The heat was coming. Across the street, someone leaned on John’s car. “Friend, I say, can I talk to you for a moment?” he asked, getting off John’s car, walking toward him. His chest shined with the badge of the local sheriff. The sheriff was a real cowboy, leather-faced and pearl-buttoned, with a cowboy name, Sheriff Lee Masters III. “Sheriff,” John said, “what’s up?” “Word is you’re going all over town asking questions, looking for someone.” “Yeah, sorry about that. I should have come by your office, introduced myself when I came to town. Name’s John Abernathy. I’m a P.I. from Denver.” John handed him his ID. “A little young to be a P.I.,” the sheriff said. “I get that. Anyway, I’m looking for this man.” John showed the sheriff the picture. “A woman, Elizabeth Morris, took it. Thinks he’s Elvis. A newspaper down in LA hired me to see if it’s legit.” “LA, huh? Los Angeles is the armpit of the United States.” “Everyone has a favorite armpit.”
