That was an inconvenient development. Po Campo hated to leave the river. She had never seriously supposed a father would turn up, and yet only three weeks had passed and one had, standing in her kitchen, dirty, tired, and with a badly discolored leg. The deputy was looking for the sheriff, and the sheriff was looking for a man who had killed his brother.
The majority of them were just boys, anyway, and not used to whorehouse customs and alarm clocks. Centipedes and other bugs loved the roof; day after day they crawled down the walls, to end up in her stewpots or her skillets or the trunks where she stored her clothes. It wasn't his full name, Newt pointed out. Not again, she thought--I won't live that again, even for you, Bob.
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