“He agreed to a lot when I told him the county could use his notary book as evidence.” That was true enough.

Victor had called me at seven that morning, before I finished the motel coffee.

He had a cold sore on his lip and kept his voice low.

At nine the next morning Victor stood beside me in the First National Bank lobby, scratching his chin.

He had his notary book under one arm and the face of a man waiting for a verdict.

“You said my name stays out of the newspaper,” Victor said.