It had been there when I had driven around the block three times looking for a place to park an hour before. Although it was still there, the man behind the wheel was different. I crossed the street and moved down the sidewalk until I reached the car’s front bumper. Then I stopped, took out my tin box, and started rolling a cigarette. The man inside the car watched me. I nodded at him and smiled. He didn’t nod back. He didn’t smile either. When the cigarette was rolled I walked around to the driver’s side and smiled down at the man. He gave me a bleak look. “Got a match, mister?” I said, all friendly and country. “I don’t smoke.” I patted my pockets, grinned like a fool, took out some matches, and lit the cigarette. Then I gave the Plymouth the look of a man who knows his automobiles. “Nice car, a Plymouth,” I said. “It’s the Fury, ain’t it?” The man nodded, but only once. He was about twenty-eight or twenty-nine with a round, plump face, light blue eyes, not much of a nose, and a mouth that was much too harsh and cruel for the rest of him.
