O’LEARY SMOOTHED the ruts over with the side of his shoe, and went back to the house. It had been a great day for the great O’Leary. A great day. The only fitting end to it would be to find himself in the local jailhouse accused of frightening a hungover former friend to death. Plus ratting on a couple of teen-aged kids. Plus having a wife he was supposed to treat like a plough horse. It would make a fine story by the time it got the rounds.
John Eden’s moulting crow stumping along behind him, croaking and blinking its jaundiced rimmed eyelids, seemed equally fitting.
“Cah,” it said.
“Get out,” O’Leary said. “Beat it, will you?” He went on inside. If there was just something brilliant and dynamic he’d done, it wouldn’t have been so depressing. Or if there was something dynamic he could
