The Northrup plant.” The wind plastered her skirt against slim legs, and he would have driven her to the moon, or tried. He leaned across to open the door. “I take it you're not looking for a job as a machinist.” It was a thin smile. “We picket every Friday. That's where they make the Stealth bomber. Do you know how much they could have done for this country with the money they're wasting—even the last few planes—now that they know there's no point making them at all?” “Two hospitals in every garage,” he said. He headed south for Florence instead of going back to Gage. It was good to give this side of town the once over. She wasn't sure how to take him. “You probably don't approve. You were in Viet Nam, weren't you?” A red light caught him in front of a labor mosca and he grimaced. Scores of squat brown Central Americans were swarming a stake truck, shouting and waving and begging for work, and two mean-looking gringos in the truck bed shouted back at them and pushed them away from the sides.
