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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
