“Tarpon?”

“No. Hammerhead sharks. They got some big ones around the jetties down there.”

After I came back from lunch I went out on the lot and picked out about a half-dozen cars that would make good leaders in an ad, made some notes, and started writing it up. At first I was just doing it to kill time, but the thing began to grow on me as I went along and after the second or third draft I had some pretty good stuff whipped into shape, slicing the down payments as low as they would go and playing up all the accessories. I took it up the street to the newspaper office, paid for it and got a receipt, intending to go by the loan office and collect from Gloria Harper.

I had started back to the office before I remembered it was Saturday and they closed at noon. Well, I could collect on Monday; it didn’t matter. But I was conscious of a vague disappointment, and knew the money was only part of it; what I’d really wanted was an excuse to go in and talk to her.

I was angling across the street towards the lot when I happened to glance around towards the loan office and saw her through the window. She was sitting at a desk behind a pile of paper work. I turned abruptly and started back, and just as I did I noticed that Gulick had company on the lot. Two of the deputy sheriffs were talking to him.

Well, it wasn’t anything. They were talking to everybody in town. There was nothing unusual about it. But still I wished I hadn’t turned right there in the middle of the street; it might look as if I had turned back to avoid them. But there wasn’t anything I could do about it now. If I kept switching back and forth in the middle of the street I would attract attention.

The door was open and there was a big electric fan blowing across the office. She nodded as I came in, but the smile itself was a little forced and there was something very tired about her face. I wondered why she was working overtime. She got up and came over to the counter with tall unhurried grace.

“It was terrible about the bank, wasn’t it?” she said. “And the fire.”

“Yes,” I said. I wasn’t even thinking about the bank. And then I remembered what I had come in for. “Harshaw said to take it out of petty cash,” I said, shoving the receipt across the counter and explaining what it was for.

She wrote out a slip and got the money out of the safe. “Thanks,” I said, putting it into my wallet. “Why don’t you knock off? You look tired.”

“I will pretty soon.”

I didn’t want to go. We stood there facing each other across the counter. “What are you going to do tomorrow?” I asked.

“Nothing special. Go to church in the morning, I expect. And in the afternoon I thought I might go out and try to sketch the Buchanan bridge.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s in the river bottom, below the one where—” She paused, confused, and I knew what she was thinking. “Below the one we crossed going out to the oil well.”

“Could I go, too?” I asked.

She nodded. “Why, yes.