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like nails, nearly hidden, holding them all together.
    â€œI’m not a Communist,” he murmured. Beer ambushed his head, pinching, pinching.
    â€œCould’ve fooled me.” The man rolled a cigarette. A sliver of brown hair bobbed on his chin just below his lower lip, a woolly wood chip. “You know how many of these I sold today?” He pulled a mask from his pocket, spilling his kerchief onto the ground. “Five. Yesterday, in Shawnee? Fifty -five.” He lit the fag, flicked the match into the street. A brief flare. A comet-tail. “You and your Communist talk, stirring folks up. You ruined it for me, kid.” He staggered and belched.
    Harry set his bottle down. He staggered too. “Maybe tomorrow—”
    â€œHell, tomorrow’ll be too late. Halley’s will have come and gone. Have to find another scam. Where’s your old man?”
    â€œAsleep.”
    The salesman laughed, nudged the empty bottle with his boot. “You and me, we got something in common. The thrill of the pitch. Afterwards you can’t settle down, right? Others hit the sack, your blood’s still racing.” He fingered the loose threads of Harry’s shirt. “What happened, you bust a longhorn? Boy, you do have energy.”
    Harry didn’t answer.
    â€œWell, I say us drummers, we gotta stick together.”
    â€œI’m not a drummer, either.”
    â€œSure you are.” The man swirled his cigarette like a stubby yellow sparkler over his head. “You’re selling the biggest idea of all. Promise of a better life. And it’s about as useful as the crap I push. You’re pretty good, though, I gotta say. What was that line?—‘I pray we see the Kingdom on Earth.’ Pretty good, kid, pretty good. How old are you?”
    â€œTwelve. Today”
    â€œWell now, happy birthday.”
    â€œThank you.”
    The man offered his hand. “Bob Cochran.”
    â€œHarry,” Harry said.
    â€œHarry, you stick with this business, you’ll be a damn fine drummer someday. Got the spark, that’s a fact. I only wish you’d take it somewhere else.” He’d smoked his cigarette quickly. He ground it out in a knothole on the hitching post then rolled himself another.
    Harry looked at the mask, stuck now back in Bob Cochran’s pocket, glanced nervously at the sky. Behind him, in the doorway of the newspaper office, a cricket rattled. “Where’s your friend?” Harry asked.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThat lady with you.”
    â€œSue-Sue?” Bob Cochran smiled a mean-looking smile, the closest smile to a frown Harry had ever seen. “Waiting for me back in the room. That’s how I get my energy out.”
    â€œYou hit her,” Harry said.
    Bob Cochran frowned his smile. “She’s Kiowa,” he answered, as if that explained everything. He noticed Harry eyeing the mask. “You want that? Think it’s going to save you? Take it.” He dropped it in Harry’s hands; the rubber was cool and crawly. “Nothing’s going to save you, kid.” He bent level with Harry’s face. Whiskey leaped off his breath. “The coming century, it’s going to be a marvel, you know that? Electric lights are just the beginning. People are going to eat, drink—believe it— travel with speed. There’ll be shiny chrome machines doing all our work. Buildings tall as stars. And you won’t see a whit of it. Know why?” He stroked his wood-chip beard.
    Harry, weary, hungry, befuddled by his daddy’s beer, said, “The comet?”
    â€œHa!” Bob Cochran sailed his second fag at the farty little dog, who’d returned and was crouching in the street as if waiting for him to leave. “‘Cause you’re stuck in Shithole, Oklahoma, that’s why.” He rose unsteadily, angled off down the walk. “Nice talking to you, Harry,” he called from the