Oona is back from her rest cure in Baltimore, where the spiritual advisor prescribed deep breaths and barbecue eaten with feet elevated on the dashboard of a large, American-made sedan. Buck offered his Crown Vic and it worked okay, but turned out to be a bit shiny for the neighborhood. Oona sighs and wraps a strand of her fine black hair around the broken pencil she has taken from the Tom & Jerry mug on Buck’s desk.
“He’s really not the contemplative type,” she says, glaring meaningfully at the portrait of L. Beau “Buck” Pickering on the wall above the landfill license. “He chews like a walrus,” she adds. “And he keeps asking if we have enough Tree Frog in the cooler.”