10
DIRT
He was scared.
Nervous.
Suspicious.
As we sat in the booth watching him through the big plate glass window of Dewey’s, we could tell he was wound up tighter than a cheap wristwatch. His head kept darting back and forth with quick, jerking movements. Several times he stopped, turned, and scanned the streets behind him. He paused often . . . nervously hesitating before crossing streets. Hesitating as if he was expecting a cement truck to come along and turn him into a grease stain at any moment.
Cupping his hands in front of his face, he blew some warmth in them before stuffing them into his dark blue seaman’s coat. Down by the river it was colder than a Siberian nightmare—as it always was in late January in this city. Wearing a blue stocking sock hat pulled down over his ears,
