Spring was the artist Jude had lived with in Greenwich Village for eight years. Neither of Hammer’s sons was married. Each had two children, and Hammer adored every fine golden hair on their small lovely heads. It was her bleeding, buried fear that they were growing up in distant cities with only infrequent contact with their rather legendary grandmother. Hammer did not want to be someone they might someday talk about but had never known.

“Smith and Fen wanted to come,” said Randy, taking his mother’s hand. “It’s gonna be all right, Mom.” He felt another stab of hate for his father.

• • •

West didn’t know what to do with her prisoner of the evening. Brazil was slumped down in the seat, arms crossed, his posture defiant and decidedly without remorse. He refused to look at her now but stared out the windshield at bugs and bats swirling beneath lights. He watched truckers in pointed cowboy boots and jeans strolling out to their mighty steeds and leaning against cabs, propping a foot on the running board, hands cupped around a cigarette, as they lit up like the Marlboro Man.

“You got your cigarettes?” Brazil asked West.

She looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “Forget it.”

“I want one.”

“Yeah, right. You’ve never smoked in your life and I’m not going to be the reason you start,” she said, and she wanted one, too.

“You couldn’t possibly know whether I’ve ever smoked a cigarette or pot or anything else,” he said in the strange tone of intoxication. “Ha! You think you know so much. You don’t know shit. Cops. And their dark, narrow alleyways for minds.”

“Really? I thought you were a cop. Or have you quit that, too?”

He stared miserably out his side window.

West felt sorry for him, mad as she was. She wished she knew what was wrong, exactly.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” She tried another tactic, poking Brazil, this time not playfully.

He did not respond.

“Trying to ruin your life? What if some other cop spotted you first?” She was no-nonsense. “Got any idea how much trouble you’d be in?”

“I don’t care,” he said, and his voice caught.

“Yes, you do, goddamn it! Look at me!”

Brazil stared out, his eyes swimming as he dully watched bleary images of people in and out of the truck stop, men and women whose lives were different from his and who would not understand what it was like to be him. They would look at all that he was and despise him for being privileged and spoiled, because they could not comprehend his reality.

• • •

Bubba felt precisely this, and just so happened to be parking his King Cab at the pumps. He spotted the BMW first, then the cop car with the enemy in it. Bubba could not believe his good fortune. He went in for Pabst Blue Ribbon and Red Man and picked up the latest Playboy.