ELEVEN

Once again in the presence of Molly I was exhausted and realized that perhaps I hadn't planned too carefully. I had her but didn't know what to do with her. She was the sort of woman who had been designed to drive men mad. She would have been a trial for a saint. I felt trapped and confused, unable to think. Even after I dug my flashlight out of the pack to check her wound. When I got a good look at it, I sighed so loudly that it sounded like a shot. Either a glass or metal fragment had sliced as cleanly as a razor blade across her high cheekbone, then punched a tiny hole in her ear next to the skull. Lots of blood but no real damage. The bleeding stopped under pressure, and the slice could be closed with butterfly bandages when we got to Red's garage in North Las Vegas, which he had offered as a temporary lockup. When the bleeding stopped I jabbed an ampule of the "twilight sleep" into her hip, then climbed into the front seat, as if just a little distance from her would clear my mind.

Maybe it did. We drifted all the way west and north to Pahrump, where we stopped behind a convenience store. We couldn't drive back to Vegas in a car with bullet holes in it. While Red took a ballpeen hammer and made the holes in the front and rear window look as if they had been made with rocks, I went inside to get two large coffees, a six-pack of beer, a pile of cardboard sandwiches, a spray bottle of cleanser, and rolls of clear strapping tape and paper towels. I cleaned up the blood while he called his Mom, then we hid the bullet holes as best we could, and headed up to Highway 95.1 stayed awake long enough to drink two beers, a sip of coffee, and half an egg salad sandwich before I drifted off. I fell into a dark hole of dreamless sleep so deep I might as well have given myself the shot instead of Molly.

We were both dead until Red pulled into his garage tucked under the Interstate in North Las Vegas. Mrs. McCravey was waiting with first-aid supplies, a clean pair of sweats, and a sheet spread across one of the workbenches. I placed Molly on the sheet. Mrs. McCravey scissored Molly out of her bloody sweats, and we began to clean the dried blood out of her hair and off her body. Mrs. McCravey, her palms as golden as old ivory, her fingers as supple as a professional card dealer's, did most of the work. She even took the scissors from me and cut perfect little winged bandages.

Afterward, even swaddled in a new pair of loose sweats and with butterfly bandages marching across her high cheekbones like tiny insects, Molly McBride or Molineaux or whatever the hell her name was still a strikingly attractive woman.

"What are you going to do with her?" Mrs. McCravey said.

"Take her back to Texas," I said, without really thinking about it, "and lock her in a corn crib until she comes up with the answers to some questions." Maybe nobody would think to look for her in the same place twice.

"Sounds like a frightful chore."

"What makes a girl as beautiful as this sell herself?" I asked stupidly.

"Who knows?" Mrs. McCravey said. "Drugs, sexual abuse, revenge, money – all I know is that most whores are stone lazy sluts at heart. They'd rather fuck than work."

"Revenge?"

"They're like junkies – if they aren't junkies – all their failures are the fault of the world around them," she said quietly, then she added, "and maybe this one is trying to shed the guilt of passing."

"Passing?" I said.

"This lady doesn't have just a good tan, Mr. Milodragovitch," she said as she stroked Molly's forehead with a damp cloth. "She's as black as I am.

Without a flicker of an eyelid to warn us that she was conscious, Molly suddenly grabbed Mrs. McCravey's wrist, hissing, "You watch your mouth, you fuckin' old nigger bitch."

Without a moment's hesitation, Mrs. McCravey slapped Molly's face. Then the fight was on. It was like two drunks trying to put a monkey into a sack: it simply has more appendages than they do.

The struggle was silent, serious, and still in doubt when Red stepped in. He lay on her legs, and I leaned on her chest, but she bucked her hips so wildly that Mrs. McCravey didn't have a chance to plunge the needle into her hip. Exasperated, Mrs. McCravey stood back, picked up a wrench, and said, "Honey, if you don't hold still, I'm gonna knock out your front teeth with this Crescent wrench."

As Molly paused to consider this, Mrs. McCravey managed to pop her in her shapely buttock with the dose. Molly calmed down, a bit, but I could still feel her fighting the drugs. So we stayed on her until her buttocks relaxed. Weak as she was, the straitjacket was still a struggle. Once she was trussed, I got the badge out of my back pocket.

"Okay, Miss whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is," I said, still breathing hard, "I've got a warrant for your arrest as a material witness in a homicide case in Gatlin County, Texas, and you're going back with me. Either in a straitjacket and a diaper, or like a civilized person."

"Why don't you just shoot me now? Get it over with," she said, her words softly slurred, her dusky eyelids fluttering closed. "Just put one right between my fuckin' eyes," she muttered as she drifted under again.

