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in intensity, a heated strand of wire threaded through her words, he would remain silent, his eyes deferential. “Ready?” he said.
     
    “Yes, sir,” she said.
     
    They fitted on polyethylene gloves and began walking down opposite sides of the road, searching through the grass and scattered gravel and empty snuff containers and desiccated paper litter and broken glass and discarded rubbers and beer cans and whiskey and wine bottles. A quarter mile from the phone booth, they traded sides of the road and retraced their steps back to the booth, then continued on for two hundred yards in the opposite direction. Pam Tibbs descended into a grassy depression and picked up a clear flat-sided bottle that had no label. She hooked one finger through the bottle’s lip and shook it gently. “The worm is still inside,” she said.
     
    “Have you seen that shape of bottle before?” he asked.
     
    “Out at Ouzel Flagler’s place. Ouzel always tries to keep it simple. No tax stamps or labels to create undue paperwork,” she replied. She dropped the bottle in a large Ziploc bag.
     
     
    OUZEL FLAGLER RAN an unlicensed bar in a plank shed next to the 1920s brick bungalow he and his wife lived in. The bungalow had settled on one side and cracked through the center, which caused the big windows on either side of the porch to stare out at the road like a cross-eyed man. Behind the house was a wide arroyo, outcroppings of yellow rock jutting from the eroded slopes. The arroyo bled into a flat plain that shimmered with heat, backdropped in the distance by purple mountains. Ouzel’s acreage was dotted with junked construction equipment and old trucks that he hauled from other places and neither sold nor maintained. Why he collected acres of junk rusting into the creosote brush was anybody’s guess.
     
    His longhorns were rheumy-eyed and spavined, their ribs as pronounced as wagon spokes, their nostrils and ears and anuses auraed with gnats. Deer and coyotes got tangled in the collapsed and broken fence wire that surrounded his cedar posts. His mescal probably came from Mexico, right up the arroyo behind his house, but no one was sure, and no one cared. Ouzel’s mescal was cheap and could knock the shoes off a horse, and no one, at least in the last few years, had died from it.
     
    The crystal meth transported through his property was another matter. People who were sympathetic with Ouzel believed he had made a deal with the devil when he’d gotten into the sale of illegal mescal; they believed his new business partners were stone killers and that they had drawn Ouzel deep into the belly of the beast. But it was Ouzel’s burden to carry and certainly not theirs.
     
    He peered out of the screen door on the shed. He was wearing an incongruous white dress shirt with puffed sleeves and patriotic tie and pressed slacks. But Ouzel’s affectations were poor compensation for his pot stomach and narrow shoulders and the purple chains of vascular knots from Buerger’s disease in his neck and upper chest that gave him the appearance of a carrion bird humped grotesquely on a perch.
     
    The dust drifted off the sheriff’s cruiser and crusted on the screen. Ouzel stepped outside, forcing a smile on his face, hoping to talk in the sunlight and wind, not inside, where he had not yet cleaned up last night’s bottles.
     
    “Need your help, Ouzel,” Hackberry said.
     
    “Yes, sir, anything I can do,” Ouzel replied, looking innocuously at the mescal bottle the sheriff held up inside a Ziploc bag.
     
    “I can probably lift some prints off this and run them through AFIS and end up with diddly-squat for my trouble. Or you can just tell me if a guy named Pete bought some mescal from you. Or I can lift the prints and find out that both your and Pete’s prints are on the bottle, which means I’ll have to come back here and talk with you about the implications of lying to an officer of the law in a homicide investigation.”
     
    “Y’all want a soda or something?”