Off in the distance, a couple of farms away, a train was rolling by, like a bunch of golden caterpillars racing to lunch.
Kort, on the other hand, looked like she’d just been wheeled out of a Salvation Army store, after cutting her own hair with a jackknife. She could have spent three days in a beauty salon and it wouldn’t have changed her face, her body, or the scowl she’d worn since birth—part of the burden she’d carried with her.
She didn’t see the highway patrolman until she was right on top of him. She’d crossed a bridge, where low trees crowded right up to the highway, and there he stood, a radar gun in his hand.
Mafia and cartel movies, and accepted the movie premise that organized crime was like a huge FBI or CIA, that they would find you everywhere, that they had eyes on every street corner and every bar.
“I was afraid chunks of lead would be coming back at me.”
She shook her head: “Low penetration rounds. They hit that brick wall and turn into dust.