The young man at the first desk with his feet up and a copy of True Detective in his lap stopped trimming his nails just long enough to fix the stranger in the doorway with a suspicious glare. Then he looked back to his magazine. “Whaddasay?” Rusty Sanders sighed, though it was a greeting devoid of civility. It was more a rote welcome, and could just as easily have meant “What the hell do you want?”

“My name is Stiles. I came for work.”

The deputy muffled a snicker. “You wanna be a cop, huh? Well sorry, but we ain’t got no openings.” His nose went even deeper into the magazine. Sanders was a lanky boy with bony features and hair that was too long, and the beginnings of a beer belly gave him the appearance of a snake digesting a meal. His uniform was badly pressed and looked strange without a tie; he could have been a furnace repairman or a plumber, for all Stiles could tell. The soldier’s eyes went automatically to the deputy’s gun and judged him accordingly. It was a Smith & Wesson Magnum and was in poor shape. The bluing was bad and the metal wasn’t just scratched but gouged. The wooden grips sported deep divots where it had been used to hammer nails. Stiles winced, wondering if Deputy Sanders carried his bullets in the gun or his shirt pocket.

“I’m here about a desk,” Stiles told him. “Charlie Bean said you might need some work done on one.”

Another sigh. Sanders pointed across from him without looking up. “That one. I think the top drawer drops out or something like that. It’s probably nothing. You know how Charlie is.”

“No, I don’t,” Stiles said, stepping through the gate to inspect the desk. “I just met him yesterday.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll tell you. Charlie’s a good old boy and all, but he’s a bit gung ho at times, if you know what I mean. Thinks he’s Elliot Ness or something. Sometimes I just wanna say, ‘Goddamn it, Bean, just sit down and shut up for a while,’ you know?” Stiles nodded; he could see right through the boy’s bravado, and knew those words would never be spoken to Charlie Bean’s face. “I guess you’ll be wanting to talk to Dutch, huh?” The young man made no move to rise; he just cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Hey, Dutch! C’mere!”

The frost-paned door to the rear opened a crack, just enough for a squat, rounded head to poke through. Tommy “Dutch” Larson must have been in his late fifties, but he dyed what hair he had jet black and Brylcreemed it into a 1950’s perpetual wave. “What is it, Rusty?” he barked around a mouthful of lunch, spitting crumbs in the process.

Sanders was back in his magazine. “Some guy’s here about Charlie’s desk.”