“Who’s the lard-ass in the suit?”
Pitts dropped his head, shaking it, a tiny smile crossing his lips.
“The lard-ass,” the skinny bald man sneered. “Is the gentleman who retrieved your van from the hole you blew in the middle of Hawke Street.”
The fat one extended his hand.
“Mayor Williams. Carol Williams. This is my associate, Meredith.”
Topher took the hand. The skin was cold and clammy, like holding a dead fish. When they were done, Topher resisted the urge to wipe his palm on his thigh.
“And you must be Topher Bill,” Williams said. Then, with a hint of a sneer in his voice, “Transcendental Tracker.”
He didn’t harbor any tentativeness about wiping his hand on his pants. He smiled the whole time, too, and Topher couldn’t be sure whether it was a taunt or a grimace.
“Tell me, Mr. B