Red and his mother sat down on rolling mechanics' stools, sighing. Red popped the last beer, but his mother took it away from him before he got it to his lips. "A frightful chore," she said after a long pull, then handed it back to him.

"Shit, man," Red said, "I can find you a dozen hookers prettier than this one. And they might fight back, if you pay 'em enough. But they'll fight fair." He giggled weakly, handed the beer to me, then sat back down as worn as the seat of a cheap suit.

I shackled Molly's ankle to the vise at the end of the bench, then asked the McCraveys to watch her while I checked out of the hotel, retrieved my goods from the gun locker, and picked up some burgers and beers. On the way, I called Betty and caught her just before she crossed the Nevada line. Her hangover was too bad for her to argue about the change of plans. For a change.


Some hours later Betty honked at the garage door, then rolled the Caddy through after Red opened it. Then she climbed out looking a bit frazzled, deeply tired, more than slightly hungover, and madder than a flock of constipated hens. She saw Molly stretched out on the workbench, surrounded by fast food wrappers and empty beer cans, and then she really flew off the broom handle.

"You were supposed to wait!" she shouted, ignoring my introductions to the McCraveys.

"It just didn't work out that way, honey," I said.

"Don't 'honey' me, you son of a bitch!" she shouted. "You were supposed to wait!"

Then I told her that I'd hoped that she'd help me carry Molly back to a quiet place where we might straighten out some of my questions, and she went off like a rocket. I finally had to drag her to the other side of the garage, so the McCraveys wouldn't have to listen to her tirade.

"If you think I'm riding anywhere with that bitch," she hissed, "you've got another goddamned think coming, buddy."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Do what you said you would goddamned do," she said. "Call the Gatlin County Sheriff's Department, and let them take care of it. We're out of it."

"She'll end up as dead as her phony sister," I said.

"You've got me confused with somebody who gives a shit."

I didn't know exactly what to do with this escalation of her attitude. But I sure as hell didn't like it.

"I guess I'd have to say that you're right, honey" I said. And the words wafted between us like the stench of a decaying body. "Maybe if you took your sorry red-haired ass out to the airport, lady, it might clear up your mind."

Betty slapped me so hard my ears rang, then, with tears in her eyes, stormed around me, grabbed her shoulder bag out of the Caddy, then hurried off down the alley.

"You want me to give her a ride, boss?" Red asked quietly behind me as I stepped out the door of the garage.

"Please," I said. "I'll pick up the fare."

"Not a problem," he said, then hurried after her in the Buick.

I flopped on one of the stools, finally bone-tired. I wondered how she knew that Sylvie Lomax had told me my job was over when I found Molly and called the Gatlin County authorities. But I was just too tired to think about it.

Mrs. McCravey handed me a beer. It was cold comfort but it was all I had. "How long have you two been together?"

"Not long enough, obviously," I said. "Or too long."

"You sleep with the hooker?"

"Not as many times as she did," I said. I sounded too bitter even to myself.

"Oh," Mrs. McCravey said gently. As if that explained everything.

We slumped silently in dim corners of the garage like mourners for what seemed like a long time until Red came back.

"She say anything?" I asked.

"Not even thanks," Red answered. "What now?"

"I've got some ideas," I said. "But not any good ones."


After two days and nights under the sedative, when she woke up that first morning she was almost as fuzzy as I was after the long, cocaine-fueled drive from Vegas to Tom Ben's place. The crib set in the front corner of the large unused dairy barn. The windowless walls were steel, as were the bars around the corn crib. The only exits were the locked sliding doors at either end. The faint odor of milk and cowshit drifted out of the large drain that ran down the center of the barn between the unused headstalls.

Without speaking, she took the aspirin and water from my hand, then looked around the small metal corner room, her eyes moving slowly over the comforts of home: a port-a-potty, a milk-house heater, an upright cooler with hot and cold running water, a small chest of drawers with a mirror on top, a small refrigerator with a television on top, and the metal cot she lay on. She leaned down to stretch, touching her feet, finding the thick socks, the sweat pants, and the shackle on her left ankle. Then she touched the bandage on the right side of her face.

"What the hell?" she said, then focused on my face. "You son of a bitch," she said softly. "I should have known." Then glancing around the room again, she spotted the pile of unshucked corn in the far corner. "Oh, shit," she moaned. "Not again."

"A little more comfortable than your last visit," I said. "What do you want me to call you?"

"What?"

"Your name," I said. "You seem to have several."

"Call me 'shit out of luck,'" she grouched.

"Okay, shit."

