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any clothes on?" the boy asked him. Sitting up, he looked over the side panel. "Not much. What are you, some kind of degenerate?"
    "What's he got on?" the girl asked.
    "Just his undies."
    "No shit?"
    "I'd like to ask you some questions," Rusty said.
    "I'd like to ask you something," the girl said. "Briefs or boxers?"
    "Maybe we can be serious here for a minute," Rusty said.
    "I'm serious," the girl said. "I'm always serious, right Bill?"
    "That's right," her boyfriend said. To Rusty, he said, "Trink's always serious."
    "I haven't got a funny bone in my body," she said, and giggled.
    "If you're looking for your clothes," Bill said, "I haven't seen them. Have you seen his clothes, Trink?"
    "Nope." She sat up, crawled over Bill, and looked down at Rusty's shorts. "Boxers. Hmm." She looked him up and down, then said, "Hey, mister, you wanta climb in and join us?"
    "Thanks for the invitation, but no thanks. I'd like you both to climb out."
    Bill frowned again. "What for?"
    "I want to talk."
    "We don't have your clothes."
    "Maybe he thinks you're layin' on 'em, Bill."
    "Well, I'm not."
    "I know that, tell him."
    "Why? It's none of his business."
    "It's his business if you're on top of his clothes."
    "But I'm not," Bill said.
    "I'm not looking for my clothes," Rusty explained. "I need some information."
    "Why aren't you looking for 'em?" Trink asked. "Seems to me you oughta be."
    "Maybe he's a flasher," Bill told her.
    "Are you a flasher, mister? Go on and flash us if you want."
    "Did either of you see a man here this morning?" Rusty asked.
    "I did." The girl glanced at Bill. "Did you?"
    "Not me."
    "You must be blind."
    "What did the man look like?" Rusty asked.
    Frowning, she rubbed her chin. "Oh, he was about forty-five. He was some six feet tall or more, and maybe weighed a couple hundred pounds. Had him a good build, a real nice build. Had red hair and green eyes and freckles. And, let's see . . . yeah . . . he was wearin' boxer shorts."
    "You're a big help," Rusty said. "I'm Sheriff Rusty Hodges. This is an official investigation, so I suggest you cooperate unless you want to find yourselves in a jam."
    "He claims he's a sheriff," Trink told Bill.
    "I heard."
    "So where's your badge, Sheriff?"
    "He don't need no steenking badges!" Bill blurted.
    "Think we should talk to him?"
    "Hell, no!"
    Frowning seriously at Rusty, she said, "We never talk to cops in undies. Not without our lawyers."
    "You may need a lawyer," Rusty said, "if I decide to search this truck."
    "You can't search it," Bill complained.
    "Watch me."
    "You need a warrant."
    "I don't need no steenking warrant." He nodded toward the tweezers that lay in plain sight on their blanket. "That looks like a roach clip to me, and it's right out in plain sight. That's all . . ."
    "That ain't no roach clip," Trink said. "That's my eyebrow pluckers."
    "Both of you climb down, please."
    Bill shook his head. "Why should we?"
    "Now."
    "Okay, okay. Don't get your shorts in a twist."
    Trink laughed.
    "You first, Bill. Trink, you stay there till I tell you to move. Come on down, Bill."
    The boy stood up. He was wearing a rumpled T-shirt with the logo, "Eat Shit and Die," a pair of torn and faded blue jeans, and sandals. The waist button of the jeans was fastened, but his zipper was down. He pulled it up. Fastening his belt, he stepped to the rear of the truck bed. Then he climbed over the tailgate and jumped down.
    Rusty turned him around. Standing behind the boy, he bent him over. "Hands on the tailgate," he said. After Bill complied, Rusty nudged his feet apart and started to frisk him.
    "Hey, that tickles."
    Rusty worked his way down to Bill's waist, then stopped. "Anything sharp in your pockets? Razors, needles?"
    "No. No, sir."
    "I put my hand in, nothing's going to poke me?"
    "I told you . . ."
    "Okay." Keeping one hand on Bill's back, he searched the jeans pockets with the other.
    They were empty.
    "Where's your ID?"
    "In the cab. You gonna bust us?"
    "We'll see." He backed