Klondike's spade was the first to thump against something solid and hollow. "Bingo," the larger man muttered.
Riff hesitated, then tossed back another gout of dirt anyway. Klondike smelled like a wet bearskin, and his permanent facial shadow of black beard stubble served to camouflage his face in the darkness. Riff did not necessarily enjoy working with someone as coarse as Klondike, but all his life he had made a virtue of never questioning orders.
"Wait," he said, and the big man froze like a pointer. Riff tapped the surface beneath their feet with his spade. "Sounds funny."
They knelt and swept away clots of dirt with their gloved hands.
"Time," said Riff.
Klondike peeled back the cuff of his glove and read his luminous watch face. "0345 hours," he said. The fingertips of his gloves were stylishly sawn off, and Klondike promptly used the moment of dead time to pick his nose. "Ain't got us much time," he whispered. "Funk-hole's turning to mud."
"I know that," Riff said, hunkering down in the bottom of their excavation and resisting the urge to add you imbecile. He plucked a surgical penlight from a coat pocket and cupped his palm around the beam, leaning close. "Look at this."
The dime-sized dot of light revealed a silver dent--left by Riff's spade--in a smooth surface of brilliant, fire-engine red enamel. Klondike ran his fingers over it, and stared dumbly at his hand while the tiny scar in the otherwise flawless surface refilled with water.
"Bloody hell!" snapped Riff. "Bunny didn't tell us that the guy was buried in his goddamn car!"
)
