Stagg didn’t like the way he was asking or the fact that he hadn’t seen nor heard from Mr. Bishop since late last night. The realization of who these fellas were must’ve showed on his face because it seemed to give great pleasure to this stocky little guy. He grinned bigger than shit and placed his hands on his hips as if he were a man twice his size.

“You a Nix?” Stagg said.

“I’m Dusty Nix,” the man said, nodding. “And over there, that gray-headed fella is my daddy. He goes by Flem.”

“That’s a mighty old-fashioned name.”

“Suits him,” Dusty Nix said. “He’s a mighty old-fashioned man. We come to talk to you about some work.”

“What kind of work?”

“Same as Mr. Bishop done,” he said. “Only we do much better.”

Stagg laughed and shook his head. He patted his pockets for another piece of peppermint candy but couldn’t find none. Dusty Nix reached out his hand, no bigger than an eight-year-old’s, and tried to pass him a little yellow butterscotch. Stagg let his hand hang there, not wanting to touch nothing come from that midget’s pocket.

“Few men better than Mr. Bishop,” Stagg said, suddenly feeling as alone and naked as a fella with his peter out on a rifle range. “He’ll be around real soon.”

“Is that right?” Nix said, slipping a few pieces of hard candy into Stagg’s shirt pocket. He stood close, plucking a Pall Mall into the side of his mouth and flicking on a lighter.

“You got something on your mind, son?”

“I did,” he said. “But that’s been taken care of. Make sure to give us a call if Mr. Bishop don’t show.”

Dusty Nix nodded to his daddy, who hobbled over like a man with a wooden leg. He held some kind of package under his arm in a plain brown wrapper. The older man presented it to Stagg as if he’d just trucked the crown jewels into Tibbehah.

“What the hell’s this?” Stagg asked.

“Cajun sausage we make special during deer season,” the old man said, his lower teeth a wreck of rotten little brown pebbles. “Chop it up and mix it with some eggs. A little spicy, but sure do taste like a little bit of heaven.”

Stagg accepted the package, the meat feeling warm and wet in the palm of his hands, as he watched the two odd little men head for the door. Midnight Man was quick up on his shoulder, breathing hard and giving a soft grunt as they disappeared into the parking lot.

“What they want?” Midnight Man asked.

“They wanted us to know Bishop fucked up,” Stagg said, handing off the package to Midnight Man. “Throw this shit in the dumpster. I’m headed home to shower.”

“Something a-matter, Mr. Stagg?”

Stagg looked down at the wetness on his hands. Blood had soaked through the package.

*   *   *