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I’m willing to bet my next paycheck you haven’t got it, have you?”
    Wilson frantically dug in the deep, baggy pockets of his rainbow-colored clown suit. There was a lump in his left-side pouch but when he pulled it out, it was only his troublesome sponge clown nose.
    “Just like I thought,” the burly policeman said, starting to turn and walk away.
    “Wait, Mack!” Wilson yelled. “What about Susan? If you could call her, I’ll bet she—”
    “Forget it, already tried calling your wife. She’s not around. Even if she was, you’ve got to stop relying on her to keep rescuing you every time you drink yourself into a jam. You’ve got to get your act together, man, she threw you out of the house for a reason, you know?”
    “I know, but—”
    “But nothing. Look, I called her and she’s not home. I don’t know where she is or believe me I’d try and dump you off. You’re going to have to sit tight. I left a message on her machine, so she’ll probably yank you out tomorrow. She’ll sweet-talk somebody and you’ll get out, but it’s not happening tonight. No way. Now shut up and get some sleep.”
    Officer MacKenzie was out the door and back intothe front office before Wilson could think of anything else to say. He briefly considered trying to pick the lock on his cell, but he was way out of practice and had no tools with him anyway. Accepting his predicament, he set his cup back on the shelf above the sink and slouched down on the lumpy, uncomfortable bed. Something hard poked at his leg, behind his left knee, and when he reached down under the mattress he found one of the thin steel slats that crisscrossed to make the wire mesh of his bunk was loose and was sticking out a few inches. Wilson stood up and lifted the mattress to get a better look. If he wiggled the protruding slat, the entire six and a half feet of thin steel slid in and out at will. If he’d wanted to, Wilson could have slowly backed up and slid the entire slat free of the interlocking mesh pattern. Then he looked at the single wool blanket he’d been given.
    With a long, thin piece of steel like this and my blanket, I could…I could…
    “Oh hell, just forget it. Back in the day, maybe, but you’re not the man you used to be. Never will be either, so do what Big Mack says. Shut the fuck up and get some sleep.” Wilson was disgusted with himself. “Yeah, right. I’ve been in dreamland all day. How am I supposed to sleep through the night too?”
    He couldn’t come up with an answer but he pushed the steel slat back into place and lay down anyway, and tried a little soul-searching. Maybe if he thought long and hard enough, he might be able to come up with a reason why he was always such a fuckup. Half an hour later, he was still staring at the burned-out lightbulb on the ceiling, no closer to finding an answer.
    “One thing’s for sure. Big Mack was definitely rightabout something. No matter what else happens, I really have to work on getting my act together. I can’t keep screwing up like this.”
    A tear ran down his cheek as he lay in the dark trying to think about his wife and daughter. He loved them very much, but that wasn’t his reason for crying. His tears were shed in disgust and loathing for himself. No matter how much he loved his family and tried to concentrate on them, the only thing he could think about was the bottle of vodka waiting for him on his kitchen table.
    It was going to be a hell of a long night.
    The Stranger pulled the pickup truck off the side of Route 62, slowing to a stop in the gravel shoulder. He was on the outskirts of the Billington town limits; so close in fact he could make out the welcome sign dead ahead. In the murky light cast by the red Ford’s headlights, he could tell it was one of those monstrous billboard-type signs that marked the entrance to nearly every small town trying to look bigger and more important than they really were. He clicked on the truck’s high beams to get a better