Next I swung by the auto shop to inquire about my truck and had a little good news. The glass had been delivered and they would get on the job today. But first they would have to do a little touch-up on the paint. When Leon had knocked the mirrors off, the doors had sustained some deep scratches. I gave the approval for the work and left the shop in a better mood than when I had arrived.

As I drove back to the docks, I saw a few more rays of sunshine finding their way through the clouds. I had checked the marine forecast first thing this morning, and it looked like we were to get about a twelve-hour respite from the rain. I thought I would take advantage of that for a few hours and accomplish a minor task.

I parked the rental car in my accustomed place under the live oaks and walked down to Captain Flynt’s Bucket o’ Blood. Fortunately, the garbage truck hadn’t arrived yet this morning, and I had a little Dumpster diving to do before Tyrone came in and caught me at it. Somehow or other, rooting around in a trash container is just something a man prefers to do in private.

When I went around back of the building where the Dumpster sits I saw that Dolores was back from Atlanta. Her red Cadillac Eldorado was parked in her regular spot near the back door. I would have to work quickly and be quiet about it unless I wanted to be cornered and forced to give a report of my last trip.

I opened the door of the container and peered inside. Yeah, there, over to one side, was what I was looking for: several flattened cardboard boxes. But they were out of arm’s reach and I really didn’t want to climb inside. I looked back outside for something to extend my reach. By the edge of the lot was a limb that had fallen from a nearby black gum tree. Just right, I thought as I picked it up and returned to the Dumpster.

I leaned inside as far as I could and raked the first box to hand. I pitched it to the ground outside and was leaning in again—I had to reach farther this time—when someone smacked me across the backside and called loudly in a rich and throaty female voice, “Kennesaw Tanner, just what in the hell do you think you’re doing in there?”

I came out of the Dumpster and faced my interrogator.

“Hey, Dolores. I was looking for some boxes,” I deadpanned.

Dolores stood with her fists planted on her shapely hips, tapping a toe, and slowly shaking her head. She arched her brows and gave me a questioning look.