Lucas had been in any number of flat towns on the northern plains, and Marfa would fit right in there: more pickups than sedans; a venerable county courthouse with a diminutive dome; a brick, concrete, and pole-building main street, no buildings higher than three or four stories; white houses made of concrete block with stucco, and wood-and-plaster; and vacant lots overgrown with weeds.
“I got shot in the hip one time. Six inches over, would have hit me in the balls. Sort of clarified my thinking about shoot-outs.”
“Although nobody’s calling it the highway patrol, they call it the DPS.”
“That’s short for Dipshits?”
“Could be, but it’s actually the Department of Public Safety,” the College-Sounding Guy said.