Hidden city [antikvár]

PrologueClem Thompson kept one hand on the wheel, the other on a limp handkerchief for mopping his face and neck. It was almost sunset but still close to 100 degrees and no air conditioning in his Greyhound bus since the unit overloaded 80 miles back at a rest stop outside Lexington, Kentucky. The burnt-out grass along the roadside passed in a continuous, unfocused blur. All afternoon, the same; one long pale yellow river going north.Clem looked in his mirror to see how the old Indian was holding up. He still looked cool as a cucumber. Maybe old people didn't sweat much. Maybe old Indians didn't sweat at all. Clem had never had an Indian on his bus beforeat least not that he knew of. This one was carrying nothing more than a big gunny sack in his hand."Hey, chief!" Clem looked into the mirror. The old Indian was in the seat behind him. "You got family in Ohio?" The Indian had bought his ticket in Flagstaff, Arizona, a one-way ride to Cincinnati.The Indian shook his head. He was a proud-looking old man with a gaunt tanned face, deep wrinkles, and a thin-lipped mouth. Any man less proud would have seemed ridiculous with long stringy hair and a red bandanna around his head.1