“He’ll be the only one,” he said. Then he let out a laugh that sounded like coarse-grain sandpaper against a steel door. “You know how to swim, don’t you?”
“He refuses to rhyme his verse. It’s a big ‘fuck-you’ to the rest of these yokels. Jack Laroue’s famous,” she insisted. “He was a Rhodes scholar out of Yale.”
An editor from Salt Lake City magazine was on the line, wanting to send me to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, for five days, everything paid and nothing due in return.