"Just call me Molly," she said. "Where's your stuffy girlfriend? You guys looking for a menage a trois? You didn't have to kidnap me. I'm a working girl. To tell the truth, though, I don't think she really gets off on girls." I let her ramble on until she either ran out of energy or lost track of the thought. She recovered quickly, though, a crooked smile blossomed on her face, and her eyes brightened as the drug flushed out of her system. "Where are my contacts?" she said. "And what the fuck do you want?"

"Just a couple of answers," I said as I pitched her purse to her. "Everything's in there. Except your little gun." I had put her derringer in my war bag. "We can get this over quickly. Just a couple of questions."

"You're more likely to get me to fuck that old man again, or one of his goats, than get me to answer a question," she said.

"I can be an unpleasant guy," I said. "Ask your Daddy. When he can talk again."

"Maybe you are an unpleasant guy," she said. "But listen, you jerk, I slept with you. I know you. I'd bet my life that you don't have it in you to really hurt me. As long as I don't try to hurt you."

"That's an interesting approach to reality," I said.

"What the hell happened to Jimmy Fish?" she said, touching the bandage again. "And my face?"

"Jimmy decided to defend your honor, I guess."

"What?"

"He came out of the house shooting. A fragment of one of his rounds poked a tiny hole in your ear and a little scratch across the top of your cheek."

"Stupid asshole," she said, touching her face again. "Is my face going to be all right?"

"The slice on your cheek is clean. The scar will give you character. Like the one at the corner of your mouth," I said. "But I fear the hole he put in your ear is sort of permanent."

"I hope you put a round in his fat head."

"Actually, in his fat thigh."

"You should have killed him. He turned out to be a hitter in middle age," she said. "He used to just want to spank me, but lately he's taken up hitting."

"Maybe I should have brought him along."

"Wouldn't have done you any good, man. You might beat the shit out of me for a month of Sundays," she said, "but the people who hired me would run me through a limb chipper. Alive. After half the Third World gangsters in South-Central had a piece of my ass."

"Don't give me any ideas."

"What the hell are you so mad about, anyway?" she asked. "You got a prime piece of ass, and you must have broken up with what's-her-name."

"They didn't mention anything about blowing my head off?"

She paused a moment, reconsidered her position, then shook her head. "That was a surprise. I didn't know about it until that doofus cop said something about it that morning."

"What did he say?"

"First, you. Then me. Eventually."

"Lovely."

"They knew I wouldn't go for something like that," she said. "I was just supposed to break you two up. Seduce her, then come back and seduce you. That's what he said."

"He?"

"Just a voice on the phone."

"What the hell was the business with Betty's revolver?" I asked. "Why did you swap her pistol?"

"I don't know anything about that, either," she said, glancing away. "But the rest was just a straight deal. Fuck you, fuck her, watch the cop beat the shit out of you, then pick up my cash."

"From who?"

"I told you, man, I don't know. Just a voice on the phone. So forget it."

"Why did you dump your fanny pack that morning?"

"Get rid of the piece and the cell phone," she said.

"Somebody called you just after you split," I said. "You know who?"

"No idea."

"We'll see how you feel after a couple of weeks," I said. "See if you can't remember some names."

"Shit, this is like a vacation for me," she said, then smiled, pointed at the television. "I'm not much for TV, except old movies, but I could be awfully sweet if I had a stack of crime novels. The good hard-nosed ones, you know. None of that namby-pamby shit."

"Namby-pamby?"

"You know. Nice guy meets bad people. Justice prevails. That kind of shit," she said.

"I don't know anything about that," I admitted, so I rolled up my sleeping bag and pad. Wondering if I could torture Molly with a stack of Agatha Christie novels. Or get a blowjob for the collected Hammett.

"I'll see what I can do," I said.

"How about some coffee? And maybe some orange juice? And a buttered roll?"

"I ain't the room service waiter, lady," I said. But it seemed I was for now.


Luckily, I didn't have to get the crib ready. I'd called Carver D from the road, told him what I needed, and asked about Eldora Grace and Sissy Duval, but there had been no word about either. I'd thought about calling Betty, but she had left the scrambled cell phone in the Caddy. I left the other one with Red. I wanted to know what sort of shit-storm we'd stirred up and which way it was blowing.

When we had gotten to Tom Ben's about dusk the second day I had carried the woman into the crib, removed the straitjacket, changed her diaper, then dressed her in new socks and sweats, and locked her ankle back into the hardened steel shackles. I gave her the last of the sedatives, then grabbed a handful of Coors, the scrambled cell phone, then stepped outside.

The sun had just dropped below the horizon. Except the stars blinking through the darkness and the stain of ambient light from Austin to the east, the sky deepened until it was nearly as blue as the woman's eyes. A random, cold breeze licked at my face to remind me that it was nearly December. I opened a beer, then dialed Red.

