“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ryan said.

“That happens and I’m up to my ass in so many sheriff’s cops and state police, I don’t get my cucumbers in till Christmas,” Bob Jr. said. “You see what I mean?”

Ryan nodded. “I hadn’t thought of the cucumbers, either.”

“It’s the reason you’re a free man today,” Bob Jr. said.

Ryan nodded again. “I see.”

And Bob Jr. kept staring at him. “No, you don’t see. You’re too dumb. But I’ll tell you,” Bob Jr. said. “Ritchie Foods got you loose because Ritchie Foods makes pickles. They make sweet pickles and dills and hamburger slices and those little gerkins. They put the pickles in jars and sell them. But, boy, what they don’t put in jars and sell are cucumbers. Big grown cucumbers. That means they got to get the cucumbers picked before they’re full-grown. That means they got to hurry this time of year to get the crop in. But they ain’t going to get it in with the goddamn pickers sitting around in any goddamn courtroom. You see it now?”

“Well, the quicker I get my gear, the quicker I’m gone.” Ryan smiled his down-home smile for Bob Jr. “So why don’t you give me a lift to the camp? I mean if you’re going that way.”

Bob Jr. shook his head to show what an effort it was getting through to this guy. He said finally, “All right. You pick up your stuff and take off. Right?”

“Yes, sir.” Ryan grinned. “Thanks a lot.”

On the way he read the front page of the Sunday funnies-Dick Tracy and Peanuts; Bob Jr. wouldn’t let him open the paper and mess it up; he said he was taking it to Mr. Ritchie. It didn’t matter to Ryan. It was only about six miles up to the camp, off the highway to the left. He wondered if Bob Jr. was going to drop him off and go on into Geneva Beach-another two miles north, where the highway ended abruptly on Lake Huron-but Bob Jr. made his turn at the gravel road that went in to the camp, maintaining his speed and holding tighter to keep the pickup from sliding in the ruts.