“Hi, Simon.” Jerry is afraid of Simon. He does not know what he did, but he has a habitual distrust of stronger men, of men who work with their hands.

“Vera here?”

“She’s in the back.”

Jerry steps away from the counter, afraid of Simon’s broad strength. Arrogant because he knows the color of his skin places the rules on his side, like a nervous high schooler facing down a bully outside the teacher’s lounge.

“Is she busy?”

“She’s working.”

“Don’t mean she’s busy.”

Jerry backs farther away. “Vera,” he squeaks. “Vera!”

Vera comes out and looks in surprise at Simon. Her hands are gray from polishing silver and she shakes them as if to dislodge the grime.

“What’s up, Simon?”

Simon looks at Jerry and back at Vera.

“What’s up? You need your flatware polished?”

“It ain’t even close to flat.”

“Simon!” She glances at Jerry. “Let’s take a smoke break.”

Simon nods and follows Vera next door to the Mill Inn.

“You seen Lincoln?”

Vera shakes her head.

“He ain’t been by here?”

Vera seems embarrassed. “Don’t quite know what he’d look like. I figure fourteen years old. Tall. Good-looking.”

Simon laughs. “And pissed off and on the run and you about got it.”

“I gotta worry?”

“Can’t say. If he comes by give a holler next door and I’ll take care of it.” Finally it is his turn to smooth her worry. “I gotta check one more place.”

He turns and starts for the door. She calls after him.

“Hey, Simon. Does he look like Lester?”

Simon doesn’t stop but turns and speaks softly over the bar talk, his words William-Telling into her ear.

“Spitting image, Vera.”

Simon is out of breath, huffing by the time he reaches the West River Parkway. He steps off the sidewalk and pushes the tangle of blackberry and sumac out of his way. There is a slight path that skirts the thicker brush and half-submerged tires, packing crates, kerosene tins, stoves and refrigerators skretching off their blasted enamel to the weather and moldy growth of the riverbank.

He smells wood smoke and there’s a veneer of burning rubber that hangs around the high bank like a bored borderline ghost unsure as to the Stygian direction. Simon takes the last few steps down the path and breaks into a small clearing hacked from the brush and stacked with every conceivable reject or second. T-Man sits on a five-gallon tar pail next to a stuttering fire roasting something on a spit that doesn’t so much cook as release grease that runs down the ashed flesh in rivulets to drop into the fire.

“T-Man. Is that a possum?”

“I sure as hell hope so. Simon, at last. You drop by.”

“Shit, T-Man. Haven’t seen you since I got picked up for chokin that goose. You got quite the place here.”