"Hey, man, it's cool," he said quickly when he answered. "Fucking Jimmy Fish is making a joke out of it, pushing the free press as hard as he can. Says he's already been offered half a dozen script deals about the incident."

"What about the word on the street?"

"It's all a big joke, man," Red said. "Most people seem to think that there wasn't even a woman with him. He just got coked up and shot himself. Either by accident or for the publicity."

"And the cattle guard?"

"Hell, nobody's even mentioned that," he said. "They had it fixed the next morning."

"You went out there," I said. "Be careful, dammit."

"Hey, man, I rode out in a limo. I'll be sending you the charge."

"Fuck the money," I said. "You just stay clean and easy, man."

"I'm cool," he said. "You want me to mail you this cell phone?"

I told Red to keep it for a week or two just in case. Then I drank another beer, had a couple of cigarettes, and checked my voice mail. A cool message from Sylvie Lomax inquiring as to my progress in the search for Molly McBride. Travis Lee had called twice, his voice deep and troubled as he said we needed to talk about business. Important business. Very important business. I assumed that he was still talking about his unnamed investment opportunity. Phil Thursby had left a crisp message asking me to call. But nothing from Betty. So I called Gannon on the scrambled cell phone. When he answered, it sounded as if he were in a bar.

"Where the hell are you?" I said.

"It's my night off. So I'm leaning on your fancy bar, buddy," he said, sounding a bit worse for drink. "Where the hell are you?"

"I'm running down a lead outside Houston," I lied. "How's business at my place?"

"Booming, man," he said. "Looks like you could use another bartender, though. I've had some experience."

"How are things around the cop shop?"

"The usual bullshit. Nobody seems to miss you but me," he said, then quickly added, "Oh, there's word that my walking papers are in the works. That's why I was down here looking for a job. When are you coming back?"

"Just as soon as I find that goddamned woman," I said. "Tell Mike to let you have one on me," I added, then cut off the connection. I called Betty on the other phone, but got her voice mail, and had no idea what to say, so I cut that one off, too. Called Phil Thursby, but no human response there, either. So I cracked the other beer. As I drank it leaning against the Caddy, I realized my knees were ticking like bombs. Cocaine and road miles. So I grabbed a pad and a sleeping bag, went back into the barn, locked it, then lay down like a dog on the floor next to the woman who had nearly gotten me killed. Sometime later in the night, maybe in a dream, maybe with the chill seeping out of the concrete floor into my back, I found myself standing beside the cot as if I were about to crawl into bed with the woman. It seemed that changing her diapers and cleaning up her shit hadn't diminished her charm in my unconscious mind. But she moaned softly, turned in her chemical sleep, so I pulled the covers over her shoulders, tucked them tightly, then returned to the floor.


After I finished my room service duties that first morning, I took a shower in the corner of the barn, changed clothes, then opened the barn door, and stopped there. "There's some fruit and sandwich stuff in the reefer," I said, "and I'll bring something when I come back."

As I rolled the door shut, Molly shouted at me. "Are you just going to leave me here alone?"

"If you hear the shucks rustling, lady, don't put your feet on the floor!" I shouted back, then locked up and drove away, at least as far as the main house.

The old man sat in one of the porch rockers, puffing nervously on the stub of an old pipe. "Milo," he said, tapping his knuckles on the foot locker I had shipped from Vegas. "UPS delivered this a while ago. What the hell is it?"

"Just some stuff," I said, not wanting to tell the old man it was full of guns and drugs and cash money. "Just leave it there," I said. "I'll move it later."

"You sure all this shit is going to be all right?"

"She doesn't seem inclined to file a complaint," I said. "Hell, she's acting like she's on vacation. Like I did her a favor, or something." Then I realized that Molly hadn't been at Jimmy's by accident. She was hiding out. That changed everything.

"She's a piece of work, that's for damn sure," he said, then chuckled. "It took my hands a whole day to clean the rats and mice and snakes out of that corn pile. But I told them to leave the cowshit." Then Tom Ben laughed. "She might have been my last piece of ass," he said, "and she sure as hell did cost me more than just ten thousand dollars' worth of fence-line. But it was damn near worth it."

"Cowshit's not bad. But that old milk stink might drive her over the edge," I said. "How come you gave up on milk cows?"

"Hell, them goddamned Angora goats were bad enough. Selling mohair was like living on government welfare," he said. "But milk cows, that seemed too close to farming to suit me. And my hands kept saying that they were cowboys, not milk boys. At least that was better than Betty's first idea. Chicken houses. Jesus, I'd rather raise Barbary apes."

"The dairy herd was Betty's idea?" I said.

"Yeah, hell, she put up the money for it when I incorporated."

Well, it wasn't the first time I'd been involved with a woman who lived her life as if it were a closely guarded secret. But that didn't make me feel any less foolish.

