him。　He　was　fifty…eight　or　…nine　back　then；　with　a　deeply　lined　bloodhound　face　that　Bobo　Marchant　probably　would　have　felt　right　at　home　with。　He　had　white　hair　and　his　hands　shook　with　some　sort　of　palsy；　but　he　was　strong。　The　year　before；　when　a　prisoner　had　rushed　him　in　the　exercise　yard　with　a　shank　whittled　out　of　a　crate…slat；　Moores　had　stood　his　ground；　grabbed　the　skatehound's　wrist；　and　had　twisted　it　so　hard　that　the　snapping　bones　had　sounded　like　dry　twigs　burning　in　a　hot　fire。　The　skatehound；　all　his　grievances　forgotten；　had　gone　down　on　his　knees　in　the　dirt　and　begun　screaming　for　his　mother。　〃I'm　not　her；〃　Moores　said　in　his　cultured　Southern　voice；　〃But　if　I　was；　I'd　raise　up　my　skirts　and　piss　on　you　from　the　loins　that　gave　you　birth。〃

When　I　came　into　his　office；　he　started　to　get　up　and　I　waved　him　back　down。　I　took　the　seat　across　the　desk　from　him；　and　began　by　asking　about　his　wife　。。。　except　in　our　part　of　the　world；　that's　not　how　you　do　it。　〃How's　that　pretty　gal　of　yours〃　is　what　I　asked；　as　if　Melinda　had　seen　only　seventeen　summers　instead　of　sixty…two　or　…three。　My　concern　was　genuine　he　was　a　woman　I　could　have　loved　and　married　myself；　if　the　lines　of　our　lives　had　coincided　…　but　I　didn't　mind　diverting　him　a　little　from　his　main　business；　either。

He　sighed　deeply。　〃Not　so　well；　Paul。　Not　so　well　at　all。〃

〃More　headaches？〃

〃Only　one　this　week；　but　it　was　the　worst　yet　…　put　her　flat　on　her　back　for　most　of　th