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My meeting with Lawson at the Iguana Bar had gone better than expected. I had gotten out alive. Which is better than I had expected. That hillbilly cop had sure saved my bacon. Maybe my luck had changed. I’d made it clean out of Arizona and back across the border into California without incident. And I had gotten a good night sleep down by the Colorado River. After ten days in San Bernardino County jail, curling up on the front seat of my ’41 Studebaker in a sleeping bag was down right luxurious. I felt refreshed. Now all I had to do was find Harper. No problem.