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Twin wells: chapter two: the mustang room.

Article Excerpt
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Clay Baldwin spent the better part of an hour in the bank, watching the bureaucratic fidget wheels slowly turn. It was like Twin Wells had never seen a traveler's check before. Now that the commotion with Joe Newby had passed, Alexander Johnson III commanded the bank lobby in his shirtsleeves, pacing back and forth on the worn floorboards as if they were the foredeck of some war-bound frigate. He demanded that various forms be signed in triplicate, that Baldwin's driver's license be photocopied and fried away. Baldwin kept his cool. He had never liked men with numbers in their names; those Roman numerals made them move through the world with a sense of entitlement. Baldwin counted his cash on the counter, gave the pretty cashier a glimmer of a smile, then burst from the bank into the pale, dead heat of the afternoon.

He returned to the garage and, seeing that his car was now in a work bay, retrieved a rucksack from behind the passenger seat. The mechanic and the tow driver were nowhere in sight. He continued on in the direction...

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