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Down from Canada, I believe. Wasn’t from Montana.”
    Tommy moved his coat to shift the weight of the gun in his pocket. “That’s probably how them Canucks like it.”
    â€œDad told you that story?” Wesley asked his brother.
    â€œYep.”

    â€œWhen?”
    â€œI don’t know. A year or two ago. We were going somewhere in the car. I don’t remember.”
    â€œHe never told me.”
    â€œSo? I just did.”
    Wesley couldn’t be sure what shocked him more, the story with its mingling of sex and murder, overlaid with sodomy, an act whose existence was known to him and his friends but rarely spoken of, even in their willingness, their eagerness, to discuss almost all matters sexual, or the fact that the story came from his father.
    Julian Hayden was a man who swore freely and made no attempt to rein in his tongue in the presence of his sons, but his talk—overrun as it was with profanity—was free of sexual references. As Frank himself once said, their father’s speech was shit-covered but fuck-free.
    Now this story. Wesley felt he had to readjust not only his view of his father and his work, but also of his father’s attitude toward him. Why could his father tell this story to Frank but not to his younger son?
    The gray-haired woman came out from the kitchen carrying a platter of food. “I wasn’t sure,” she said as she approached their table, “if you boys got so tired of waiting you up and left. Or if maybe you just dried up from hunger.”
    Wesley looked again at the blood on the floor. Would she see it?
    She put the soup bowls down first, then the small crockery plates holding the sandwiches of fried ham between slices of diagonally sliced white bread. Finally she put down spoons.

    â€œI’ll get you some milk,” she said but made no move to walk away. “As soon as the pies are done I’ll bring you each a piece. Free, for making you wait so long.”
    They began to eat while she stood there, watching them intently as though her pleasure depended upon seeing others consume her fare.
    She crossed her arms. “Them girls’ ride come?” Without waiting for an answer, she nodded. “I just don’t like for them to use my phone like that.”

    They sat quietly on the floor of their hotel, smoking cigars and sipping whiskey. They were pleased with their behavior, and often in the last two hours, ever since they arrived back in the room, one of them had commented on their maturity, on how they were able to enjoy a glass of whiskey for its taste rather than simply drinking to get drunk as many of their peers would do. Wesley, however, had begun to feel shivery and unsteady from the drink. He knew if he closed his eyes he might topple over into sleep.
    They had long since stopped discussing the Indian girls. The argument finally ended when Frank, conceded as the authority on such matters, announced that it was not Tommy bringing out the gun that ruined their chances with the girls but the fact of Beverly’s boyfriend. As long as she insisted on remaining loyal to him, she could not be persuaded to come with them. And Anna would not come without her friend. “Sacred Heart didn’t help either,” Wesley added.

    â€œNo, it sure didn’t,” agreed his brother.
    When the knock came, it was so soft—three taps almost like brush strokes—Wesley thought, and he was sure the others did too, that they had been wrong. The girls had decided to come after all! Tommy jumped to his feet to answer the door, while Lester had the presence of mind to cork the whiskey and roll it under the bed and to throw his coat over their glasses.
    Standing in the doorway was a portly man of average height wearing a wool overcoat with a black mouton collar. Visible beneath his open coat was a three-piece suit of heavy salt-and-pepper tweed, white shirt, and tie. He wore a fedora tilted back. His large moon