Heartshot

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The sheriff leaned against the doorjamb of my office without saying a word, lounging there until I finally decided to notice him. I grunted what could have been a greeting, and that broke my chain of concentration. I punched the wrong goddamn key, swore, wound the platen up, and began to smear the mess on the paper some more with that miserable white correction fluid that flakes all over everything when it dries.

“Thirty-five thousand dollars’ worth of computers, and you still pound that thing,” Sheriff Martin Holman said. I glanced at him without much interest. He blew across a full cup of coffee as if the stuff was hot. If it came out of the vending machine down the hall, it wasn’t.

“Us antiques got to stick together,” I said. I wound the paper back down to retype over the blotch, groping in my shirt pocket for a cigarette with my other hand.

“Did anyone show you that on a computer you can make corrections on the screen, and when it prints out, it’s a perfect copy?”

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