"Thought you wanted me to shut up. In fact, if I remember correctly—" Joe leaned forward, placed his hand on the driver's leg and squeezed. The driver winced. "Aye, in the town." Joe removed his hand and glanced at his watch. Too late. If only he'd been able to get an earlier flight. Late night shopping? In this dump? Unlikely. He asked anyway. "Closed, I suppose?" The driver didn't require any prompting this time. "You'll have to wait till the morning." Quickly, he added, "Is it golf you're interested in?" Maybe he imagined Joe had interpreted his answer as being a shade impertinent, as if he was telling Joe what was permitted, and wanted to clarify that he was really being helpful, not rude. Or maybe he just liked to hear the sound of his own voice. Or maybe he was just stupid. Or maybe he was really a clockwork device that, once wound up, couldn't stop. When Joe didn't respond the driver spoke again. "Fishing?" Joe waited a moment, then said, "Baseball." "Oh," the driver said.
