“Well, it’s a tougher town than Casper.”
“Do you think that’s a tough town, sir?”
“It’s an oil town. It’s a nice town.”
“But I don’t think it’s tough, sir. Or ever was.”
“O.K., Jackson. Maybe we move in different circles. Or maybe we have a differing definition for the word. But this town of Venice, with everybody being polite and having good manners, is as tough as Cooke City, Montana, on the day they have the Old Timers’ Fish Fry.”
“My idea of a tough town is Memphis.”
“Not like Chicago, Jackson. Memphis is only tough if you are a Negro. Chicago is tough North, South, there isn’t any East, and West. But nobody has any manners. But in this country, if you ever want to know a really tough town where they eat wonderfully too, go to Bologna.”
“I never was there.”
“Well, there’s the Fiat garage where we leave the car,” the Colonel said. “You can leave the key at the office. They don’t steal. I’ll go in the bar while you park upstairs. They have people that will bring the bags.”
“Is it okay to leave your gun and shooting gear in the trunk, sir?”
“Sure. They don’t steal here. I told you that once.”
“I wanted to take the necessary precaution, sir, on your valuable property.”
“You’re so damned noble that sometimes you stink,” the Colonel said. “Get the wax out of your ears and hear what I say the first time.”
