by“How do you feel about blackmail?”
I look at Joe Meek, wondering what kind of story this was leading to. “I can take it or leave it, I guess. Where are we going?”
“Just relax.” He veers into the fast lane to pass an old Chevy that is crawling along at the speed limit. “Only Pennsylvania. I swear, you get nervous every time we head south or east.”
There is some truth in that, so I shut up and watched the highway roll by.
Meek usually drives. It’s his car, and we’ve put thirty-three thousand miles on it since I joined up with him.
“Just Pennsylvania,” he repeats. His voice is raspy, a permanent sore throat. “Nowhere near Maryland, Richard, so relax.”
The first time I heard that voice was on the Fourth of July 1990. I was lying on the floor of a bar in Longbow, Montana, and three cowb
