What the night lacked in dry warmth it made up for in a transparency far surpassing that of my soupy windshield. In the choosy light I saw the fringe of unmanicured wilderness that protruded from beyond the uneven edge of the bike lane like an imperial moustache. I discovered I had parked my Honda Civic just twenty feet behind the tail of a russet pickup that looked as if it were a proud veteran of a moose stampede. Its posterior flap lay open, allowing the rain to drain out leisurely.

The people who own trucks like that are practical, proud, and wouldn't be caught dead on the side of the road on account of a broken windshield wiper. Hence, such a truck must contain the means to repair a windshield. But the owner of the vehicle was nowhere to be seen. After several minutes of nonchalant reconnaissance to verify that I was alone, Rick Rockford -- private eye-- climbed into the back of the truck to investigate.

There was a spare tire and some heavy duty bungee cords in the cargo bed, but no wrench or Windshield Wipers for Dummies. The lock was broken on the partly-caved-in passenger door. The front seats, though not clean, contained nothing of interest except the remains of a burrito in a cardboard take-out container and a Styrofoam cup in the left cup holder. The front seat was decorated like my jaw: with a bristly five o'clock shadow outdimmed by the greater ten o'clock milieu. The burrito's warmth had waned, but the coffee--a French roast, black but sweetened--was almost hot enough to scald my tongue.

A mechanical clangor errupted to my left. I spewed coffee out onto the dashboard.

"Who the fuck are you?"

She sounded angry. Slowly turning my head left, I found myself looking down the flat end of a shovel and into her furious eyes.