Roscoe killed the motor. We sat in the car. I stretched my arm along the back of her seat. Cupped her shoulder. I was tired. I'd been busy all day. I wanted to sit like this for a while. It was a quiet, dull night. Warm in the car. I
wanted music. Something with an ache to it. But we had things to do. We had to find Judy. The woman who had bought Sherman Stoller's watch and had it engraved. To Sherman, love Judy. We had to find Judy and tell her the man she'd loved had bled to death under a highway.
"What do you make of this?" Roscoe said. She was bright and awake.
"Don't know," I said. "They're for sale, not rental. They look expensive. Could a truck driver afford this?"
"Doubt it," she said. "These probably cost as much as my place, and I couldn't make my payments without the subsidy
