On Friday, as usual, he left the office early and went to The Hogan. It was a regular bar, not an artist’s bar, and there were none of the phony Southwest accoutrements that supposedly lent ambience to Santa Fe’s hipper hangouts and that he found so annoying and distracting.

Jimbo was working today, and Stormy asked for a Bud Lite and stood at the bar waiting for his order while the bartender moved to fill it. There were two guys halfway down the counter having a loud conversation, and Stormy tuned it in.

“Whatever happened to strongmen?” the guy closest to him was saying. “Remember how we always called leaders of countries we didn’t like ‘Strongmen’? There was Panamanian Strongman Manuel Noriega, Libyan Strongman Mohammar Khadafi. We never used ‘General,’ ‘President,’ or whatever the hell their official title was. It was always ‘Strongman.’ Why don’t we do that anymore?”

“You’re drunk,” his companion said.

“Maybe so. But it’s a legitimate question.”

“We only do that if we want to provoke a confrontation with them,” Stormy offered. “We do it to teach our people that these are bad guys. It gets the public ready for war.”

The drunk looked up. “Who are you, you anti-American son of a bitch?”

His friend put a restraining hand on his arm.

Stormy smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to butt in.”

The drunk pointed. “I know your mama. She was giving pony rides, handing out ass candy.”

Jimbo arrived with his beer, and Stormy paid. “Thanks.”

He headed over to a table next to the jukebox at the far end of the room.

“I’m talking to you!” the drunk yelled.

“Shut up!” his friend told him.

Stormy ignored the man, sipped his beer. It had been a good afternoon. Taos had taken the Hopi kid’s film, and had not only put it in competition but had given it one of the coveted prime-time slots. To top it off, the straight-to-video Fat Lady, a horror sexploitation flick that he’d picked up after a minor studio had dropped it, had just gotten a rave review in Fangoria, the slice-and-dice bible. Which meant that sales and rentals would probably go through the roof.

Sometimes life was good.

He looked at his watch. Four-ten. Ken was supposed to meet him here at four-fifteen, but his friend was chronically late and he was prepared to wait until four-thirty. He took another sip of beer, a small one, trying to make it last.

To his surprise, Ken arrived on time for once. He flagged down Carlene, the waitress, ordered a Miller, and settled heavily into the chair opposite Stormy.

“Nice day at the office?”

“It’s always a party when you work for a coroner. I told you, anytime you want you can come on down and I’ll give you a tour, let you see what it’s like.”

“No thanks.”

“We had a cancer death today.”