The lights of the truck-stop and flashing reds and blues of the Highway Patrol faded from view as the '73 Pontiac LeMans drifted east.

Jake shook away the thought that the feds were on to him. Why, he reasoned, would they be looking for him? He hadn't done anything that he was aware of that would give him away. Unless—shit! He grew angry with himself suddenly, cursing at his stupidity for leaving the nose where it could be found so easily. What else could have tipped off the feds? He should have hid it in a better place. A place where the nose wouldn't be found for a few weeks. Shit—he shouldn't have hid it to begin with. What the fuck was he thinking even leaving a nose for the feds to find?

Brisk winds blowing through the convertible whipped the pages of a newspaper on the floorboard by Jake's feet. Annoyed by the flapping, he bent down and snatched it up.

The driver pushed back a few strands of hair from his face. He turned down the volume on the car stereo. He said over the rushing wind, "You can sit on it if you want. Keep it from flying around." A nod from Jake and the man depressed a button on the stereo until the music became audible once more. The man depressed another button. For the second time the song that had been playing when the man had first stopped to give Jake a ride now played itself again. Either this was a single song CD, Jake thought, or the man was just really fond of the song. Probably both.

Jake now took notice of the newspaper in his hands. It was the Santa Fe Gazette, and according to the late May date was over two weeks old. He realized that the man hadn't been in California very long. With that thought he tucked the paper under his thigh.

"I'm Jake," he said, extending his hand across the seat. The man would be dead before the night was over so it really didn't matter if he knew Jake's identity or not.

"Name's Tucker."

They clasped hands.

Jake asked, "How long have you been out West?"

"Not long, not long. I was in L.A. almost two weeks."

"You're from Louisiana?"

Tucker was silent for a moment, then said, "That's right. Born in N'Orleans. Grew up in the Bayou."

"Are you going back now?"

"Nope. Gonna' see some more of the country. Comin' out I drove through the Southern states 'cause I wanted to see Vegas." A big grin spread across his face. He said, "But now I'm gonna' hit the Biggest Little City in the World."

"You a gambling man?" Jake said for the second time that evening, repeating the words that so frightened the federal agent.

"Love it—love it—love it!" Tucker exclaimed, his hands visibly tightening their grip on the steering wheel. "The money! The women! The chance!. . .It's all great." He hit a button on the stereo, restarting the same song.

Jake leaned back in his seat and looked at the night sky. Well, you took your chances tonight and it looks like your luck's about to run out. He clenched his hands together in his lap and cracked his knuckles. In anticipation.

The vehicles on the highway were becoming few and far between and there was nothing behind but a distant pair of headlights.

A short while later Jake pulled the newspaper out from under his thigh. He held the pages firmly against the wind. He decided he needed to work out a plan.