"Any idea how long you might keep that woman locked in my corn crib?" he asked.

"Probably not long," I said. "I'm not going to give her to the Lomax woman and I don't seem to be very good at this warden shit. She's already got me fetching and carrying like a house slave. Next thing you know she'll be sending me downtown to buy her underwear."

Tom Ben smiled as if he didn't think it was such a bad idea.

"You stay out of that barn, you old bastard," I said, but the old man's smile grew even larger. "Can I borrow your pickup? I got some chores in town, and my ride is too visible. But I'll be back."

"Keys are in it," he said, still grinning.

I carried the foot locker over to the barn, set it inside the door. Molly was asleep, though, so I took off to do my chores.


Albert Homer still hadn't cut the dead grass in front of his studio-cum-house. I parked on the street because a pink Cadillac was in the dirt driveway. The burglar bars on the front door had been left unlocked and even outside I could smell the burnt rope stink of marijuana, so I didn't bother with the buzzer, just put my shoulder to the door until the inside frame splintered.

A chubby woman in heavy makeup with tiny feet and hands, dressed in a complicated leather bra-less and crotch-less teddy and garter belt arrangement, lay across the velvet bedspread beneath the warm glow of the raised light stands, all a-titter as she scrambled for a wrap. Homer turned quickly, his eyes wild and wide open like a man who had seen more than one husband advancing from the front door, then whirled back as if to flee.

Before he could take a step, I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the floor. "You lying son of a bitch," I said. Then I dropped him. Or perhaps threw him down. "Excuse me, ma'am, this won't take a moment." But she ignored me. I noticed that she had stopped looking for something to cover her naked body parts, and was digging through her purse. I nudged Homer in the ribs with my boot, and he curled up like a sow-bug, then I stepped over to the chubby little woman just as she pulled a small semi-automatic pistol out of her purse. "Give me that, you fucking idiot," I said as I jerked it out of her hand. I wanted to slap the makeup off her tiny face. Instead I fired the pistol into Homer's round bed, emptied the magazine, broke the slide off, then threw the two pieces out opposite windows. The woman jumped more at the sound of breaking glass than she had at the shots. "Does everybody in this fucking state have a gun?"

"My husband gave it to me," she whined.

"He give you that outfit, too?" I asked. She blushed, covered her breasts, shook her oddly small, well-formed head, then sat, weeping among the bits of charred cotton stuffing I'd blown out of the mattress. I handed her the purse. "Why don't you put some clothes on and head into the bathroom and fix your face?" She nodded slowly, then fled toward the back of the house.

I walked back to Homer, picked him up by his ear. "You shouldn't have told me the Vegas lie," I said. "And perhaps you should have suggested to the law that they might look a little closer into your father's death."

"I'm sorry," Homer blubbered, tears pouring down his face.

"Stop crying," I said, "and tell me what happened. He ask them for more money?" Homer nodded. "And they killed him?" I wondered how many kinds of drugs it took for Homer to gather up the courage to follow in his father's footsteps. "Let me guess. You've got one picture of Amanda Rae Quarrels in a safe-deposit box? One in the house? And another with a lawyer?"

"Becky's husband," he stammered.

"And I assume that's Becky in the John?" He nodded as he scrubbed at his slobbery face. "How much money do you get?"

"Five hundred a month. That's all."

"Cheaper than killing you, I guess," I said.

"That's what they said. They gave my Daddy a hundred grand," he said. "Then when he asked for more, he went fishing for the last time. They said they killed him for lying to them."

"Who said?"

"The voice on the telephone." Then he rattled off a local number.

"How do they pay?"

"Cash in the mailbox."

"Outside?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"First Saturday night of the month."

"Always."

"As regular as clockwork."

"How long's this been going on?"

"I don't know," he said. "Seven years or so."

"Get me the picture you've got here," I said. He hesitated. "I'll tear your fucking ear out by the roots, kid," I said, giving it a tug. Homer scrambled around, unscrewing a light stand, then pulling a rolled 8x10 photograph out of it. He handed it to me. "If I were you, son, I'd find another way to supplement my income." He nodded. "Are you going to be all right?" He nodded again, snuffling. "Be nice to Becky. She looks like a good woman, if a bit overdressed," I said on my way to the broken door.

"I'll do that, sir," Homer said.

"And fix your goddamned door, man," I said before I left. "I think I've already paid for it."

"Yes, sir," he said sadly.


I didn't know what I was looking for as I sat in the car and unrolled the photo of Amanda Rae Quarrels. She had long, straight silver-blond hair, mischievous green eyes, and a cocked, smart-ass smile on her wide mouth, high cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, and long beaded earrings. Trouble was the first word that came to mind. Outrageous fun, the second and third. But she didn't remind me of anybody I knew. Maybe that's what I was hoping to find.

