Driving. Back in the direction of the state office complex.
“So, what did you think of our little exchange with Nardillo?” Miller says after a time.
“Is this like a test?” I pose, recalling my little quip about the dead dying to get in there. “Or you truly looking for my opinion?”
“A little of both.”
My eyes on the road, as the highway bypass turns into a congested city boulevard. I think about it for a few seconds.
Then, “There’s an old saying fly fisherman use.”
“Jeeze, you’re not getting philosophical on me, are you, Jobz? ‘Cause I’m not in the fuckin’ mood.”
“No, just hear me out, Miller.”
I catch him rolling his eyes.
“Okay, go,” he says. “Didn’t know you fly fish, by the way.”
“Used to guide,” I say, remembering my days on the water . . . the Upper Hudson, the Postenkil
