Peter’s briefcase contained only a mechanical pencil with no lead, a page torn out of a Gideon’s Bible with the phone number of a dead, Salt Lake City prostitute written on it, the keys to his 1972 Gran Torino which someone had stolen ten day earlier after kicking him in the groin outside of some greasy, Memphis diner, and the rusty, .22 caliber pistol his mother had told him to hide nearly 40 years ago, placed into his then small hands while his father slowly bled to death in the next room, so when the dried up old woman on the barstool next to him leaned over and whispered into his ear that she was the witch of dreams come true and that she was about to turn him into one of whatever was in that case sitting next to his feet, Peter didn’t laugh or look away or even doubt what the woman said, but simply nodded in agreement, having known all along that he should have had better memories.
A lovely, poignant passage. I assume that ‘Salt Lake City prostitute’ is Utah-speak for ‘Catholic’?