"I've got a client who looks like a gravy train."

"Who?"

"Can't say."

"You know I could find out."

"He's from out of town, too."

"Doesn't matter."

"God, you're cocky today, aren't you?"

"Confidence is everything, man. How much?"

"Let's talk price after you see what you can turn up."

"Negotiable, huh?"

"Exactly."

"Dude's name is Harold Tankersley?"

I nodded, and Rodent patted the car door to show I was free to go.

"Hey, Rodent?"

He leaned over again. "Yeah?"

"You know much about Elvis Presley?"

"He's dead."

"Yeah, right. Never mind. See you later."

I eased the car out of the parking lot, and headed back the way I'd come on Central. I told myself I shouldn't even have mentioned Elvis to Rodent. It could've made him suspicious. Revealing any secret to Rodent would be like broadcasting it on the network news.

My next step was Bailey's Rent-a-Car, which I was knew was somewhere on Yale out by the airport. I wasn't in much of a hurry, so I drove west on Central all the way to the University of New Mexico before turning south. There were faster routes – Central had so many traffic lights – but I like to tool down Route 66, watching the sidewalks for hookers and coeds and street crazies and anything else that might be worth a gander.