At eight o’clock exactly, his cell phone rang. The ID reading BLOCKED meant the man was waiting outside for him. He got up and followed the stairs to the second bedroom door, knocking softly and hearing shuffling inside. The old gray-headed Trooper answered the door, looking pretty mad until he saw it was Stagg, and then grunted, “Let me get my pants and my gun. Is he here?”

“Yes, sir,” Stagg said. “Waiting outside.”

Stagg glanced through the cracked door and saw his little pixie lying on the bed, buck-naked and passed-out asleep. The old Trooper jerked a thumb at the girl and said, “Shit, Johnny. You git ’em young, don’t you? When I got her clothes off, I felt like you’d laid out some jailbait.”

“Were you disappointed?”

The man slid into his pants, smiled, and shook his buzz-cut head. He reached for his badge and gun on a chest of drawers. Two ducks petrified in midflight hung over the bed. He let himself out and followed Stagg through the big room and through the kitchen and outside. It had started to rain sometime in the last few hours they’d been at the lodge. A light mist fell across the headlights of a black Crown Vic with the windshield wipers going.

Stagg and the old Trooper stood side by side, waiting for the man to get out. The engine was still running as he met them in the headlights and asked how the party was going.

“Come on in,” Stagg said. “We can fix you up a plate of whatever you like.”

“No, sir,” said the man. “I got to get home to Oxford. My wife would chew my ass if I get in too late.”

“How’d it go?” the Trooper said.

The man shrugged, wiping the rain off his short-clipped mustache. His receding hair plastered down on his head. “You got it?”

“Yes, sir,” the Trooper said. “Fuck, it’s why I’m here.”

The Trooper wandered off to a green Dodge pickup truck, saying he would never take an official vehicle off-duty, and opened up a passenger door and reached inside.

“Appreciate you making the trip,” Stagg said.

The man looked nervous and unfocused in the bright hot lights of his car. “I got to go.”

“Hold on, hold on.”

“Who’s inside?” the man asked.

Stagg just placed a finger to his lips and smiled.

The Trooper walked back to the men, carrying a rifle in a camouflage cover. He held it out in both hands as if presenting an official gift and waited for the other man. The other man hesitated for a bit, then took a breath and reached for it.

“Y’all got a warrant to search that dyke’s house?” the Trooper asked.

“Almost.”

“But y’all will take inventory of all them guns she collects?” Stagg said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good deal,” Stagg said, grinning. “Sure is good seeing you.”

He shook the man’s hand and walked back to the hunt lodge to finish the second half of his sandwich.

When Quinn walked into Mr. Jim’s barbershop the next morning, Luther Varner looked up from his copy of the Daily Journal and pronounced that rain was expected that afternoon, Ole Miss had screwed the pooch in the second half, and this country was still in the shitter. Mr. Jim was cutting the hair of Jay Bartlett, the esteemed mayor of Jericho, who was only six years older than Quinn and whose father had been mayor before him. Mr. Jim, a portly old man who’d served in Patton’s 3rd Army, glanced up from his work and wished Quinn a good morning. Bartlett didn’t say anything, looking to Quinn and then staring straight ahead at the TV on top of the Coke machine, the men checking out The Price Is Right, a special on celebrating Bob Barker’s ninetieth birthday.

“Barker must be doing something right,” Mr. Jim said. “Still got his own hair. Got good color and sense about him.”

“You know he works with all them animals?” Mr. Varner said, spewing smoke from the side of his mouth. “I heard he paid a million dollars to save an elephant.”

“Y’all ever watch anything else?” Quinn asked.

“Sometimes we watch Days of Our Lives.”

“Sometimes?” Quinn said. “Y’all been watching it every day since I was a kid.”

Luther Varner was rail-thin in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, his long, bony forearm proudly displaying a Semper Fi and laughing skull tattoos. He ashed the cigarette into his hand and walked over to the trash can to empty it. On the way back he shot a look at Quinn, tilting his head to Bartlett, before sitting back down.

“How you doing, Jay?” Quinn asked.

“Good.”

“How’d it go yesterday on the Square?”

“Fine,” Bartlett said, eyes never leaving The Price Is Right. A screaming fat woman had just been given the chance to win a small economy car.

“Damn,” Luther said. “Don’t think she could get in that car. What you think, Jim?”

“Part of her could get in,” Mr. Jim said. “But the rest of her gonna have to hang out the window.”

Bartlett kept on staring at the television. Mr. Jim put down the scissors and picked up a set of clippers, taking the hair off Bartlett’s neck. Bartlett touched the part in his hair and fingered it off to the side, not being able to stand a moment that his hair wasn’t spot-on. Mr. Jim put down the clippers and removed the cutter’s cape from Bartlett’s chest, dusting the hairs off his shoulders and neck. “Ready to go.”

Bartlett reached into the pockets of his khakis and paid Mr. Jim. “Appreciate it.”

Quinn hadn’t moved. He simply nodded to Bartlett as he walked out, Bartlett only slightly returning the nod, something off and nervous about the man, as he passed and the door shut behind him with a jingle.

“That boy is sorrier than shit,” Luther said.

Mr. Jim motioned for Quinn to take a seat. He fit the cape around his neck, finding the number 2 spacer he always used for the top of Quinn’s head.

“He’s a politician,” Mr. Jim said. “It’s in his blood. Them people don’t think like decent people.”

“Guess I won’t expect his support this spring,” Quinn said.

“Hell with him,” Mr. Jim said, turning on the clippers, running the spacer over Quinn’s head. Luther Varner shook his head at the sorriness of the whole situation, as he lit up another long smoke and turned his head to see if that fat woman had picked out the right numbers for the car. Mr. Jim finished up with the spacer and adjusted the clippers for the back and side of Quinn’s head. Before he started, he launched into a coughing fit, turning his head and putting his hand to his mouth. Quinn and Luther didn’t mention it, as Mr. Jim didn’t want to discuss his illness.

He returned to the spinning chair as if it had never happened.

“I wasn’t asked to attend the ceremony on the Square yesterday,” Quinn said.

“Maybe they forgot?” Mr. Jim said, looking a bit more pale, breathing ragged.

“Bullshit.”

“The supervisors got down on me early,” Quinn said. “But I have to say I’m surprised by Jay Bartlett. His father was a decent man.”

“Oh, hell no he wasn’t, Quinn,” Luther said. “Bartletts always do for the Bartletts. Ain’t none of them ever stood for what’s right. They stand for what people want to hear.”

Mr. Jim held the clippers in his hand but hadn’t turned them on yet.

“You think that’s what people want to hear?” Quinn said. “You think it’s gone that far?”

Luther squinted his eyes in the smoke and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice weathered and cracked like a good Marine. “I try and not listen to bullshit.”