I wrote the telephone number Homer had recited on the back of the photo, then checked it against the number wrapped around the chewing gum from Sissy's BMW. They were the same. When I dialed it, a disembodied voice answered by repeating the number and suggesting that if I had any business, I could leave my name and number. I did neither.


Leonard Wilbur wasn't any more happy to see me than Albert Homer had been. At least he didn't run. Over the Line was almost empty just after lunch. Wilbur was still behind the bar, but today he carried a clipboard as he filled out a liquor order and he wore a nice gray suit, a white shirt, and an expensive silk tie, plus a new toupee as thick and stiff as combed porcupine quills. His smile was as phony as his hair. The lame Chicano kid with the flattened nose seemed to be the bartender now. Several other Latinos, who probably had more words of English between them than Green Cards, seemed to be remodeling Long's office. Wilbur flinched as if I was going to tear his snotty lip off when I held my hand across the bar to shake his hand. I introduced myself as politely as I could, showed him my license, and gave him my card.

"Yeah, I remember you," he grumped. "Let me buy you a drink, then you can be on your way. Crown Royal, wasn't it?"

"Actually a can of Coors would be fine," I said. "You mind taking a look at this picture?"

Wilbur glanced at it, shook his head, then handed me the beer. "I can probably guess who she is," he said, "Mandy Rae Quarrels, but I ain't seen the woman in years and I didn't know her name when I saw her."

"You sure?"

"Partner, a man doesn't forget a woman like that."

"So how do you know her name?"

"Hell, man, she's a legend," Wilbur said. "Word was, she came to town, fucked everybody worth knowing from Willie to the Governor, his wife, and his pet bullfrog…"

"Bulldog?"

"Bullfrog," he said. "Then disappeared like a government check in East Austin. Not even a broken Thunderbird bottle left behind. Plus, that murdering son of a bitch who came in with you last month, he said her name, and I knew that Duval used to hang out with her."

"Let me ask you something else," I said. "Why do you think Mr. Long went for his pistol?"

"Well, Billy Long was always pretty touchy and…"

"And?"

"He hated niggers," he said, "and I suspect that one in particular. Maybe they'd had some trouble over business or something. Maybe a woman."

"And you, Mr. Wilbur?"

"What about me?"

"You ever have any trouble with Duval or Walker?"

"Hell, man, I just work here, and to folks like that, we're all niggers of one sort or another."

As soon as afternoon visiting hours at Breckenridge Hospital started, I went up to check out Renfro. He lay propped up in bed, the tangle of tubes gone, and his right hand in a small cast. The small ponytailed man sat beside his bed, fussing over him. Renfro introduced us.

"I guess I should thank you for saving his worthless hide," Richie said. "But what he was doing out there in the middle of the night, I hesitate to guess. He just won't take care of himself, no matter what, I -"

"I'm going to be fine," Renfro interrupted, holding up his hand. "Spleen's fine, and the bullet just clipped the big bone in the middle of my hand. I'll be out of the cast in six weeks."

"Just missed the ligament by a hair," Richie continued breathlessly. "Would have ruined his hand. Forever."

"Richie, darling, would you get me a Coke?" Renfro said. "Mr. Milodragovitch, you want something?" I shook my head as Richie headed for the door. "And that's a real Coke, Richie, not a diet one." Richie paused long enough to give Renfro a disgusted look, then hustled away. "If I'd wanted a Jewish mother," he said, "I'd have had one. Jeez. Any word from Sissy?"

"Nothing," I lied. "You said she had some sort of secret income, some kind of sugar daddy."

"Yeah, she's been pretty flush the last five or six years," he said, "ever since she quit selling lots for Hayden Lomax, but she never said a word about where it came from."

"I didn't know she worked for Lomax," I said, then suggested, "she must have been highly motivated to keep her mouth shut."

"You know, that makes sense," he said, then chuckled. "You'd probably have to shove dirt into her mouth to keep her quiet."

He didn't know how right he was. "Her money's safe. I'll get it back to you in a few days," I said. He might need it for hospital bills. He'd certainly earned it. "You take care."

"Hey, man, I'm going home tomorrow, you know," he said, then looked terribly embarrassed. "Thank you again."

"What for?"

"Saving my life, man."

"Part of the job description," I said, then waved goodbye, and left quickly before Richie could return to give me another lecture about Renfro's bad habits. I had enough of my own.


I called Cathy from a pay phone in the hospital lobby. She didn't sound all that glad to hear from me, but it had been that kind of day.

"Have you seen her?" I asked.

"I picked her up at the airport," she said coldly.

