“Oh.” The door closed for a moment, and then the town marshal finally stepped out of his office. The pants beneath Larson’s considerable stomach were newly snapped and his fingers licked clean of ketchup. He had slipped on his aviator shades, the reflective state trooper kind, despite the fact that the blinds were drawn. He rubbed his hands together, big meaty things without knuckles, and didn’t offer one in greeting. “So you’re the writer-slash-handyman, huh?” he said in a tone that made it sound like a punishable offense.

“Boy, word gets around.”

Larson continued to eye him suspiciously through reflective plastic. “I don’t know how to tell you this, mister,” he drawled, “but I’m afraid there ain’t no work for you here. Bean didn’t really have the authority to offer it to you in the first place and, frankly, I’ve already promised the work to my brother-in-law.”

“Then why hasn’t he fixed it before n—” Sanders started before the marshal cut him off.

“Like I say, I’m real sorry. Maybe there’s some other work around town. Better yet, maybe you should try Bedford. More people, more repairs.”

Stiles recognized the pig-squint behind the marshal’s sunglasses. It was the look of a property owner, the one reserved for trespassers. This guy’s paranoia made Charlie Bean a piker by comparison. “Aren’t you going to ask me my price? Maybe I can undercut your brother-in-law.”

Larson actually smiled at that. “I’m sorry but—”

“Ten dollars . . .” Larson’s eyebrows raised in unison. “. . . besides the cost of any new materials.”

The marshal turned to examine the desk, walking around it and kicking the legs as if pricing a used car. He pulled the top drawer and it clattered to the floor. Luckily Charlie kept it empty for that reason. “Hell, I never liked my brother-in-law anyway. But if I don’t like the work, you don’t get a cent. Them’s my rules, take ’em or leave ’em.”

Stiles wanted to tell the haggling old fart to stick his rules up his ass, but there was tonight to think about, and Billie. “You’ve got a deal.” He held out his hand, convinced that the fat man wouldn’t take it. Larson regarded it like some alien gesture, then, to his surprise, shook it. Stiles wished he hadn’t; despite his size, it was a limp handshake, all fingers, like a cloying politician’s. With that the marshal turned on one heel and went back into his office, back to his hamburgers and his newspaper. He didn’t wait till the door was closed before unbuttoning his pants to ease the strain on his belly.

“Real friendly, isn’t he?” Stiles muttered, then realized Sanders wasn’t listening to him either. He decided he had new respect for Charlie Bean. Anyone who could work with those two without killing them must have had tremendous self-control.