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.
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“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.”
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“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.

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