"How is she?"

"Mad enough to chew up ten-penny nails and shit upholstery tacks."

"I guess I just didn't do what she wanted me to do."

"You've always been pretty good at that, haven't you?"

"You could say that," I said.

"Well, she's my oldest friend, man, and you're just some guy I did drugs with and fucked," she said.

"So I'm not on the old friend list, huh?" I asked, followed by an empty chuckle. Her silence was answer enough. "When she stops spitting tacks," I said, "tell her to give me a call. I should be back by then."

Cathy just sighed, said she'd try, then added, "How's your back?"

"It's there."

"I could give you another number."

"It wouldn't be the same, honey," I said, and this time I hung up without saying goodbye.


Molly's face brightened when I showed up with two paper bags hanging from my hands. A bag full of sandwiches and salads from Central Market and a bag full of detective novels from Bookstop, but I wouldn't let her look in the bags until I cleaned up her wound and replaced the butterfly bandages.

Tough as she was, I suspected she'd be a whiner about this part. I loosened the butterflies with alcohol. When I tried to get to the hole in her ear, she squealed like a baby.

"If you're going to be a sissy about this," I said, "I'll bet I can find some tin snips and just cut the goddamned thing off."

"Well, it hurts," she said. "I don't mind big pains, but these little stinging things drive me as crazy as swamp skeeters." She stayed quiet, though, until I finished the rest of the job. "What's the verdict?"

"You'll live," I said. "You've got good bones and great skin. You'll be lovely into your old age."

"Thank you," she said, smiling. "Can I ask you something?"

"Ask, and I'll tell you."

"What did you mean about my Daddy knowing how unpleasant you could be?"

"The first time I found him in Houston, he tried to kick me in the nuts while a crowd of drunks held me down," I said. "The second time, he tried to hit me with a Scotch bottle. I broke his jaw and knocked out half a dozen teeth."

"Poor old Rollie," she said, "he never had any luck, the cathead tongs took his arm, the drinking took his bar, then the government took his boat." She broke into a thoughtful smile. "You son of a bitch, you remembered the address on the card, didn't you?" I nodded. "When you took that old man down that way, I guess I should have realized that you had more than muscle between your ears." I nodded again. "I wondered how the hell you found me."

"You dropped so many hints, lady, that it almost seemed you wanted me to find you."

"What an odd idea," she said. "What the hell makes you think that?"

"Just guessing," I said. "And also just guessing that Rollie Molineaux isn't really your father."

"He took my mother and me in," she said quietly, "he gave me his name, raised me from a pup after she died, and he was always as good to me as he could be. He never judged me and he always tried to help. Whatever kind of trouble I managed to stir up. You can't ask for more than that."

"He's pretty tough for a one-armed guy."

"He's pretty tough, period," she said. "He and another guy beat a man to death in the parking lot outside the bar when I was a kid."

"The other guy wouldn't be Jimmy Fish?" I said, guessing.

"How the hell did you come up with that?"

"Just a guess," I said. "I've got to go out of town this afternoon and I can't get back until about this time tomorrow."

"I get to go home then?"

"You get to go home when I find out what the hell is going on."

"Oh, you'll get tired of having me around," she said. "Everybody does, eventually."

"You going to be all right?" I said as I handed her the bags.

"I'll be fine," she said. "I noticed that you slept on the floor last night. Somebody cleaned the critters out of the corn?"

"I wouldn't know," I said. "Don't make too much noise," I added. "Right now not too many people know you're here. And I suspect your health sort of depends on some other people not knowing you're here'."

"What the hell's that mean?"

"Some very heavy people went to a great deal of trouble to get me to come looking for you, honey," I said.

"Jeez, I thought you were just mad about your girlfriend."

"And her pistol."

"I told you, man," she said, "I don't know anything about that. I've done a lot of things in my life but I've never fingered anybody."

"What kind of things?"

"You don't want to know," she said quietly, then hung her head for a moment, then lifted it brightly. "So who's looking for me?" she asked casually.

"A woman named Lomax," I said.

"I don't know anybody named Lomax," she protested, then leaned back.

"Mrs. Lomax said you had something of hers."

"Since I don't know who she is, I can't think what it might be," she said, thinking it over, and didn't look up when I slipped out the door.

I traded rides with Tom Ben again, then headed out.


Thursby was sitting on a bench outside the Hays County courthouse in San Marcos, just where his secretary said he would be.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" I asked.

"Thinking about moving to California," he said.

"What?"

"We're being homered in the courtroom so bad that I'm letting one of my junior partners handle the cross examination of the local idiot deputy who put three rounds in my client, who fit the drug runner profile in his little, pointy head, at a phony traffic stop," Thursby said. "One of them missed him completely and killed his girlfriend."

