at the squat little man standing before him with his empty right hand still extended. When the man spoke, it was in measured tones, in words that were barely audible. “Calm. The. Fuck. Down,” Shit said, Johnny Cash deep and low-down and barely above a whisper. The guy’s eyes, sharp now, sharp as a diamond cutter, bored holes into Joe’s face. After a while, he finally stuck his hand out. Joe shook it with some temerity, worried about the delicate bones in his fingers. But expecting tough, gnarled calluses, Joe found the handshake was civilized, almost weirdly soft and gentle for a rodeo cowboy.
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