“Bro, relax. Our plan is S-O-L-I-D, long as the rest of the guys get here quick.” The reefer already had Manny spelling out his words. He looked at his watch again. “Where the hell are they? We’re getting down to crunch time.”

“They’ll be here. They know if they don’t, it’s their ass.”

Manny and Elray fell into step behind Booker as he walked the length of the bridge. Leightner Bridge was an unsupported truss built during the oil boom of the twenties to transport crude and rigging equipment across the Trebock River, a branch of the Trinity. An impressive undertaking at the time of its construction, it had long since begun to show its age. The truss was rusted and corroded, most of its girders hidden under a blanket of moss. For this reason, most commercial traffic had shifted to the new Highway 7, which crossed the Trebock nine miles upriver.

Booker hoped that Manny was right about setting up on Wilma Way instead of the highway. Though rough, rutted, and sparsely lit, the road was still the most direct route between the towns of Killington and Stanton.

Booker leaned over the railing. Water surged sixty feet below. “So no doubt this is the best place to do it, huh?”

“This is the right place, bro, sure as S-H-I-T. Think about it. It’s in the middle of nowhere. No lights and no witnesses. Plus, our plan requires the strength of these steel beams. These babies are grade A, bro. Carnegie shit. I can’t think of anything else that would be strong enough for our purpose.”

Although Manny was making some good sense, Booker was still apprehensive. To take the edge off, he cracked open the beer he’d been carrying in his jacket pocket, drank it down in two gulps, and tossed the can over the railing.

“Give me another.”

“Bro, you just juiced a pretty high dose less than an hour ago. You sure you wanna mix Hombre Muchacho with booze? Last time you did that you threw a pool table through a car windshield.”

“Just give me the fuckin’ beer.”

Manny handed Booker another Shiner Bock from the six-pack strapped to his belt loop. He opened another one for himself.

Elray tucked the shotgun under his arm, unzipped his fly, and began to urinate off the bridge. With his free hand, he sipped from a can of cream soda.

“Now, supposing they do take the other route . . .” Booker said.

Manny sighed. “Bro, relax already. Trust me. If you want to take a football team to Stanton High from Killington High without fucking with the game traffic on Highway Seven, you head east on Wilma Way. It’s the route the Jackrabbits have been taking for years.” He looked at his watch. “Damn, the bus should be here any minute now. Kickoff is in less than an hour. Where are the guys?”