Shark

"Too early for a beer, mister. But . . . thanks anyway."

"How about water then, you look like you've been standing out here forever waiting for something to happen."

"I feel like it . . . thanks for the water." Beel had already had the bottle out of the cooler and was holding it out toward Jim, across the seats of the Corvette. Out of politeness, Jim accepted it, which brought him to the side of the car. Just putting a hand on the passenger window well sent shudders of pleasure up Jim's spine. Nobody around here owned anything like this.

"There's nothin' gonna happen around here, I'm afraid. But standin' and lookin' at the horizon is a common activity in Kansas. Shit, this is a beautiful piece of equipment—uh, sorry for the cuss word."

"No problem. Yes, it's a fuckin' beautiful piece of heaven. You got a name?"

"Uh, yes, Jim. Jim Steele," Jim answered with a warm smile, disarmed by the stranger's comfort with cussing. "And you?" It was all natural pleasantries, the exchange of names being a long-practiced customs of friendliness and willingness to trust in the ranching and farming environment where everyone helps everyone else.

"I'm called Beel."

"Glad to meet cha', Bill."

"No, it's Beel. It's short for a much more complicated name, but we needn't go into that now. Say, if you're just at loose ends now and wishing there was some excitement in your life, how would you like to take a ride in a new Corvette?"

"Oh, man, would I ever!"

"Hop in. And you sure it's not too early for a beer or two."

"Well, if you twist my arm," Jim said happily as he opened the door to the Corvette and folded his hunky bulk into the passenger seat."

"It may come to that," Beel muttered under his breath, too quietly for Jim to hear, as he looked both east and west down the deserted route 50 and pulled back onto the road and turned around, headed for the deserted Anderson spread.