Thornhill regards the man standing across from him at Prairie Crossing. Roger unbuttons his suit jacket and puts his hands on his hips. The man stares back, his own hands on his hips. Roger looks up the highway, then crosses the street towards the man.
“Hi,” says Roger. “Hot day.”
“Seen worse,” says the man.
“Are you supposed to be meeting someone here?” asks Thornhill.
“Waitin’ for the bus,” replies the man. “Due any minute.”
“Oh,” says Roger. A plane buzzes in the distance.
“Some of them crop duster pilots get rich,” says the man. “if they live long enough.”
“Yeah,” says Roger. “Then your name isn’t Kaplan?”
“Can’t say it is, ’cause it ain’t,” says the man. A bus appears down the highway. “Here she comes, right on -“