Along the Mississippi River in Illinois, the morning mist had not yet dissipated, and the damp air, tinged with a fishy smell, clung to Bramo Ramsfield's wool coat.
He sat on a folding chair, the fishing rod propped obliquely on a metal stand with the line dangling into the river.
The sound of leather shoes on gravel came from behind, not too heavy nor too light.
Bramo didn't turn his head, already knowing who had arrived, "I thought you would be late. Didn't put enough sugar in the coffee today?"
"No way."
John Hawkins chuckled heartily, "I brewed it with Guatemalan beans for you, the ones you said were richer than last time."
He placed the thermos by Bramo's feet and then pulled a checkered cloth from his briefcase, carefully spreading it on the rocks beside him.
