"California plates. On your way through?"
"Just on a vacation. I stopped here because I used to know a fellow from this town. Timmy Warden."
He was a gaunt man with prematurely white hair and bad teeth. He picked a cigarette out of the top pocket of his coveralls. "Knew Timmy, did you? The way you say it, I guess you know he's dead."
"Yes. I was with him when he died."
"There in the camp, eh? Guess it was pretty rough."
"It was rough. He used to talk about this place. And about his brother George. I thought I'd stop and maybe see his brother and tell him about how it was with Timmy."
The man spat on the garage floor. "I guess George knows how it was."
"I don't understand."
"There's another man came here from that camp. Matter of fact he's still here. Came here a year ago. Name of Fitzmartin. Earl Fitzmartin. He works for George at the lumberyard. Guess you'd know him, wouldn't you?"
"I know him," I said.