‘Didn’t seem to be no bones broken,’ she says matter-of-factly, ‘leastways not as far as I could tell. Didn’t seem to be nuthin’ wrong with him at all ‘cept he’d tried eating cactus and his mouth was all bloody from the spikes, that and some kind of animal, mice or rats mebbe, had started eatin’ away at his hands.’

‘Oh.’ I finally understand what she’s saying.

Nora shakes her head. ‘Buried him right where he died, under that tree.’

‘So do you go out looking for people in trouble, or do they turn up here?’

‘They’re too scared to come here. Naa, I do shifts with my buddy Milt and some others. We find ‘em, water ‘em, let ‘em do a bit of work round the place and mostly they’re grateful for it, though I had one bunch turn up recently and flat demand I rustle ‘em up some eggs. Had a good mind to call the Border Patrol,’ her mouth turns down, ‘for all the use they’d be. Bunch of cock-suckin’ losers.’

‘They seem pretty efficient to me.’ It’s my turn to snort now. ‘They’ve had me up twice already for speeding.’

Nora’s eyes narrow to nickel slots in her puffy face. ‘Border Patrol?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sure of that?’

‘Why?’

‘Border Patrol ain’t authorized to ticket people.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Speeding’s a cop’s business.’

She sees the look on my face and guffaws. ‘Girlie, there are more fun ways of gettin’ screwed round here than handin’ your money over to the Border Patrol.’

Goddammit, Winfred, I think wearily, is nobody out here what they seem?

‘So what about that haircut of yours?’ Nora is still wiping tears of laughter from the corner of her eyes.

I tell her I was only looking for a trim, mention split ends—

‘Turn around, I’ll do it for you,’ she says then chortles at my expression ‘I won’t snip your ears off, girl, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

It’s exactly what I’m afraid of, but it’s too late. Nora’s already fetching scissors from behind the bar and when she starts to rake over my scalp with a manky comb, I don’t query whether she oughtn’t to wet my hair first, I don’t demand a copy of Vogue to read, or check to see whether leave-in conditioner will be applied sparingly to my tips because, frankly, I’m thinking to hell with it – today just can’t get any more Kafka-esque.

Nora combs and snips and combs and snips. And although I can smell the tobacco on her fingers, she’s surprisingly gentle. My sleepless night begins to manifest itself as an ache behind the eyes so I close them – the smell of the food and the noise of the scissors and the mustiness of the air all having a strangely soporific effect.