He nodded to me as I approached, saying, “How they hangin’, Quarry?”

“Turner,” I said, nodding back. We stood there a few minutes.

“Lots of nice pussy,” he said, smirking. He did a lot of smirking. His voice was like sandpaper rubbing against itself.

I didn’t say anything for a while.

“You won’t see nicer pussy,” he said. “Young pussy. Nice young pussy. You won’t find pussy any tighter. You know what I’m talking about, Quarry?”

“It seems to have something to do with pussy.”

“Bet your ass it does. You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

So we went over to one of the few food stands that had a counter and stools, and ordered knockwurst sandwiches with grilled onions and peppers, and lemonade, and sat at the far end of the counter by ourselves and ate and talked.

“What do you think, Quarry? How’s he look to you?”

“Like a bigger asshole than you.”

“How’m I supposed to take that?”

“Any way you like.”

“I don’t get you, Quarry. Why the fuck you got to be so goddamn hard to get along with? I been trying to get along with you, you know.”

“Sure.”

“Well I am, goddamnit.”

“Drop it, okay?”

This was only our second contact. Turner had been here a week, getting the mark’s pattern down, and I got in last night. Today I was to see if the setup looked kosher enough to go ahead with the hit. We’d had words last night, at Turner’s motel, about the way he was handling his end, his making like a Shriner as a cover. He thought it was a great idea. I thought it sucked. He could’ve picked up any number of menial jobs at the carnival that would’ve given him plenty of opportunity to stake out the mark; his acting the Shriner role was in my opinion idiotic, as the Shriners were local and could spot him as phony.