No, Dex hadn't held any ill feelings for Ricci, not the other day when he'd taken off on him with that bullshit story about havin' to mind the kids, not even now, after havin' done his bit of tinkerin' with Ricci's air gauge last night, an' preparin' to leave him for a goner. But what choice did he have? Way he felt, it was kinda like goin' to war an' bein' forced to shoot somebody you bore no personal grudge against, somebody you might even think was an okay fella if you got to know him over a frosty glass of suds, all because of circumstances that you could no more control than the turnin' of the world. Havin' been a soldier, Ricci would prob'ly understand that.

What Ricci could never understand, though, comin' from away, was the kind of pressure he, Dex, had been under to cut a separate deal with Cobbs. How could he have refused that prick without jammin' himself up big-time? Cobbs was in so tight with the sheriff an' town managers, he'd see to it that Dex got cited for some kinda safety violation whenever he turned on the heat in his double-wide, an' was pulled over, breathalyzed, an' tossed in the drunk tank every time he drove his pickup home after havin' put down one or two at the bar.

Ricci, on the other hand, didn't have any such worries. He'd arrived in town with money enough to buy that nice house on the water, an' likely had himself a hefty pension from the police force, not to mention military benefits that covered his meds an' checkups at the V.A. hospital in Togas, plus Lord knows what other cookies the government might've tossed him. Ricci was a loner with no wife or kids, an' it was a sure thing that sooner or later he'd be on his way to greener pastures.

Dex frowned, his brow creased in thought. What the fuck was he supposed to do? He had to make a livin' here, year in, year out, or see his family starve from hunger. Had to be able to walk down the street without lookin' over his shoulder for Phipps or some other asshole deputy followin' behind in a sheriff-mobile, ready to bust balls for any lame excuse could be concocted on the spur of the moment.

He took a drag of his cigarette and puffed a swirl of smoke and steam from his breath into the brisk salt air, his comments to Ricci as they'd left the wharf once again recurring to him.

"Regular as you are 'bout where an' when you dive, buggers ought to have you figured...."