'I wanted you to have something from my native land.'

'To atone for the way you've been treating me lately?'

'I've been treating you as a coleague.'

'A coleague who'd like to suck your toes.'

My stomach did that little flippy thing.

'Open the package.'

He did.

'These are kickin'.'

Resting an ankle on one knee, Ryan replaced a deck shoe with a moccasin. A big-haired deb at the bar stopped peeling the label from her Coors to watch him.

'Made by Sitting Bul himself?'

'Sitting Bul was Sioux. These were probably made by Wang Chou Lee.'

He reversed, and did the other foot. The deb jabbed an elbow at her companion.

'You may not want to wear them here.'

'Certainly I do. They were a gift from a coleague.'

He wrapped the deck shoes in the moccasin bag and went back to his chili.

'Meet any interesting aboriginals?'

I wanted to say no. 'Actualy, I did.'

He looked up with eyes blue enough to blend in with a vilage ful of Finns.

'Or, I might have.'

I told him about the Volvo incident.

'Jesus, Brennan. How do—'

'I know. How do I get myself into these situations. Do you think I should worry about it?' I was hoping he would say no.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.

Chili.

Beer.

Fragments of conversations.

'The deconstructionists tel us that nothing is real, but I've discovered one or two truisms in life. The first is, when attacked by a Volvo, take it seriously.'

'I'm not sure the guy meant to run me down. Maybe he didn't see me.

'Did you think so at the time?'

'That's how it felt.'

'Second truism: Volvo first impressions are generaly correct.'

We'd finished eating and Ryan was in the men's room when I noticed Lucy Crowe enter and make her way toward the bar. She was in uniform and looked armed and deadly.

I waved but Crowe didn't notice. I stood and waved again, and a voice belowed, 'You're blocking the game. Park it or haul it.'

Ignoring the suggestion, I flapped both arms. Crowe saw me, nodded, and held up an index finger. As I sat, the bartender handed her a glass, then leaned forward to whisper something.

'Hey, sweet cheeks!'

A redneck scorned is never pretty. I continued to ignore, he continued to taunt.

'Hey, you with the windmil act.'

The redneck was ratcheting up when he spotted the sheriff moving in my direction. Realizing his error, he swigged his beer and reengaged with the game.

Ryan and Crowe reached the booth simultaneously. Noticing Ryan's feet, the sheriff looked at me.

'He's Canadian.'

Ryan let it pass and resumed his seat.

Crowe set her 7UP on the table and joined us.