“Can I say something?”

The marshal was looking at him now.

“What’s that?”

“There’s a service plaza coming up. I wouldn’t mind stopping, get something to eat?”

The man shook his head and Dale Junior made a face, giving the marshal an expression of pain.

“I couldn’t eat that jail food they give you. Some kind of potatoes and imitation eggs cold as ice.” He waited as long as he could, almost a minute, and said, “I don’t see why we can’t talk some. Pass the time.”

The marshal said, “I don’t care to hear any sad stories, all the bad luck and bum deals life’s handed you.”

Dale Junior showed him a frown. “Don’t it mean anything I got nothing on my sheet the past three years, that I’ve been clean all that time?”

The marshal said, “Not to me it doesn’t. Son, you’re none of my business.”

Dale Junior shook his head, giving himself a beat look now, without hope. He said, “I’ll tell you, I thought more’n once of giving myself up. You know why?”

The marshal waited, not helping any.

“So I could see my folks. So I’d know they was okay. I didn’t dare write, knowing the mails would be watched.” When the marshal didn’t comment Dale Junior said, “They do that, don’t they?”

“What?”

“Watch the mails?”

“I doubt it.”

Dale Junior said, “Oh, well,” paused and said, “My old dad lost one of his legs, had it bit off by a alligator this time he’s fishing the rim canal, by Lake Okeechobee? I sure wish I could see him before we get to Gun Club. That’s where we’re going, huh, the Gun Club jail?”

“You’re going to the county lockup,” the marshal said, “to await a sentence hearing.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what they call it, account of it’s off Gun Club Road. So you’re not from around there, huh, West Palm?”

The marshal didn’t answer, seeming more interested in the sky, clouds coming in from way out over the ocean.