“I’ve phoned the developer. They say they’re going to come, nothing happens. I’m gonna drop by the office; maybe appearing in person will make a difference. You hear that thing on the news?”

“What?”

“Guy comes into a variety store, shoots the owner right in the head, right in front of his wife.”

“Jesus. Here?” He tossed his butt onto his driveway, reached through the front window of his truck to grab a pack up on the dash.

“No. Downtown. Sarah phoned from work, she’d sent a reporter and a photographer out to cover it, was telling me about it, then I heard it on the radio.”

“Jesus,” Earl said again. “I’d never live downtown.” He stuck a new cigarette into his mouth, lit it, took a long drag, then blew the smoke out through his nose. Earl’s history, as he’d explained it to me, involved living out on the East Coast, a bit of time out west. He was divorced, had no children, and seemed an unlikely candidate for the neighborhood, rattling around in a big, new house all by himself. But he’d told me he felt he needed to put some roots down somewhere, and a new subdivision, where a lot of people could use his talents as a landscaper, seemed as good a place as any to make a living. Paul had called on him several times for advice, although “pestered” might be a better word. Earl had been reluctant at first to let my son into his world, but finally, maybe just to get Paul off his back, he’d agreed to give him a few tips, and a couple of times on weekends I’d noticed Earl and Paul shirtless and sweating under a cloudless sky in the far corner of our yard, digging holes and planting small bushes.

“Well, we’ve been that route,” I said. “Living downtown. It was a worry, especially with kids, you know? Teenagers? There’s so much they can get into in the city.”

“Not that they can’t get into trouble out here,” Earl said. “You know kids, they’ll find trouble wherever they are. Who’s that clown?”

Earl had been looking down the opposite side of the street, a couple of houses past Trixie’s. It was a guy going door to door. Tall and thin, short gray hair, about fifty I figured, armed with a clipboard. He was too casually dressed, in jeans and hiking boots and a plaid shirt, to be anyone official.

“Beats me,” I said. He had drawn a woman to the door, who listened, hanging her head out while she held the door open a foot, while he went through some spiel.

“I’m betting driveway resurfacing,” Earl said. “Every other day, some asshole wants to resurface my driveway.”