"I don't understand."

"Unfortunately, he had just enough marijuana in the trunk of his old Camaro to make it a felony possession. The deputy said my client resisted, which is stupid because the kid has a tremor from brain damage in a car wreck. The death of his girlfriend makes it a capital murder. Interesting case," he said. "We'll beat them like a monkey's dick on appeal, but I'm getting tired of dealing with these idiots." Then he sighed, shook his head, and suddenly looked like an old man. "Speaking of idiots," he continued. "I glanced through the Oates case file. Something's wrong, Milo. I know Steelhammer can't be bought, but he was new on the bench then, and he might have been handled. The whole thing stinks like your lazy brother-in-law's shorts."

"I was just on my way to Huntsville," I said.

"I'll call ahead," he said, "to see if I can't ease the way. Tell the kid we're going for a new trial."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll cover the cost."

"Save your money," he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder toward the courthouse. "I'll do it like this one. For fun. And headlines."

"I hope you have some."

"So where do you stand with Sylvie Lomax?"

"I haven't talked to her yet," I said. "I've got the McBride woman stashed in a safe place, but she's not talking. I'll cut her loose before I give her up to Rooke or Lomax."

"Not a wise decision," he said, "but one I approve of highly."

I left Thursby sitting there, his short legs swinging in the air. His feet didn't quite touch the ground, but his balls surely did.


After a troubled, almost sleepless night in a local motel not too far from Huntsville, I went out to the prison unit where Dickie Oates was lodged. Thursby's call hadn't eased my way at all. I had to use my Gatlin County DA's badge and a threat of a lawsuit to get an interview. More than my welcome had changed. This time we talked through thick Plexiglas with worn telephones in an oddly empty visiting room. Dickie Oates, who looked ten years older, sat down quickly, picked up the phone, then placed his other hand against the barrier. I read the ballpoint message on his palm.

"Can you do that, man?" he said. "My folks will pay you back. That's the only way I could get out of the ad-seg." When I looked confused at the term, he added, "The hole, man."

"You got it," I said, nodding to the officer who stood against the wall behind Dickie Oates. But the CO's face was as blank as the wall. "Cooley," his nametag said. "Two things," I said. "Phil Thursby's office will be in touch with you shortly. He's going to try for a new trial."

"Great," he said. "What's the other thing?" I unrolled the picture of Amanda Rae Quarrels against the Plexiglas. "That's one of them."

"One of them?"

"Before they put me in the hole," he said, "I had this guy on the yard – a shrink in on a drug rap – hypnotize me. There were a bunch of women there, kicking the shit out of that Duval asshole when he went down. I was on the ground by then and I was still there when the shotgun went off the second time." Then he paused. "Does that help?"

"Sure," I said, "sure." Though I didn't have the vaguest idea if it helped or not. I didn't even know what it meant. "What did you do to get put in the hole?"

"Looked at somebody the wrong way," he said. "That's all it takes these days."

"Hang tough, kid," I said, then left.


The Attitude Adjustment was a bunkerlike cinder block bar set in the middle of an asphalt parking lot just off the Interstate across the Madison County line. Although it wasn't quite ten o'clock in the morning, I had trouble finding a parking place among the pickups and four-wheel-drive units sporting Department of Correction parking stickers. The off-shift. COs who filled the bar all stared at me when I opened the front door. Pool players hung over their shots, their heads turned, many drinks paused in midair. I tried not to look guilty but the looks on their faces suggested that I failed. I found an empty table in the darkest corner I could find. The cocktail waitress, a tall, skinny woman with stringy black hair, showed up quickly, her bony jaw working at a piece of chewing gum.

"What can I do for y'all, partner?" she asked.

"A can of Coors," I said. "Is Ramona Cooley working today?"

"I'm Ramona," she said. "You got something for me?" I nodded, but she took off for the bar, her tray winging before her. She was back in a moment with my beer. When she leaned over to set it down, she popped out her gum, and stuck it under the table as she whispered, "Stick it there." Then louder she said, "You passin' through or visitin'?"

"Heading for Houston," I said.

I stuck the envelopeful of cash to Ramona Cooley's gum, then drank my beer rather quickly and uncomfortably. She brought me another without being asked. The envelope went away with her. People had stopped looking at me with narrowed eyes, so I stopped chugging my beer. She brought me a third, again without being asked. I gave her a ten and told her to keep the change. But she made change anyway, leaning over me as she counted it out.

"Cooley's worked inside a long time, buddy, and he thinks Dickie Oates is bein' screwed," she whispered, "and we hate to take the money. But you know how it is. Thanks a bunch, hon."

I finished my beer, left the change, and walked through the silent stares.

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