Herb Flay pounded the hub cab back into place with a tinny bang, bang, bang that almost – almost – made music with the rain. The job was done, the tire changed, and the middle knuckle on his right hand had stopped throbbing and appeared to have stopped bleeding. Sometime over the last twenty minutes, he wasn"t sure when, while shifting the gurney and equipment about the rear compartment to get at the jack and spare tire, in getting the van raised on the jack, in getting the ruined tire off, or in getting the spare secured in its place, Flay had torn his knuckle. He had no memory of injuring himself, but there he was bleeding like a stuck pig. Marlowe would be short one towel at the scene.
Speaking of Marlowe and busted knuckles… When rolling a casket on a church truck (the wheeled cart be
