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Show Night Keys He looked right at the dog but it still took him a long time to see it. It was standing by one of the boat hulls closest to the guard house. He only saw it because its head dipped, rose, ears up, and dipped again, sniffing something. Almost the size of a German Shepherd and the same mottled gray and black. It couldn't have been there long. Sweat from walking the last round still prickled his face and neck, drying. The air conditioner blew cold air against his back, with a regular click click rattle, thrumming clickety clack like a long night train to the Gulf. He tallied the Fuel Report and looked out again. This time the dog was gone. Nothing under the near floodlights but boat trailers, hulls, the night beyond. The chain link fence like a silver net, A Dodge tractor-trailer blinked its lights at the front gate. He sauntered out to the truck. "Name?" "Dollar. Got a load of post holes." "D-o-l-l-a-r?" "Like the money." The driver, a large man wearing cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, climbed down from the cab and, leaving the engine running, ambled into the guardhouse. The boats had likely been dropped off in Illinois or Memphis. Maybe New Orleans. Holding the clipboard up to the glare of the headlights he wrote the |
