Sam leaned forward with the light of another story on his face. “It might be interesting. I watched a man once who was a good mechanic. He was a simple guy. Wanted to make a good living for his kids. He kept stopping work to call his wife about her menstrual pains. The thing that struck me most was how much of the whole mechanic business was sheer superstition. He’d listen to the engine and run his hands over things. Then every once in a while he’d give some part of the contraption a slam with his wrench or jam a screwdriver into some hole and wriggle it around. All the time he’d talk to himself. He’d lean over the engine, staring at it with this bewildered look, saying, ‘What the fuck is that?,’ ‘Ho, here’s something,’ going on like that constantly. He was like a high priest trying on different little rituals to bring on rain. Very interesting. He didn’t really know why the things he did worked, but they did. Of course he didn’t call it religion. He called it experience.”

Rennel shook his head and waved away Sam’s words.

“Believe it or not, some people really do know what they’re doing.”

I’d have been more interested if Rennel weren’t thinking of himself when he said that. Instead I felt hollow, bleak. Darkness poured in through the skylight. My rain-soaked clothes chilled my skin.

“So what are you going to do, Sam?”

“Well! I’m going to get some new valves at an auto parts store, which has got to be one of the most mysterious premises open to lay visitors, it’s like a reliquary or something. And I’m going to get grease all over my clothes and hands and lean over the engine with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth and burning my eyes. Whenever anybody on the street stops to ask me what I’m doing I’ll wipe my hands on a red rag and talk about combustion and gaskets and pistons. I’ll drink beer at lunch. Maybe I’ll change my name to Gary and get a job in a service station.” He smiled. “I think that’s probably what I’ll do.”

He rose slowly out of the chair. Grains of tobacco fell to the floor from his lap. “I’d better go.”

Rennel asked, “Do you want me to drive you?”

“No. I’d like to walk in the rain. I might catch Lotta.”

Sam stopped in the doorway, looking for something more to say.

“Whatever happened to your six-guns, Sam?” I asked.

He smiled and straightened a little. “You know, I’d forgotten all about them. I think they’re in a trunk somewhere.”

He waved and left.