Junkyard Dogs

by Craig Johnson

  “What is this about?”

  “Pat, do you remember a man by the name of Fred Poulson?”

  Another pause, but his voice became stronger. “It’d be a hard name for me to forget.”

  “I’d imagine so.” I rested my forehead in the palm of my hand and ignored the pain in my eye socket. My other hand drifted down and petted Dog—I was careful to avoid the taped-up ear. “I just thought I would give you a call that might help you to sleep a little better at night. . . .”

  I glanced at the Cheyenne Nation with my one eye, and things didn’t look half-bad.