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weightless, but toting it somehow aggravated the jabbing, pulsing pain in his lower back.
    Presently, high up, a red-tailed hawk circled by, making swooping shadows against the steep rock face opposite, mocking him, reminding him how clumsy he’d been.
    Working his way through the bitter brush, hugging the tree-line, he tried to distract himself with a favorite image. It was an old circus poster over a bar on the outskirts of Cut Bank announcing that the Flying Walenda Brothers were coming to Billings. The caption was: Life is on the high wire. Everything else is waiting .
    Continuing to disregard the pain, more fun images flashed across his mind. There was a job he’d pulled for Walt outside of Gallup: rifle-toting carjackers, driving semi-trailers, hauling stolen Mercedes headed for Beverly Hills. In his mind’s eye, he could still picture the low-slung red adobe shacks  ... a blown-up statue of a desperado on the roof of Don Diego’s Restaurant, the New-Mex Pottery Co. and Zuni Fetish store.  And that’s when Deke let loose with 500-gram repeater firecrackers and a torch or two arched in the air landing in the tinder dry clumps of sage and juniper. The carjackers hightailing toward the table-flat mesas, through the smoke and poplars that looked like petrified feathers ... Yes!
    As the images of better days came and went, Deke stopped over a dozen times to rest his back. Then pressed the speed-dial on his cell knowing damn well he wouldn’t get any reception till he got back to the rental car but trying anyhow.  
    At one of his rest stops, he reached inside a pocket of his Levi jacket for the little matchboxes. Conceivably, he might have to start a fire to ward off some wild thing if his back caved in. After all, you just never know.
    By the time he made it back to the gravel wayside, he was two hours late. He slid behind the wheel, hit the speed-dial again and cut Walt off before he had a chance. “Talk to you later,” said Deke.  
    â€œDammit,” said Walt, “you’ll talk to me now.”
    â€œI got the goods, I’m comin’ in.”
    â€œOh, yeah? Maybe I don’t want you comin’ in till I hear what happened. What’s the fallout, how was it left? And don’t tell me it was, ‘Sorry for the inconvenience, mister, won’t happen again.’”
    Dismissing all thoughts of the racked-up accountant, Deke said, “Look, Walt, I’ve  had it.”
    â€œDon’t give me that.  The problem, honcho, is spillage. Spillage here, spillage there, maybe could be all the way down the coast. Now give it to me. How did it go?”  
    Deke hit the ignition, shoved the case under the dash and said, “I shut it down on this end, Walt. And like I said, I’m comin’ in.”
    Deke left the rental car at the Enterprise lot in West Glacier and managed to catch the night train with a few minutes to spare. But he got no rest, only dozed off once in the half-sleeper. The rocking motion kept aggravating his back and soon he was at it again, taking stock.  
    He was pushing forty. Which meant sloughing off what just happened and staying on top of his game. Especially if he wound up in goddamn L.A. and had to take on some flaky Angelinos.     

   
    Chapter Four
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    Still holding his own on that same blustery Monday, Ben spotted a Chevy pickup.  It was parked far behind the endless rows of shiny sports cars clogging the beachfront; the only item of note the fact that it was dusty, ancient and out of place. But to someone like Ben, it was another sign, perhaps prompting him to slip away with some migratory workers or just plain toss in the towel while he had the chance.