The walk wasn’t doing him much good.
Coyote stopped in the middle of the pedestrian bridge, lit a cigarette and let his eyes flit along the still water of the canal to the train chugging north, out of the city, along its own bridge two hundred or so yards west.
Amid the clanking, he heard something else. He waited, straining to hear. The east wind gusted.
The troubadour appeared, heading south across the bridge, past Coyote, who noticed they wore a pillow case over their head; a ragged, smiling face drawn on both the back and the front.