“The clientele seemed ruffled by the sight of a tall black man with a sidearm. “You’re making the folks nervous,” Joe Winder observed. “Must be the uniform.” Carrie popped a shrimp into her mouth. “Are we under arrest?” “I’d be doing all three of us a favor,” Jim Tile said, “but no, unfortunately, you’re not under arrest.” Winder was working on a grouper sandwich. Jim Tile had ordered the fried dolphin and conch fritters. The dining room was populated by rich Republican golfers with florid cheek...s and candy-colored Izod shirts. The men shot anxious squinty-eyed glances toward the black trooper’s table. Jim Tile motioned for iced tea. “I can’t imagine why I’ve never gotten a membership application. Maybe it got lost in the mail.” “What’s the point of all this?” Winder asked. “To have a friendly chat.” “About what?” Jim Tile shrugged. “Flaming bulldozers. Dead whales. One-eyed woodsmen. You pick the subject.” “So we’ve got a mutual friend.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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