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his question. “I s’pect it was the Vipers, all right. No one else hardhearted enough to want to do it, not when everyone knows it’s the heart.”
    Slim didn’t ask any more questions, though he was curious. Who were the Vipers? He had, though, enough to digest for the moment, so he remained silent, staring out the windows of the truck. But he also wondered exactly what it was that he, Slim, was supposed to have to do with all this. Because surely he did, as Progress said, and even if he meant no harm, he could be part of some larger thing that did mean harm. He didn’t like that feeling at all.
    They were coming to the outskirts of town proper. The transition was abrupt like that of so many cities wrested out of the desolation of the high plains. One moment they were passing through green and gold open range, and the next they were in the middle of buildings and houses. Stores and businesses passed by, carrying names like Sierra Hotel, Karloff’s General Store, Donut Center, “It’s a Real Hole,” Knuckles Bros. Salvage, Killus’ Party Supplies and Novelties, Stop-N-Shoot-’Em, Onan’s Gas. The town wasn’t that different from what Slim had known, except nothing was the same. There were grocery stores, Laundromats, real-estate offices, all the endeavors that small-town entrepreneurs were prone to attempt. There was, though, no single thing that he recognized from his own world, and, all in all, the streets and buildings were cleaner and brighter than any he’d been used to.
    Progress turned down a street that Slim felt he should recognize but didn’t, and they quickly pulled up in front of a small yellow building with nothing but a sign that read CHARLIE’S.
    Progress shot out of the pickup and Slim quickly followed. Once they were inside the building it was obvious what the business was. Hundreds of guitars, of all shapes and sizes, stood belly to back, bodyto body on racks on the walls and hanging from hooks on the ceiling. Amplifiers crowded the floor and a young, skinny blond boy sat on one in a corner, noodling with a black Danelectro. A flash of guilt crossed his face when he looked up from his playing and saw Slim and Progress walk into the store, but it was quickly replaced by a smile as he put the guitar down and crossed to stand behind the counter.
    “Howdy, Progress,” he said. “How’s it going?”
    “Hey, Wanger. It’s still goin’. Heard there was some trouble I need to know about.”
    The kid’s face darkened and his eyes turned down. “Yeah, guy,” he said softly. “Sorry, You know?”
    Progress sighed. “I know,” he said. “Orville in back?”
    “Yeah. Go head on, he’s been waiting for you.”
    Progress and Slim walked behind the counter and went through a small door in the back wall. They entered another room filled with tables and amplifiers and parts of guitars, both whole and mutilated. A small, sad-looking black man sat on a stool before a felt-covered table, working over an acoustic guitar. His hands were laid on the strings and he was humming to it, vibrating the body.
    “Orville?” Progress said.
    It had been almost a whisper, but the man looked up slowly. He stood, just as slowly, and seemingly in pain, then walked over to Progress and Slim.
    “Howdy, Progress,” he said, shaking the old man’ hand. “Who’s your friend?”
    “This is my new apprentice,” Progress replied. “Name’s Slim. Slim Chance. Slim, this is Orville Wilbur. Best guitar man in Tejas. A wizard of the string and plank and pickup.”
    Orville shook Slim’s hand. “Good to meet you,” he said. He turned back to Progress. “Don’t feel much like a wizard today,” he said. “Not with the Gutbucket gone and all.”
    “What happened?” Progress asked.

    “Damned if I know,” Orville replied. “I came in this morning like always. Opened up and came back here to get started working. The back door was all busted up, the alarm was unhooked and the Gutbucket was gone. Just gone.