In the darkness behind and above them something heavy clattered to the ground. Their pursuer had discovered the door and knocked it down in his eagerness to come after them. The sound galvanized them both and they charged out of the stairway onto the raised sidewalk of a seemingly deserted street. Only two sets of neon lights offered any hope of haven.

Leading Angie along, Joanna headed for the closest one, a place called the Blue Moon Saloon. They barged in through the door. The sound of an approaching police vehicle entered the long high-ceilinged room with them. Joanna quickly shut the door closing out the noise.

Inside, the narrow room was smoky and dimly lit. A carved wooden bar ran the entire length of one wall. With the exception of the bartender and two solitary customers seated at opposite ends of the bar, the Blue Moon was empty. All three men glanced up in surprise at the sudden appearance of the two women who had stopped just inside the door.

“Hey, ladies,” the bartender called at once. “You gotta wear shoes in here. The health department’s already after my ass.”

“Hey, Bobo,” Joanna called. “Come quick and give me a hand. She’s bleeding to death.”

Bobo Jenkins, the huge bartender who had been the only black student in Andy’s graduating class, placed both hands on the bar then swung himself up and over and came hurrying to her side. He looked down at Angie’s bloody ankle. “Sheeit, Joanna, what’d she do, try to cut the damn thing off?”

“Somebody’s after us, Bobo. We need your help.”

Without a word, he picked Angie Kellogg up and carried her away from the door. He took her to the far wall where, holding her on raised knee, he opened a door that led to a small stock closet. He set her down on a bar stool.

“You wait here, honey,” he said. “Nobody’s going to find you here.” With that, he hurried back to Joanna who was mopping up the blood with the wet towel she had somehow managed to hang onto.

“I’ll handle that, Joanna. You go be with your friend. The door locks from inside.”

Nodding, Joanna scurried away while Bobo took over the cleanup difficulties. “There are clean towels inside there,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re going to need them. And as for you,” he said to the two men at the bar, “you two jokers may be too drunk to go chase the fire trucks, but you’d by god better be sober enough to keep your mouths shut, you hear7”

‘You’re the boss, Bobo,” one of them returned. “Archie and me’ll do whatever you say.”

Bobo was on his hands and knees mopping up the last of the blood that had pooled on the floor in front of the door. “Fill those two ice buckets with hot soapy water and bring them over here, Willy. Hurry. Archie, you bring me the broom.”

A tipsy eighty-year-old, Willy Haskins was surprisingly spry for his age and condition. He hurried around the end of the bar, filled two plastic buckets with detergent and water, and lugged them over to Bobo. The bartender took them outside. Within seconds the entire length of sidewalk in front of the Blue Moon Saloon was awash in wet, soapy suds. He left the broom out front as though he was in the middle of a routine, late night sidewalk cleanup.

Nodding in approval, Bobo hustled Willy and Archie back inside. “Looks like the next round’s on the house,” he told the two old men. Willy Haskins and Archie McBride nodded in happy unison.

Bobo laughed and shook his head. “In six years, that’s the first time you two boys ever agreed with one another about anything. Keep your mouths shut when the time comes, and I’ll buy you another.”

Moments later, the door swung open and a man stuck his head inside and looked around, then he walked up to the bar and ordered a shot of tequila. “Did a woman just come by here?” he asked.

Bobo Jenkins pushed the man’s drink across the bar, smiling sadly. “No such luck, Bud. You missing one? They’ve just had some excitement up at the hotel. Maybe’s she’s up there.”

The stranger paid for his drink then egged it. “She’s not there,” he said. “I already looked.”

A toothless, gaunt old man was sitting next him on the bar. “You say you lost your woman?” he asked loudly. “Me, too. I lost my wife a couple years back, and when I come in here and told Willy, you wanna know what this old geezer tole me? He says, ‘Hey Archie, did you remember to look under the refrigerator?”

At that both old men, the speaker and his equally aged counterpart at the end of the bar, burst into loud uproarious laughter. “You get it?” he asked, holding his sides and wiping the tears from his eyes. “Maybe you’d better look in the same place.”

“Yeah,” the other drunk added. “Have another drink. Maybe she’ll show up.”

Slamming his shot glass down on the bar, the man got up and stalked out. Willy and Archie were still laughing. Bobo Jenkins wasn’t. He’d been a bartender long enough to recognize danger when he saw it. He felt a trickle of cold sweat run down the back of his neck, but he made no effort to wipe it away.

Bobo walked over to the window and flipped over the closed sign, then he walked back to the bar. “I’m closing up, boys,” he said. “It’s motel time.”

“Wait a minute,” Archie said. “You promised us a drink.”

“I promised you a drink if you kept your mouths shut,” Bobo corrected.

Willy howled in outrage. “Why, Bobo Jenkins, you’re a no-good lousy welsher.”

Bobo shook his head. “I promised you a drink for keeping quiet. What I got was a damn stand-up comedy routine. So here’s what I’m gonna do. Tonight, I’m shuttin’ her down. You two are eighty-sixed. Come tomorrow, though, you boys show up at the regular time, and the entire evening’s on me.”

“No shit?” Archie asked hopefully. “You mean it?^”

Bobo Jenkins nodded. “You bet your ass I do. Now you two get the hell out of here. And if you meet that bastard out on the street, you keep quiet or the deal’s off. You dig?”

“Mum’s the word,” Willy said, climbing down from his stool and staggering toward the door. “Mum is definitely the word.”

And Bobo Jenkins knew he had found the secret formula that would keep those two old codgers quiet no matter what.

TWENTY

Bobo and Joanna’s joint assessment was that it the cut on Angie’s foot required a doctor’s immediate attention. Carrying her as effortlessly as if she were a doll, Bobo packed her out the door and across the street to the tiny lot where he kept his mint-condition El Camino. After placing Angie in the truck he hurried back to Joanna who was having difficulty working the troublesome lock on the Blue Moon’s front door.

“Who the hell is that bad-ass bastard?” Bobo asked under his breath, as he took the key from Joanna’s fingers and quickly finished locking the door himself.

“She thinks the man chasing her is the one who killed Andy,” Joanna replied. “And he won’t stop at anything to keep her from going to the cops.”

“But why’s he after you?”

Joanna shrugged. “I’m with her.”

They headed for the car where a still-frightened Angie sat huddled in the middle of the seat with her bleeding foot wrapped tightly in a thick swathe of towels. Bobo Jenkins was large enough that, with three people crammed together on the bench seat, it was all they could do to close the doors.

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t bleed on the carpet,” Bobo said with a nod to Angie as he turned the key in the ignition. Angie looked up at him warily and tried to move closer to Joanna.

“Hey,” Bobo said. “That was just a joke, trying to lighten things up. You go right ahead and bleed all you want.”

Joanna recognized the old-time Bobo humor. He had always been the class clown, and evidently nothing had changed. When Joanna laughed, so did Angie. It didn’t change a thing about their situation, but it did relieve the suffocating tension.