Come Morning

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It was raining in Portland. It was always raining in Portland, thought Big Art Elliott, unless Mt. St. Helens was dumping her crap in the streets. And sometimes even then. He jumped out of the Caddy Seville with its tucked-under tail — he always thought of a hound dog getting its butt kicked — and dodged through the rain into the branch post office. He was built like a bear, with features too juvenile for his jowly face. Only pale watchful eyes suggested his 41 years.

A local newspaper headline in the lobby coin box caught his eye: UNION OFFICIAL SUBPOENAED IN PENSION FUND PROBE. Yeah, tell us about it, he thought sourly. He had pushed a big rig for 14 years, he could give the fucking newspapers a few scoops himself.

He’d moved to an inside job four years before, and his clothes showed it: roll-collar ivory shirt open three buttons, gold medallion glinting on his hairy chest, stacked-heel over-the-ankle boots to add three inches to his six-one.

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