Warlock had taken Clete along for a one day raid on a shipping pallet manufacturing firm over near Alpena. He didn’t want to carry a gun and Alpena was an area renowned for roughnecks; true, he felt he was three quarters honed steel but the last quarter could be a fatal margin and Clete was a retired champion street fighter. Clete also looked like he belonged in northern Michigan while Warlock could not bear to subdue his tailoring to that extent. The case was simple: an audit had revealed a pathetically obvious kickback scheme where far too much was being paid for the raw lumber to make the shipping pallets. They had lunch with a dumpy little man who served as a buyer. Clete masqueraded as timber foreman and Warlock as a sawmill owner. After the buyer had gulped a number of Manhattans while fiddling with his string tie, he made his criminal proposal. Warlock left the table and called the plant manager who came over and fired the culprit on the spot. It was an easy day’s work though Warlock recognized his commission net would be small. The dumpy little man sniveled a great deal about his children as the police led him away. It was terribly unpleasant and Clete went up to the bar and drank a great deal.

“Thanks a lot, Clete,” Warlock said, joining him. “It was an easy case. I’d like to split the commission with you.” His heart warmed again after the sobs of the dumpy little man moved out of range.

“Stuff it up your dead ass,” Clete said with vehemence.

“Geez, what did I do?” Warlock was shocked.

“How do you know the plant manager wasn’t involved? Or the accountants? That poor little shit will spend the holidays in jail taking a fall for the others. Use your head.”

“I guess I jumped the gun. We had him dead to rights. He was guilty as shit. You’re just saying others might be guilty, too.”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The wound had healed a bit between the old friends during a few days of deer hunting with a new acquaintance of Warlock’s, met while jogging through the woods. He jogged only in the woods out of the sight of the curious because he thought the activity faddish and banal. The rough terrain will build me the legs of a halfback, he thought, one golden October afternoon far out in the woods. There was a shotgun explosion in the direction Hudley had run and Warlock had dived briefly for cover, then remembered it was grouse hunting season. He found a man sitting on a stump in a clearing examining a large, dead grouse, while Hudley was mounting the man’s bird dog in a frenzy.

“Sorry,” Warlock apologized, waving at Hudley. He recognized the man as a redheaded, hard drinking local businessman named Hank. They shook hands.