He was pressed against the passenger-side door, keeping the stolen .357 pointed at the freak in the army greens. The young woman was no immediate threat. The stranger blinked like a craggy tortoise. He said: “How much you get for her ring?” Snapper frowned. The fucker knew—but how? Edie Marsh didn’t take her eyes off the road. “What’s he talking about? Whose ring?” Snapper spied, in the lower margin of his vision, the wandering prow of his jawbone. He said, “Everybody shut the fuck up!” Leaning forward, the longhair said to Edie: “Your rough-tough boyfriend beat up a policewoman. Ripped off her gun and her mother’s wedding band—he didn’t tell you?” Edie shivered. Maybe it was his breath on the nape of her neck, or the slow rumble of his voice, or what he was saying. Meanwhile Snapper waved the police pistol and hollered for the whole world to shut up or fucking die! He jammed a CD into the dashboard stereo: ninety-five decibels of country heartache. Within minutes his fury passed, soothed by Reba’s crooning or possibly the five white pills Edie had given him back at the house.
