He was leather and dust in a pair tight blue jeans; the cover of a Louis L’amour novel. Some country act, I thought. Said he needed a place to crash. Big appointment at Tenth and Esher. “Shit,” I said (a little drunk), “that’s by my place!”
He was maybe six inches too tall to sleep comfortably on Graham’s old couch, but he didn’t complain.
“When’s your appointment?” I asked, the next morning.
Thunder clapped and he turned back from the window. Handed me an old lever-action Winchester, and walked out, smiling. “You might want to find someplace else to stay.”