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disposed of properly, with no harm done.
    After the haulers left Southbay Agricultural Supply with the envelope containing $500, Burl Ralston put one manifest copy into an envelope to send by certified mail to Sacramento; then he filed his copy. The truckers had not asked Burl Ralston for a precise description of the material in the drum. In fact, no waste hauler had ever asked him. But Burl Ralston had informed Jules Temple that it was Guthion, hadn’t he? And the skull and bones placard was on the drum, wasn’t it? Burl Ralston went back into the warehouse to continue his inventory without giving that drum of poison another thought. It was Jules Temple’s problem now, and probably would be the last deal they ever did together in that Jules was selling his business.
    Trucker Shelby Pate folded the manifest copies around the money envelope, and put the packet in the zippered pocket of his leather jacket.

C HAPTER 3
    â€œB ad Dog” was not a respectable name for a young woman, her mother had said to her when she was home on leave.
    â€œIt’s just navy, Mom,” Bobbie had insisted. “Gimme a break!”
    â€œNavy? I call it crude. That’s the kinda brutal attitude toward women that caused the Tailhook scandal where all those horny pilots mauled the women in that Las Vegas nightclub.”
    â€œHotel. The Las Vegas Hilton. And they’re aviators. They land on carriers at night in pitching seas. They’re aviators .”
    â€œRapists is more like it. A hundred drunken rapists. I know what they land on at night.”
    â€œThe navy’s working on sexist attitudes,” Bobbie had argued. “The secretary of the navy resigned, for crying out loud. Three admirals got stripped of their commands.”
    â€œThe women were the ones got stripped. What’d the one admiral say? Female pilots … excuse me, aviators are like hookers or go-go dancers? I wish you’d consider leaving it. You don’t belong in the navy. You’re not even twenty-eight years old. Your life’s ahead of you.”
    â€œI love the navy. I love my job.”
    â€œYou love being called Bad Dog?”
    â€œIt’s not meant in any mean or sexist way. It’s my name. Bobbie Ann Doggett. B-A-D. Doggett. Bad Dog. It’s natural.”
    Going home on leave to Kenosha, Wisconsin, had come to mean spending a few days with her parents, seeing her married brothers and their kids, and going out on the town with two high school girlfriends, both divorced. A surprising number of her classmates were gone from the Kenosha area, and before the leave was up, Bobbie was ready to go back to her real home. Back to the navy. At present, back to Naval Air Station, North Island, on the Coronado peninsula, across from downtown San Diego, where she served as a “command investigator.”
    Whenever she’d tried to explain to her mother what sweet shore duty it was, and how lucky, and yes, honored , she felt to have the job, her mother would heave a sigh. And as soon as it was tactful, her mother would bring up the name of some blind-date yuppie puppy who worked with Bobbie’s brother at his insurance office.
    Her father had given up long ago. Having served in Korea as a dogface grunt, he knew a lifer when he saw one. When Bobbie had made 2nd class petty officer during the Gulf War, her dad had sent a congratulatory telegram that caught up with her in Saudi Arabia where her tender serviced the fighting ships. That’s the kind of ship women got put on, big ships like tenders, machine shops that float. The male personnel, both officers and enlisted men, made bets on how many pregnancies would occur during their sea tour, and what made Bobbie really mad was that there were quite a few. Dumb. Sailors of either sex could be so dumb .
    Her defense of the navy to her mother was always upbeat. To other females, navy or civilian, Bobbie said that the Tailhook aviators who assaulted the women