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"Black Dog," do funky moves to the intricate guitar riffs between the lyrics and get the room's attention fast. Her glasses would slip and she'd push them back up while she danced. The idea was not to look too professional. When she finally quit Harry said, "Well, you don't have to do that anymore." She told him she didn't ever have to do it, she liked it, all that attention. Harry told her she should be ashamed of herself. He didn't get it, because in his business the idea was not to call attention to yourself. They split up. She worked in the chorus aboard a cruise ship that toured the Caribbean, choreographed routines a couple of years, got into catalog modeling. About this time she began to hear her biological clock ticking and married a guy who sold real estate. He said he wouldn't mind a couple more kids. "I thought I was going to be a mommy," Joyce told Harry a few years later, when he was back in her life. "Until these two little girls he already had, not even in training bras yet, made him choose between them and me." Harry said, "You're not the mommy type, kiddo." Making it sound like a compliment. They'd go to movies, to Wolfie's, to Joe's Stone Crab. Have Chinese in. ... All those years, it was funny, she always felt she could do better than Harry Arno, twenty-five years older than she was, on Medicare. Though he never took advantage of the senior citizen's discount at the movies.
    Joyce said, "You're getting ready to take off, aren't you?"
    Looking out the window he didn't answer right away. When he did he said, "I've been ready."
    She moved her hand across his shoulders, over and back again. "You know where you're going?"
    "Of course I do." He said, "I may need your help to get started."
    It surprised and scared her a little. "What would you want me to do?"
    "I'll let you know." Another minute went by before he said, "I think tomorrow will be the day. Why hang around."
    "But if you testify," Joyce said, "and they put Jimmy away--"
    "It wouldn't matter, he could still get people to do a job on me."
    "If you talked to him? Look at how long you've known each other."
    Harry said, "I have bags packed ready to run and I shot one of his guys. As far as he's concerned I skimmed on him, the same as stealing money, and there's no way to convince him otherwise."
    "The FBI, they'll be after you, too, won't they?"
    Still looking out the window he said, "I doubt it. They'd have to justify the expense and I don't think they'd be able to."
    She said, "Can I ask where you're going?"
    Harry turned his head and she was looking into his eyes, a bright clear blue with light reflecting in them through the window.
    He said, "If I'm the only one who knows, I should be okay." He touched her face then, caressing at first, then fooling with her ear and the curly ends of her hair. "I'll tell you something I've never told a soul," Harry said, this time sure of it. "I actually have been skimming off those people over twenty years. You can't imagine how much money I've put away."

    Chapter Five.
    After that business at the Atlanta airport, losing a federal witness in his care, Raylan Givens was assigned to the academy at Glynco, Georgia, where future marshals got their training.
    He told Harry Arno, the two of them having an early dinner at Joe's Stone Crab, the training center was south of Savannah toward Brunswick and that guys applying as Treasury agents, ATF and Secret Service, also Customs, were trained there too. Raylan said what it was, you go through a Criminal Investigator course with the emphasis on PT, physical training. He was a firearms instructor. He said it wasn't a put-down to be assigned there; most guys liked the duty. It was just they knew he wanted field work, fugitive investigation, so he felt that in a way it was like a punishment.
    "One thing they knew I could do without messing up was shoot. So I taught the care and use of basic firearms. Like that Army-issue .45 you used, developed about a hundred years ago to stop the