22
Isley Hodges arrived precisely at ten the next day. Had there been anybody else in the waiting room, I would never have guessed the tall hombre with the ten gallon hat and the cowboy boots was a psychiatrist. Maybe, somebody wanting to sell me tickets to a rodeo.
“Dr. Isley Hodges?” I asked.
Smiling broadly, he shot up and shook my hand. It was firm. Calloused.
I led him into my office, motioned for him to sit, as I sank down behind my desk. “Bobby says you’re a psychiatrist.”
“Yes,” he said, removing his hat and hanging it on his knee, on the crossed-over leg. His straw colored hair sat high on his forehead, and was swept straight back, and flattened a little from his hat. He was handsome, with weathered chiseled features, and a mouthful of perfect teeth. Had he been an actor he’d
