My town, my dog Jim, and the hidden Hills

(This is Part-2; for Part-3, go here; for Part-1, go here)

My dog Jim and I were sitting on the porch of my cabin. He said, “He’s on his way here. He’s got somebody with him.”

“Who’s on his way?”

“Tank.”

“How do you know?” I said.

Jim sighed. “Long story short, as I’ve told you many times, Jon, you people are in love with five senses. We’re not.”

Tank is our town police chief. He’s crossed the line into corruption more times than all 463 of us who live here put together. So Jim and I have been discussing ways to drive him away for good.

…A half-hour later, Tank, Jim, and I are sitting in my living room. Tank’s guest is standing by the window looking out at the woods. His name is Paul Winston. He’s the Indian we’ve been told wants to build a casino and a resort in the area.

I ask him about that.

“That’s a myth,” he says. “The lawyer you chased out of town, Selwyn, made up the story. I’ve got no interest in casinos.”

“What are you interested in?” I said.