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Raindrops were beginning to splatter against the windshield and distant thunder promised more bombast as I reached a Y in the road I hadn't expected and was forced, in view of the lights bearing down on me from a vehicle somewhere in back and near to me, to make a decision. "Take the high road" wafted through my brain. I had no idea why I had remembered that now, but it had been a favorite expression of my Scottish grandfather, and it offered me more direction at the moment than anything else I had on offer. So, I turned right, uphill. I only saw a glimpse of the signpost in the gloom, set off at a useless angle, as I passed it, but I caught "Timber" something or other. I put the slip of paper I had up to the dashboard lights to refresh my memory. It said "Timberlake 760," so I thanked my grandfather for direction and gunned the motor to ascend the steep side of the hill.

I was a little irritated and on edge about this call out tonight. The call had come late, I had other plans, and it was going to storm a bitch tonight. Leon had given me the assignment slip, and I'd seen that it was an M-4 Regular Cowboy. All three elements combined to bode problems. The "M" was OK in its own right, but four of them meant there were few enough to indicate they might be rough and more than I could handle if they did get frisky. Under the circumstances, the "Regular" gave me pause too, especially in conjunction with the "Cowboy." When "Cowboy" was specified, the fantasy it provided usually ended with someone wanting to fuck someone—and if they hadn't paid for a "Special" up front, it often meant they knew they wanted it to end that way but ...

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