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where Furry & Daggett wanted to be.
    Furry stood on the shaded street corner in the same clothes he’d stood in for the last five months. His dungarees were tattered and personally patched and mended to a point where perhaps nothing of the original denims remained. Same went for his shirts and plaid jacket. He stank like spoiled meat. He was dirty, covered in biting lice, and tired. Every muscle was stiff and nothing but drinking and whoring was going to ease his temper. And that was a goddamn fucking fact. He stared down passersby while Daggett leaned against the alley wall and pissed into a greasy crumple of yesterday’s
Daily Advertiser
used a second time as sausage wrap and discarded, where it now dissolved under the moonshine pressure of Daggett’s noontime stream. He raised his head to the sky for the inspiration to clinch another jetting sprinkle on the news.
    Furry saw a sooty rat scale the clapboard building and engage in battle with a stubborn crow on the precipice.
    Are you done yet? he said. He tugged down the sleeve of his monkeyjacket and brought his wrist to his mouth to bite off some sinewy stitching unravelled at the cuff. Yikes. He caught a whiff of his own armpit. He’d bathe soon enough or he’d see no mink tonight. He wasn’t the kind of man, and neither was Daggett, who got mink if he wasn’t clean as a pony. They had a long ways to go. They were dressed in work clothes and two seasons’ worth of dirt.
    I said are you fucking done yet?
    Keep your fucking panties on, Jesus fucking—I’m pissing here …
    When a Chinaman coming from Carrall Street with a cart of vegetables passed the intersection, Furry gave him a look that turned him right around, trying to look natural doing so. And Furry, in his twelve-inch brimmed felt hat, leaned down, chose a cobble, and threw it down the street a hundred yards and hit the Chinaman upside the head. Shocked, the Chinaman touched his face, then pulled the carriage quickly out of sight before Furry had a chance to throw the second rock he’d fisted.
    They dingled open the doors of Red & Rosy’s General Store and brought their dirt and stink and thudding boots inside, looking around, pawing things, asking each other what the fuck is that, and will you take a fucking look at this, handling the wares like they were testing everything for durability.
    The other customers all said quick goodbyes to the man behind the counter, nodded deferentially to Furry & Daggett, and tripped out the door to safety. All the customers escaped save one. Molly Erwagen lingered at the back of the store, examining garden shears and cans of lard and the price of different compasses. Her hair was up inside a large bonnet, and her neck—equestrian in its supple form—was there for all to see. She stepped lightly here to there without quite paying attention to Furry and Daggett, who did
not
pay her the same respect. Daggett whistled for six counts, rocking his head. Furry just lost his hearing from seeing so much.
    Oo-wee, said Daggett, I sure’d like to see—
    What can I do you for? said the salesman. He walked along his side of the counter to meet the men near the front of the store. He’d been standing at the back near Molly and his face was flushed pink. He walked with a pronounced limp, a controlled, sluggish lope. He flattened his white apron with his hands and addressed them politely as sirs, inquiring again if they needed any help.
    Daggett leaned over and barked into the salesman’s ear: How much is that?
    The salesman didn’t answer immediately.
    We’re gyppo loggers, said Furry, touching the brim of his hat. This is my partner Mr. Daggett and my name’s Furry.
    They shook strong hands with the clerk.
    I heard your names before, the clerk said, pinching his moustache, drawing their attention to the mangled state of his ear and the evil scar on his cheekbone.
    That right? said Daggett, unintimidated.