needed an excuse. People were either flustered or flattered, depending on their conscience. Now she had no uniform, no authority, and no cigarette. She was going in undercover, an irony considering that one among her barrel of motives for leaving the RCMP was being rejected for undercover work. She kept her hands loose at her sides, fighting her instinct to be visibly ready for action.
“Much traffic today?” she called as she approached.
He shook his shaggy head, eying her up. After a bit he slurped his tongue over his teeth and said, “Nope. Midweek’s not the busiest. Couple of guys honked, though.”
“Shows they’re paying attention, huh?”
“Yup. Darn waste of taxpayer money, this place. Here, have a pamphlet.” He tugged a trifolded yellow sheet from his shirt pocket. “Explains all about it.”
“Thanks.” On the cover, in bold font, were the words, Make Jobs Not Pots. Lacey opened the sheet and scanned enough of the crowded paragraphs within to grasp the gist of his argument. Art didn’t bring jobs or economic benefits to the community. “You wrote this yourself?”
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