That was one thing about Dave Hamilton. He never quibbled about
cashing the checks he wrote to me even though I was just a non-
employee, a diaphanous soul in the underground economy, and didn’t
exist as far as the IRS was concerned or anybody else for that matter.

The ambulance showed up that night without a siren and that wasn’t good because Mr. Simmons was already dead by the time they got there.

When the doorbell rang a few days later, I went for the saltshaker,
figuring Mr. Simmons was looking for a refill.

Hurricane Margo’s face must have turned as purple as her Buddha after Dave told her what happened.

The next time I saw Penelope she was with her boyfriend, Miguel Aguilar.

The customer always comes first. That was one of Dave Hamilton’s mantras. I’m Okay, You’re Okay was another one.

There were no customers in the store so Penelope was in the back room. Nose in a book.

There at the Turkey Creek shanty surrounded by thick woods was Frank, a skinny freak with long, tangled brown hair.

Dave’s assistant manager handed me a work shirt the next day after my training, such as it was, with Abdul.

So I showed up at nine in the morning to learn the mechanics of waterbed setup, dream mechanics, and the delicacies of entering the inner sanctums of people’s lives – where they spent anywhere from six to eight hours playing tiddly-winks with the puzzle pieces of daytime. I wasn’t quite prepared for Abdul, the boss’s [...]