"Looking for anything in particular, Mister?" the cop said.
I just looked at him.
"Passing through town, are you?" he asked.
For some reason I shook my head.
"I've got a job here," I said. "I'm going to work—for Mr. Foster."
"What Mr. Foster?" The cop's voice was wheezy, but relentless; a voice used to asking questions.
I remembered the ad—something about an adventure; Foster, Box 19. The cop was still staring at me.
"Box nineteen," I said.
He looked me over some more, then reached across and opened the door. "Better come on down to the station house with me, Mister," he said.