By Emanuele Severino
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The usual. But there was something wrong with the proportions. "Nine in all, counting the leader," said Anthony reading from Cat's clipboard an hour and a half after the last appearance. " He looked up from the page at his boss. " Crow took the clipboard from his hand and glanced at it. "Nope," was his only response. Both men looked up at the sound of the Jeep returning up the driveway bearing Cat and the graveyard team. One of the townsmen approached them while they unloaded empty cans of soil coagulant and tossed them into the back of the semi.
The procession made its way across the square to the bank. Anthony walked side by side with Crow, but every other member of the team-especially the crane operator and the still-writhing (and now silently giggling) Cat-stayed firmly in place. Crow noticed that there really weren't as many cops as he had at first thought. Perhaps a half-dozen or so counting state troopers and the sheriff's real deputies. The rest were the same crowd present at the mansion all afternoon. There was some trouble at the bank door, it being ten o'clock at night.
I hear you. Crow nodded with satisfaction. He tossed his new cigarette to the ground, hitched up his pants, and stalked toward the circle of men still at the Jeep. He paused and jerked a ferocious glance back at his friend. " he snarled. Then he stalked ahead even faster. " CHAPTER 2 It was a nice jail-if you liked old westerns. Crow's cell reminded him of every Rifleman he'd ever seen. It had a cot, a stool, a chamber pot without a lid, and a door that required the keys to the city to open it.
Del bello by Emanuele Severino