“You wanna see some pigs?” asked Chad around a mouthful of chili, and Dom held back a smartass comment. Now that he was fed he should be finding some dirt on Sander, but he wasn’t going to pass up anything else Chad threw at him after turning down the jalapeños.
“All right.”
“They’re for the races,” said Chad, tossing his empty bowl as they left the chili area and crossed in front of the stage to the other side. A band of middle-aged people were setting up, and Dom deduced the cops were really gone now. That would leave him better able to poke around.
“You race pigs?”
“Yeauhh,” said Chad, drawing out the word to tell Dom he thought he was slow. “The Presidential Pig Races are every year. They’re pretty great, I guess. AbraHam Lincoln’s always popular, but James K. Pork’s always been my
