No connections yet. No lead in the plaster, no bubbles in the thinning beer. Evidence is a hieroglyph in a pool of melted wax. Shadows dance across their hands, and somewhere, in some other shade, a radio sputters. The flute .
Decisions come in pairs.
The paper sandwich bag drips mustard from its cracks, all over the blotter, and a little on the rug. Some men think on their feet, others in a stuffed patent leather arm chair, behind the windows and the lace. Girl, you're a tower. Awful nice, boys. The cowman .