Clete wondered how the buried images of the Indians dying in the explosions of the satchel charges did not crack through the perfection of Nightingale’s perfect egg-shaped face, and leave it like pieces of porcelain at his feet. “Somebody tried to blow up my shit,” Clete said. “I didn’t know about that.” “If he’d pulled it off, he would have killed a young boy I take care of. That’s a big problem for me.” “Let me know if I can help. A little influence never hurts.” “The authorities usually see me as the problem. They’re often right. See, I’m going to square this on my own.” “Give ’em heck,”
...more
