,” Johnny said. “Sitting on the bike . . . maybe with the kickstand down and my feet up on the pegs . . . casual, you know . . . casual, but . . .”
“. . . but real,” the cop said. He looked up at Johnny, his gray eyes forbidding, then back down at the bike again. “Casual but real. No smile. Don’t you dare smile, Mr. Marinville.”
“No smile,” Johnny agreed, thinking, This guy is a genius.
“And a little distant,” the cop said. “Looking off. Like you were thinking of all the miles you’d been—”
