“Fuck if I know. What do you want him for?”
Graham showed him the tin. “Try real hard to remember.”
“Oh, shit,” the girl said.
“Narc, goddammit. I ain’t worth it, look, let’s talk about this a minute, man.”
“Let’s talk about where Jacobi is.”
“I think I can find out for you,” the girl said.
Graham waited while she asked in the other rooms. Everywhere she went, commodes flushed.
There were few traces of Niles Jacobi in the room— one photograph of the Jacobi family lay on a dresser. Graham lifted a glass of melting ice off it and wiped away the wet ring with his sleeve.
The girl returned. “Try the Hateful Snake,” she said.
The Hateful Snake bar was in a storefront with the windows painted dark green. The vehicles parked outside were an odd assortment, big trucks looking bob-tailed without their trailers, compact cars, a lilac convertible, old Dodges and Chevrolets crippled with high rear ends for the drag-strip look, four full-dress Harley-Davidsons.
An air conditioner, mounted in the transom over the door, dripped steadily onto the sidewalk.
Graham ducked around the dribble and went inside.
The place was crowded and smelled of disinfectant and stale Canoe. The bartender, a husky woman in overalls, reached over heads at the service bar to hand Graham his Coke. She was the only woman there.
Niles Jacobi, dark and razor-thin, was at the jukebox. He put the money in the machine, but the man beside him pushed the buttons.
Jacobi looked like a dissolute schoolboy, but the one selecting the music did not.
Jacobi’s companion was a strange mixture; he had a boyish face on a knobby, muscular body. He wore a T-shirt and jeans, worn white over the objects in his pockets. His arms were knotty with muscle, and he had large, ugly hands. One professional tattoo on his left forearm said “Born to Fuck.” A crude jailhouse tattoo on his other arm said “Randy.” His short jail haircut had grown out unevenly. As he reached for a button on the lighted jukebox, Graham saw a small shaved patch on his forearm.
Graham felt a cold place in his stomach.
He followed Niles Jacobi and “Randy” through the crowd to the back of the room. They sat in a booth.
Graham stopped two feet from the table.
“Niles, my name is Will Graham. I need to talk with you for a few minutes.”
Randy looked up with a bright false smile. One of his front teeth was dead. “Do I know you?”
“No. Niles, I want to talk to you.”
Niles arched a quizzical eyebrow. Graham wondered what had happened to him in Chino.
“We were having a private conversation here. Butt out,” Randy said.
Graham looked thoughtfully at the marred muscular forearms, the dot of adhesive in the crook of the elbow, the shaved patch where Randy had tested the edge of his knife. Knife fighter’s mange.
I’m afraid of Randy. Fire or fall back.
“Did you hear me?” Randy said. “Butt out.”
Graham unbuttoned his jacket and put his identification on the table.
“Sit still, Randy. If you try to get up, you’re gonna have two navels.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Instant inmate sincerity.